I’m back in the dark-red, mermaid-style dress I originally planned. I don’t mind. What I do mind is being the center of freaking attention at the wedding. News has broken that Ty Wilder is (was!) my boyfriend. I try to look on the bright side—at least no one knows about his male-prostitution phase. The public and most of the guests all think he's just a violent jerk.
Shane, Izzy and I are the only people at this wedding who know the truth, and I'm planning to take this one to the grave with me. I may not have dated the most sought-after bachelors in the country before Ty barged into my life, but dating a former male prostitute is a new low, even for me.
Okay, maybe I'll just tell Nana Marty. Nana won't judge. She won't tell my parents. Nana can keep a secret. I'm pretty sure she's got a pile of 'em securely tucked deep inside her head.
I watch my grandmother in her very skimpy and age-inappropriate white dress, standing in front of her prince charming, Simon.
Simon is pretty darn cool. He is handsome for his age—tall, with thick white hair and steely blue eyes. He is wearing a tux and looks better than my chunky, fifty-something father. My parents stand across from Izzy and me. It’s obvious they are none too thrilled about the wedding. But unlike me, Nana isn't a person who gives a damn about what they think.
Mom keeps shifting and staring at her shoes, while Dad zones out. In his mind, he’s at the golf course, talking politics with his friends and comparing golf clubs. The chapel looks like a deserted branch of Olive Garden, but the ceremony is lovely.
And me? I’m a hot mess. I’m trying to keep it together, but every thought I have is of Ty.
“Blaire, are you crying? Again?” Izzy whisper-yells at me as the Marilyn Monroe look-alike performs the service.
I feel so bad. Nana did all this so I could be in Vegas, and her plans backfired completely. I'll be dealing with the shock waves of the explosion for a long-ass time.
I shake my head. “Nope. Not crying. Just happy for Nana.”
“You may kiss the bride.” Marilyn beams at Simon. He looks at Nana Marty with eyes filled with happiness, but thankfully, keeps it clean and only gives Nana a peck on the lips. Mom and Dad smile tightly while Izzy and I jump on our fragile grandmother.
Izzy twerks around her, the flowers in her hand raining petals on the floor, while I cling to her shoulders like she’s my only chance of being saved from a starving shark. An injured Shane is standing with his parents in an aisle, surrounded by a few more guests, golf-clapping. He is looking at Izzy. Not at me, not at the bride, just Izzy. She is his sun and his moon. The want in his eyes is unmistakable, even with the new, purple frames Ty has given him.
Nana pats me on the cheek and holds my chin firmly in one hand. “Oh, my darling Blaire,” she murmurs into my nose. “Your mother told me what Tyler has been up to. Had I known you were going to bring enough drama for an HBO mini-series, I would have brought more vodka. I want all the gossip. Meet me in the lobby bar in an hour. Simon can pop my imaginary cherry tomorrow.”
Hell, I’m going to need therapy after Vegas.
Back at the hotel, I tell Izzy I’m meeting Nana downstairs for drinks and ask her if she wants to tag along.
“Too tired.” She slips out of her gown and walks around the room in her undies. That nasty Elizabeth's Passion thong she's wearing is glaring at me like a sweaty pervert in a raincoat, but other than that, there’s no denying her body is damn near perfect. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
Izzy never turns down an excuse to drink, let alone in public, where she can be seen and fawned over by her fans.
“You sure?” I frown at my sister, perplexed.
She nods. “Seriously, go drown your sorrows, sissy. You totally earned it.”
Nana and I opt to sit at the far corner of the bar. She is still wearing her wedding gown and the brightest, stupidest grin, and I’m tucked into a gray, loose-fitting garb I sometimes use as my period pajamas. No bra.
Like Izzy said I deserve it after everything I’ve been through.
I knock down drink after drink in between chewing my swizzle stick. It's already approaching 10 o’clock, and I know Ty's fight should be starting right about now.
I don't want to think about it.
I can't stop thinking about it.
“This is so jacked up.” I finally rest my head on the bar. The room spins around me and I feel nauseous.
“He's been pimping himself for...what? Four years now? Ever since he started doing this professionally. That could be a thousand women. How irresponsible can he be?”
“It's deplorable,” Nana Marty agrees, wrinkling her nose, "but he didn't know you back then, and by the time he met you, he’d already changed his ways."
I scan her face in horror.
Maybe it's because I've punished myself and searched for pictures of him on the Internet again, this time with women. I can't see a picture of him with a woman without wondering…has she paid to sleep with him? Has she writhed underneath him like I did? How many times? What positions? When and where? How much money? Who did Ty get to fight afterwards?
Ugh.
“Let’s play the devil’s advocate here, shall we?” Nana raps the bar loudly to snap me back to reality. Billows of cigarette smoke travel between us, and I cough in annoyance. I may have smoked the occasional blunt, but I absolutely hate cigarettes. How it’s possible to smoke inside hotels here is beyond me, but I’m starting to realize that in Vegas, you could puff directly into a baby’s face if you’re willing to put some cash next to a blackjack dealer.