He moves over to my other breast. I grab his foot and massage it, digging my thumbs in deep. He groans and leans back. I look up and make a noise of excitement. I point.
“There’s a huge television mounted right there!”
He laughs. “Yes. Want to turn it to the fireplace channel?”
“The what?”
“The fireplace channel. The resort has a cable channel that is 24/7 nothing but a video of a fireplace.”
“Couldn’t spring for a real fireplace in the suite?” I joke.
His face goes serious. “Those are the presidential suites. They’re all taken right now. We picked the same week as eight enormous conventions to be here. I couldn’t even bump anyone on short notice, but if you really want a fireplace in the bathroom, I’ll make sure we move tomorrow—”
A laugh of incredulity pours out of me. “Are you crazy? This is great. Perfect.”
His wet hand snakes over to a wall remote I hadn’t noticed. Once the television is on, he flips a few channels, and—
A giant, very familiar auburn head fills the wall.
“AUGH!” Dec screams.
“MOM!” I shout.
He starts to change the channel but I stop him. Instead, he reaches for three tiny bottles of wine.
I don’t stop that.
Some reporter I’ve never seen before is interviewing my mother, still at the Farmington Country Club. They’re inside, guests are milling about, and the cake’s been relocated to a table where it rests like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, if the Leaning Tower of Pisa were mauled by hungry tigers named Jeffrey and Tyler.
Mom is still livid.
“Where’s Geraldo Rivera? I was told I’d be interviewed by Geraldo Rivera! This is more important than even him.”
The poor reporter tries to calm Mom down. I snort. Good luck, buddy.
Mom’s on a tear. “What about Oprah! When a woman’s daughter is kidnapped by a billionaire and the President of the United States, her story deserves Oprah Freaking Winfrey! What? She’s not available, either? What about that nice blonde lesbian who does that funny talk show. What’s her name—Elizabeth Hasselbeck?”
Click.
We stare at the now-black television, Declan’s hand on the remote.
“I don’t need the fake fireplace,” I say weakly.
Declan’s not listening, because he’s chugging back yet more wine. He finishes a bottle, tosses the empty into the toilet with an evocative kerplunk that makes me nostalgic for how we met two years ago, and gives me a plaintive, but determined, look.
“Shannon?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Would you do me the great honor of not being my wife tonight?”
“What?”
“I have a very short window of time as a single man, and I’d like to spend it having sex with the most gorgeous woman in the world before I’m tied down by a nagging ball and chain.”
“God, you sound like your father.”
He’s fooled me, his sloth-like exterior a sham. Standing up like Godzilla emerging from the waters outside of Tokyo, he dips down, pulls me, dripping, out of the tub, and manages to stay sure-footed to the bed, where we become an entangled mess of wet, slippery skin.
“Declan!” I squeal, pink-skinned and soaked, shivering and flushed, his palms lubricated by the soapy, watery mess he’s created.
He covers me completely with his hot body, mouth finding parts of me that take my racing thoughts and spin them faster, until everything is a blur and the only thing I can hold onto for the ride is my pleasure.
By the time we’re done we’re under soggy sheets, wet heads on wet pillows, the sound of Declan’s rare snore guiding me to my own slumber, our day complete in its calamity, with so many questions unanswered.
And so many more not yet asked.
Chapter Seven
I can feel her presence here in Vegas before the phone even rings. They say that evil has its own vibration, a low frequency that masquerades as normal in order to hide among us, a chameleon of extraordinary power, with the gift of destruction.
If it had a name, it would be Marie Jacoby.
Sigh. Not really. But for goodness’ sake, she’s evil personified when it comes to being a Momzilla.
Someone fetched us a basic care package of underwear and sweats, and also brought Declan a replacement phone last night, a shiny bauble plugged in and charging on the bedside table. Instead of buzzing, it glows, like ET’s heartlight, and it’s creepy. Really creepy. I pick it up like it’s a live heart and toss it at him.
He startles, snatching it up and smashing it to his ear out of muscle memory, years of middle-of-the-night calls from Asian properties embedded into him.
“ ’lo?” he says, eyes closed and slothlike, his body curled up against my body, except I’m not there. He’s spooning air. His hair has dried in the night and is smashed against his sleeping side, the crown poking straight up. He looks like a cartoon character. I reach up for my own hair and hit snarls within seconds.
His eyes fly wide open as I hear the mwah mwah mwah of the person on the other end of the call. “WHAT?”
See? Knew it. Evil.
“She’s where? Already? And did the staff let her in? They did. In the lobby? Who’s with her? A television camera crew?” Declan doesn’t do disheveled and frantic, so I’m enjoying the show.
His patented Crazy Mother-in-Law Sigh comes out as he reasserts control. “Kick the camera crew out. Out. I don’t care what they say. This is private property. No. I said no. Did it sound like I said yes? Absolutely not. You heard me. Let them. They can go to hell if they think they can dictate what I can and cannot do with my company’s private property.”