The room was silent for a very, very long moment as we all wore mirrored expressions, except Sandra. She looked vindicated.

“Whale sperm?” Kat sounded horrified. “Whale…sperm?”

“But how….” I tried to imagine the logistics of whale sperm extraction. “How do they get the sperm out of the whale?”

“Wetsuits?” Marie offered between giggles. She glanced and Ashley and they both burst out laughing.

“This is disgusting.” Fiona shook her head, but the effect of her indignation was ruined by her poorly hidden laughter. “I can’t…I can’t even….”

“Have you lost your ability to can?” Sandra asked Fiona.

“Actually, it makes sense.” Elizabeth, like me, wasn’t laughing. She was glancing at the ceiling, and I could tell she was thinking critically about sperm facials. “Spermine, which is a component of se**n, is high in anti-oxidants. It makes sense that it can be used to smooth out wrinkles. It’s high in proteins, too.”

Ashley made a gagging sound then said, “Cockroaches are also full of protein, but you don’t seem me mashing them up and putting them on my face.”

“But the type of protein matters,” Elizabeth said, defending her position.

“See, this is why Elizabeth and Janie are BFFs.” Sandra winked at me. “Janie wants to know the mechanics of the process, and Elizabeth is critically thinking about the medicinal benefits.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Fiona shivered, her face a grimace. “Someone, quick, change the subject.”

Sandra shrugged. “I’ve also heard of a spa treatment where they use fish to eat the dead skin off your feet.”

“Oh my God! Stop with the spa treatments!” Ashley glared at her knitting like it was offensive, her hand movements jerky. “No more. No more discussion of weird spa treatments allowed. You’re harshing my mellow with talk of whale sperm in the face and skin-eating fish.”

The room plunged into silence except for the sound of splashing water and knitting needles clicking. I glanced at Elizabeth, and we shared a small smile. Then I looked at Sandra and knew, I just knew she had one more weird spa-related treatment to share. I wondered if she’d made a point to look them up before we left.

Just when I thought she was going to let it go, Sandra blurted, “Then I guess I won’t bring up the nun urine.”

“Sandra!”

CHAPTER 22

*Quinn*

We were in the desert shooting machine guns when I got the first text.

I glanced at the screen of my phone. When I read the message, I secured my weapon, placed it back on the stand, and walked out of the shooting range.

Then four new messages arrived all at the same time. Each one was more strange and alarming than the one before it.

The texts told me that the ladies were on their way to Elvis’ Wedding Chapel of Burning Love. According to Stan, someone was getting married and he needed help. Also, they were taking off their clothes.

I didn’t hesitate.

I tried calling Stan for a status, but he didn’t pick up his cell.

“Shit.” I glared at the text messages, reading them again.

Nico came up behind me and stopped at my side. He glanced from me to the phone. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Read this.” I showed him the texts. His eyes narrowed when he read the last two.

His eyes lifted to mine. It was one of the few times I’d seen him frown. “We should go.”

Ten minutes later Dan, Nico, and I were aboard the helicopter and on our way back to Las Vegas. The trip took less than twenty minutes. Nico checked his watch fifty times.

I instructed the pilot to land on the Circus, Circus helipad instead of the one on the Excalibur. Google maps told me the older casino was just a block from Elvis’s Wedding Chapel of Burning Love.

We were still in our fatigues. I took off my outer shirt, and the other guys followed suit, leaving us in camouflage cargo pants and green T-shirts. It was hotter in the city than it had been in the desert. Also, the button-down long-sleeve shirt suddenly reminded me of a straightjacket.

We jogged from the helipad, down the stairs and straight to the elevator. Dan, who’d been quiet the whole time, was pacing the small box the entire ride down.

He only stopped to say, “What the hell is going on?” Then he hit the mirrored elevator wall with an open palm.

I was continuously speed-dialing Stan’s cell but it kept clicking over to voicemail.

I wasn’t panicked.

I was irritated.

Assigning three guards instead of one was my initial plan. I should have listened to my instincts.

I didn’t think they were in danger from other people, but—all together, in Vegas, likely drunk—they were definitely a danger to themselves. Stan’s radio silence concerned me most. My guess was that he’d been separated from his phone by one of the ladies.

Nico bolted out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open. Dan followed. I was last. The sounds and chaos of the casino made me flinch. These places were mazes, meant to keep people on the floor, spending their money.

As soon as we were outside, Nico glanced at me for direction. I pointed and we jogged toward the chapel. I was a faster runner than the other two, and when the sign came into view, I sprinted.

I pulled open the door to the chapel, bracing myself. I didn’t know what to expect, but I suspected that it would be crazy.

I was right.

Everyone, including Elvis, was wearing their underwear, and Stan was nowhere in sight. They were all dancing, and irritating boy band music was blaring from the sound system.

My eyes searched for Janie and found her. She had on a veil, a sash that said, I’m getting hitched, a white lace underwear set, and zebra print stilettos. She was laughing and she was drunk.

Seeing that she was unharmed, I took stock of the situation.

Elvis and Kat were dancing, and he was holding her waist.

Sandra was standing on a pew and lip-synching. Next to her was a man I didn’t know and had never seen. His hands were all over her, and he wore a shirt that said I married Sandra Fielding and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. He had stripped down to his boxers—no pants.

Janie and Ashley were dancing with each other…and they were touching.

I groaned then grimaced.

It was innocent touching—holding hands, hugging, bumping their asses together—but it was still happening, and I saw it.

I was now grateful that Janie sent me away from her panty dance parties. I don’t care how devoted you are to your woman, you see two ladies as hot as Janie Morris and Ashley Winston in lace underwear dancing with each other, it’s going to leave a lasting impression.

Marie and Elizabeth were also dancing together; it looked like the tango, and Marie had the lead.

“Oh my goodness!” This sounded like Ermergoodnish because Sandra slurred it. She pointed at me and yelled above the music, “You came in costume!”

I glanced at my T-shirt, cargo pants, and boots. Just then, Nico and Dan flew into the room, stopped short, and looked around.

I glanced between Sandra and Kat, tried to decide which one to extract first. Dan charged over to Elvis and made the decision for me.

“Get your hands off her,” Dan snarled, pushing him against the wall. He stared at him for a moment before turning to Kat and lifting her in his arms.

This left a stunned Elvis with his hands raised in surrender. “Hey, hey—sorry.”

I gritted my teeth, glared at Elvis. “Turn off the music.”

The impersonator, still in a posture of surrender, skirted along the wall toward the sound system controls. I was gratified that he moved quickly.

While he did this, I took three large steps and lifted Sandra off the pew and away from the unknown male. She didn’t protest, but he did.

“Hey—hey, man.”

“Shut up.” I passed Sandra to Nico, then turned back to the man and sized him up. He was already scrambling down from the bench.

He was in his late fifties, approximately five foot eleven, and unnaturally tan. His skin looked like it had been painted on. He wore a large diamond stud in one ear, and his blond comb-over reminded me of Donald Trump.

“I don’t know you,” I said. “You don’t touch her.”

“Hey man, we’re married.”

The music stopped; the chapel was abruptly silent.

“What did you say?” I said, stalking closer.

He swallowed and his eyes ricocheted around the room. “I, uh, said…uh, we’re married…?”

As he said this, he held up a piece of paper. I snatched it out of his hand and read it. He was right. It was a marriage license, and Sandra’s name was printed in the bride box. She’d signed it.

I lifted just my eyes to the man then ripped the paper in two. “Not anymore. Put on some pants and get the hell out of here.”

He flinched then nodded, edging away.

My eyes flickered over him before I added, “And leave the shirt.”

He nodded faster and pulled the shirt over his head, tossed it to a bench, and grabbed his pants but didn’t put them on before he ran out the door.

All eyes turned to me, and I studied each of their faces.

Alarm twisted my gut. They didn’t look drunk. They looked stoned.