Chapter 33

Becky

8:01 PM THURSDAY

If we remember anything tonight, I’ve got this nagging feeling that we won’t remember it for long.

Yeah. We just got that drunk.

Sammi leans over the roulette table. A mountain of golden Royale poker chips scatter from between her tits.

“A billion dollars on…purble,” she announces, sticking a single finger up in the air and waving it around in an exuberant circle.

And never mind that she’s laid down maybe a cool million, tops.

And never mind that purble isn’t exactly, well, a color.

“Is that, uh…red or black, ma’am?” The fresh faced blond man running the table asks.

“Yes,” Sammi says unhelpfully.

I turn my back to them as Sammi begins to explain—in drunken detail—how color is an illusion of the way our eyes process light. I don’t turn away because it’s not interesting or anything. In fact, the look on the poor guy’s face is already pretty fucking priceless.

But it’s been a while since I’ve been this drunk.

Shit, it’s been like, an entire day.

I actually need a minute.

On the bright side, I’m feeling better. What an entire day of sleuthing around couldn’t cure, bottomless mimosa took care of in an hour.

I feel alive. I feel unstoppable!

And, okay, I feel a little like I might have just consumed too much orange juice, but I hear that vitamin C is good for your hair or your soul or something, so it’s all good.

I find Percy at a corner booth, building castles out of all the poker chips we bought with Dan’s black card. I should probably feel bad that Dan the Man is footing the bill for this little endeavor, but I talk myself out of it before I do.

At this point, I don’t think I can wallow in denial anymore. Dan the Man fucked up last night. He fucked up bad enough that I ended up fucking and marrying his evil step-brother.

We’re past the point where I have to feel bad about gambling on Dan the Man’s black card, I think.

I hide with Percy behind her palace of poker chips for a while. We giggle and sip gin and spy on Mysti May as she sensually shows a cute little brunette woman how to play the slots.

We play poker with a group of starry-eyed rotund Russian businessmen.

We arm wrestle a barrel-chested dude named Mike, whose t-shirt claims he’s a pussy inspector (I’m not buying it, but Percy takes him to the bathroom to find out for sure).

We dance to the sound of a thousand quarters’ worth of winnings tumbling out of an elderly woman’s slot machine and then hug her as she triumphantly throws her fists in the air.

We have fucking fun. This is what this whole trip was meant to be about—getting a little wild, running around a casino, and draining the bar of all its fine liquors.

Or, it was until Dan the Man and his rules got in the way.

Eventually, we reconvene at the roulette table where I left Sammi. To my shock—and awe—and amazement—and total disbelief—she’s quadrupled the poker chips that she shook out of her top earlier.

“How are you doing this?” I ask her, pushing through a wall of anxious admirers and onlookers she’s accumulated.

Sammi just shrugs. “Drunk Sammi knows things.”

Everyone crowded around her gasps as she leans in to make her next bet.

“Put it all on bloob,” she tells the casino employee with a knowing smile.

I don’t want to fucking touch that one, but as I emerge from Sammi’s swarm of fans, I hear them erupt into celebratory cheering—so she must have won, I guess.

Unfortunately, I should have known that all the fun I’ve been having wouldn’t last. I might be feeling better, but we haven’t actually gotten anywhere in terms of remembering anything yet.

And when I nearly spill my rum and coke on the suit jacket of a tall man with a face like a fist, I can’t help but feel like things are about to go downhill again.

“Hey there, little lady—whoa, careful now.” He takes me by the shoulders as I reel back, trying to steady myself without spilling my drink. “You all alone here?”

I giggle, not because he’s being funny, but because dammit, I’m drunk and in a good mood. Plus, nervous laughter has always kind of been my thing.

“I’m not,” I say with an awkward Drunk Becky smile. “My friends are…uh. Somewhere…”

But of course, as I start looking around for Sammi and Percy and Mysti May, they’re nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the big, meaty dude tells me. Now he’s rubbing my shoulders, which, ew. “We could be friends. Nobody wants to be all alone in the City of Sin, right?”

Now the awkward giggling is even more awkward on my end.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m, uh…god, I’m actually married.”

Which, holy fuck, is actually true.

“You don’t sound so sure about that,” a second male voice says.

Ugh. God. Nooooo. Now there’s another one, and unbelievably, he’s even bigger and fistier-looking than the first.

“Don’t see a ring on your finger, sweetheart,” the first one says. He’s blond and handsier than the second. He smells like he got in a fight with a bottle of cologne and won—but at a fucking cost.

“We eloped,” I say, stepping back.

Before I can, the blond reaches around my waist and grabs my ass with both hands.

I don’t even think about it. I slap him as hard as I can—but his face is like the love child of a brick wall and a second, bigger brick wall.

I think I end up hurting my hand and his ego more than I actually end up hurting him.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he growls.

“Not at all,” adds the second one.

“If you want nice, find yourself a prostitute,” I snap back at him.

His hands grope my ass like my butt is a stress ball.

“I think I’ve already found one,” he sneers, and suddenly, being drunk isn’t fun anymore.

I see Mysti May’s handbag make contact with his face before I think he realizes what’s just happened. At least this time, it seems like he felt it.

I almost feel bad for the guy. I’m pretty sure Mysti May keeps rocks in that thing.

“Why don’t you boys take a hike,” she says, putting her hands on her hips like she’s Wonder Woman, while my aggressor—thankfully—unhands my ass.

But the second dude is apparently doubtful of how bad it feels to take twenty pounds of Sephora makeup in a vintage Louis Vuitton purse to the face.

“So you do have friends,” Dude #2 chuckles, rubbing his hands together like some kind of cartoon super villain. “Feisty ones. I like that.”

“Sorry, hun,” Mysti May says, winding up her handbag for a follow-up strike, “I’m gay.”

I’m about to clap her on the back—like, good on her for finally admitting it, right?

But the moment is spoiled when Dude #2 intercepts Mysti May’s handbag with his big, meaty fist.

By now, Sammi and Percy have rolled up, but let’s be real. Four drunk girls versus two giant meatheads? If the casino staff don’t get involved soon, we’re going to end up getting sent home in body bags.

Which isn’t, y’know, exactly what I was thinking of when I planned my honeymoon look—not that it matters anymore.

Part of me expects someone to come, like, save us or something. Aren’t these places supposed to have security or something?

But no one does. In fact, it looks like everyone on the casino floor has either high-tailed it to the buffet or become deeply interested in their slot machines all of a sudden.

Now I know how the sheriff feels in a Western movie when the gang of bad guys rides into town.

“Okay,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “You know what? I’ve just had seventeen mimosas and the worst day of my life. The man I’m supposed to marry in two days may or may not have either cheated on me or murdered someone. I married my fiancé’s evil British step-brother last night, after which I got so wasted, I literally erased the previous sixteen hours of my memory. You wanna fucking fight with me? Let’s go, bitches.”

My bridesmaids form up on either side of me, and our two opponents look at each other like they’ve just realized that this might not be the best idea.

But before they can either piss their own $500 pre-ripped blue jeans or run away like the chodes they are, someone else hits the blonde one first. A handsome, bare-knuckled fist connects with the blonde dude’s jaw so hard he’s going to be drinking through a straw after this—if he’s lucky.

“Sorry, love,” Liam says, rolling up his other shirt sleeve while Dude #2 assumes a fighting stance. “Damsel in distress, you know. Just can’t help myself.”

“Nice hit,” I say, raising an eyebrow in disbelief while my panties get so wet they’re pretty much fireproof.

God, Liam Black does know how to pick his moments.

“Next one’s yours if you want it, love,” Liam offers.

I grin at him as Dude #2 approaches. “You’re on.”