CHAPTER 24

Seamus

The circus extends into the ceremony. I just don’t mean the theme, I mean all the crazy. The moment everyone finds a chair, the lights go off, causing people to gasp with confusion or gasp out their “What the fucks?”

“If Valentina rides in here on a zebra, we’re out of here,” I mutter.

I’m trying to get Allie to laugh, but she barely cracks a smile. Instead, she looks to the row in front of us where her mother is struggling to get it together. It’s just a taste of what Allie has put up with all these years, but it’s still a bitter pill to swallow.

The regular circus lights don’t come back on. Instead there’s an explosion of gold and whirling lights as Britney Spears’s Circus erupts from every direction.

The trapeze performers cut loose. “Oohs and Aahs” surround us. I’m not sure where to look until two “dragons” spit fire on either side of the aisle, pulling our attention toward the entrance.

There’s no procession. Not in the traditional sense. The aisle becomes a runway for the first bridesmaid in this fashion show from hell.

“Christ,” I mumble, blinded by flashes of what seems to be an army of photographers and the dragon’s stupid fire. Orange and yellow flames spew as the bridesmaid strikes a pose and the trapeze people flip over her head.

I have to give it to the model. She doesn’t blink, keeping that deadpan expression even though she has enough hairspray to catch fire or to die by gravity if one of those swinging bodies crashes on top of her.

The next model struts forward, striking a different pose as more fire and more flipping erupts. It goes on and on. Every model is close to six feet, their dark purple dresses long in the back, short in the front, and tight around their skeletal frames.

The last model appears. My guess is she’s the maid of honor based on the tiny matching top hat pinned into what has to be a two-foot wall of hair. “So, was that the dress you were going to wear?” I ask Allie.

Allie raises her brows, taking in the statuesque brunette. Man, it’s like all the models were cloned in some twisted up fashion lab. “Funny you should say that,” Allie says. “I wasn’t told about the runway walk. Valentina bequeathed me the honor of carrying the end of her train. My dress was the same color and fabric of the tent, and the exact duplicate of what my mother is wearing.”

I don’t think Allie means to be as loud as she is, but her aunts hear her and so does her mother. The dress Allie’s mother is wearing is better suited for an eighty-year-old woman who’s given up on life. Long-sleeved, boxy, with some sort of fishtail at the bottom, Mamacita isn’t dressed to look good. She and Allie were dressed to make Valentina look good.

“You did yourself a favor by not being a part of this,” I say. “It’s like a wannabee Tim Burton threw up in here.”

“No,” Allie disagrees. “Valentina did me a favor by making me not want to be a part of it.”

She sure did. I wonder how Allie and Trashy Tina could be cut from the same cloth. There’s dumping on someone, and then there’s this. “Can I ask you something?” I ask, playing with her hand.

“Of course.”

“How much did you shell out for that dress?”

Allie shakes her head. “You don’t want to know.”

The club remake of Circus slows, alternating into a bed thumping, throaty beat as the maid of honor takes her position in the front,

We stand. Here comes the bride, and God-Almighty, look at her.

I don’t want to flat out say Valentina is naked. But Valentina is pretty much naked.

What looks like the same material they make women’s hosiery from flares out to create Valentina’s gown. Don’t worry. Whoever designed her dress was nice enough to bedazzle all the important parts with small diamonds. Valentina’s nips, happy place, and butt crack are well concealed. Oh, and look at that. As a bonus, the diamond-studded top hat she’s wearing covers her head, nicely

“So, do you think it’ll be a Catholic ceremony?” I whisper to Allie.

Allie turns slowly to me. I can’t be sure what’s more wide open, her eyes or her mouth. I’m going to go with eyes. She starts to say something, but she’s cut off by applause—not by Valentina’s mother or aunts, they’re too busy crossing themselves—almost every person in attendance is on their feet, clapping like this is the greatest moment ever. And it is.

For Valentina.

“She . . . I can’t . . . Oh, my God,” Allie says. “I was going to be behind her.”

“Behind her behind? Yeah, that sucks,” I agree.

“Why would she . . . my God,” Allie says, watching the way the twirling lights cause Valentina’s nipples to sparkle.

“We should have fed the giraffes,” I remind her.

Allie doesn’t bother correcting me this time, gasping when Valentina strolls past her mother and aunts without acknowledging them. I think my woman still can’t come to terms with how selfish Valentina is being. But Valentina isn’t done yet.

Valentina reaches the altar where a strong man wearing little more than gothic tattoos and a smile steps forward to preside over the ceremony. I didn’t even notice Andres appear. The strong man dwarfs Andres, making Andres appear shorter than he is, yet somehow drawing more attention to Valentina in their collective nakedness. Never mind, the guy’s wearing some kind of man thong. My bad.

Andres is dressed like a ring master, top hat, funky jacket, even a whip cinched to his side. But instead of looking like he’s a part of this whole thing, he looks out of place and more like the little guy in the Monopoly game.

I shit you not, conjoined twins resembling crazed Mad Hatters step forward, each holding a velvet pillow with the wedding bands.

There’s not much to the vows. Just the standard, “Do you take him. Do you take her,” plus the “I do’s.” Not that it stops the epic climax.

Cannons on either side of the stage explode, erupting glitter in conjunction with the start of Madonna’s Ray of Light and the doves flying across the room. The conjoined twins are flippity-flopping down the runway. Oh, and look at that, there go the trapeze and dragon guys again.

One by one, the models strut down the aisle, following the conjoined twins. It allows Valentina to bask in the attention a while longer. Applause, hoots and hollers, and cheers of “Bravo, Bravo” are everything Valentina wanted and something she can’t get enough of.

As the newlyweds begin their walk down the aisle, I expect Andres to gloat. Just a little. After all, he got the prom queen and the last laugh at everyone who considered him a loser. So then why does he look over at us? Specifically, at Allie and the way I’m holding her against me.

Probably because Valentina was the only one who really got what she wanted.

And Andres damn well knows it.