“I can’t believe she’s marrying him,” the girl next to me murmurs. I look at her again. I say again because she’s caught my eye a few times tonight. She’s tight. Rockin’ bod, firm ass, tits that you could bury your cock in—a solid nine on the fuckability scale.

“I can’t believe he’s marrying her,” I shrug, leaning back against the white leather cushion of the sofa. We’re in the private dining and casino area of the Calypso, a new place in Vegas that caters to the rich and famous. My buddy Aden just tied the knot and they’re out there dancing like crazy fucking lunatics. I love my homeboy, but that guy is living proof that some white people just can’t dance for shit. Apparently he has a little more rhythm in the sack, because you can clearly see Hope’s baby-belly in that white wedding gown she’s wearing.

“What’s wrong with my sister?” the girl asks, shooting me a look to freeze ice on my dick, which makes me smirk. Shit. That’s why she’s here. This is Hope’s sister. I heard one of them was here and that the other was in Istanbul, Kabul, somewhere like that reporting or something. I guess I should play nice, but this girl looks like she can give as good as she takes—which is what makes my dick stand up and pay attention—so, I decide to let it all hang out.

“For starters she lied to my boy.”

“Your boy was an asshole.”

“Don’t change the fact she chained him up in lies for over two months,” I respond, taking a sip of my Jack and Coke, letting it roll down my throat and enjoying it all the way down.

“After the shit he said to her, she should have had him checked into a mental hospital and let the doctors use him as a model for the latest white jacket designs,” she says. I turn to look at her and she’s staring longingly at my cigarettes.

“You want a smoke?”

“I don’t smoke,” she sighs wistfully.

“Woman you’re looking at my smokes like your name is Hoover and you’re about to suck them down.”

“That’s better than where I thought you were going with that.”

“I changed my mind mid-stream,” I shrug.

“Thoughtful of you.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You look less than thrilled being here,” the girl says.

“I hate weddings.”

“Why?”

“They’re fucking contagious, like the damn crotch rot. Had one of my brothers here not long ago. Now Aden’s fallen like a fucking rock.”

“I’m with you. If Aunt Ida Sue tells me one more time, ‘your turn next little Faith’, I’m going to hurl.”

“She’s your Aunt? That woman is trippy as hell. Had to dance with her three times.”

“Awe. That’s sweet.”

“No, woman. It’s sweet if it’s a normal dance. That woman was all up in my business. Started talking about how I needed to come down to her farm and pet her cow. I don’t even want to know what the fuck that was code for.”

“Uh… it’s not code. She has a pet cow.”

“You’re shittin’ me?”

“She calls her Hamburger. She gave Hope and Aden one for a wedding present. She named her Buttermilk.”

I listen to her and shake my head. “You white people are strange as hell.”

“To be fair, I think that’s more of a Lucas thing.”

“Fair enough.”

“Oh God.”

“What’s that?”

“I just noticed there are four women up there dancing, all of them married, all of them kin to me, and every last one of them pregnant.”

“So?”

“I hate pregnant women,” she says.

“Why?” I ask, mildly interested. Shit, most women I know go all doe-eyed when you start talking babies.

“That stuff is contagious, like crotch rot—though to be fair, we call it crotch critters.”

“Crotch critters?”

“Pretty much.”

“I don’t know how to process that.”

“I don’t know how to process that you just said you were going to process something,” she answers, frowning up at me.

She’s funny. Much better company than anyone else I’ve met here tonight, but I’m about done.

“I’m going to blow this party and go find a bottle and a blackjack table.”

“Now that sounds like my kind of party.”

“Care to join?”

“We should start all over,” she answers, and I frown wondering if I’ve already had too much to drink.

“Not sure how to process that either.”

“What’s your name?”

“Titan Marsh.”

“I’m Faith Lucas.”

“It’s a good name.”

“We’ll be friends,” she says, like just saying it is akin to writing it in blood. Whatever, I just need away from the wedding scene.

“Good to know. You leaving with me or waiting around to see if you catch the urge to get married or knocked up?”

“I’m leaving. Let’s go find that bottle, Big Daddy,” she says, walking in front of me—which gives me a view of her ass. A view I like, so I watch it and enjoy every step we take away from Aden and Hope’s wedding.