“You have been to so many soccer games and school plays and concerts and recitals—and the ones you missed really hurt you. I’ve watched you coach a T-ball game and hop in the car to go work an extra shift, then come right back in the morning to help with church youth group. You lend money to people who need it, have gotten really screwed a few times over the years—and you still always want to give people another chance.”
Mom’s makeup is in streaks down her face right now, and she’s holding Dad’s hands. His eyes are so wide a ring of white is around his irises, and he looks like he’s barely holding it together.
“I don’t know what your definition of success is,” she says, looking over Dad’s shoulder to James, then Declan, “but by my standards, Jason is a god-damned emotional billionaire.” She tugs on his hand. He takes one step toward her, and she looks back at Dad. “And I’m taking you to our nice hotel room, where I’m going to spend as long as it takes with you until you really feel your success all the way in the marrow of your bones.” She turns away from us and they take a few steps, Dad pocketing his chips first.
I swear she adds, “You fool.”
Dad doesn’t look back at us, but as they reach the main doors, the bright desert sun shining behind them and making the wide rectangle of the door’s threshold feel like a blinding imprint, I see him clasp her to him tightly, their kiss like something out of a 1940s glamour movie.
Even I say, “awwwwww,” and I’m supposed to be grossed out by them.
James lets out a sigh, like he’s nostalgic, then winces. Declan and I give him the side-eye, but I think for completely different reasons.
Mom turns back to us and shouts:
“If it wasn’t clear, when I said ‘spend as long as it takes,’ I meant I’m taking Jason back to the hotel room and we’re going to have sex until he can’t remember that the word failure exists.”
All the men over fifty in the casino sigh, including James. Again.
Dad gives us a thumbs-up and they leave, Mom’s hand splayed across my father’s ass.
“Your mother,” James says with a sigh, the words hanging loose like one of Tyler’s baby teeth, not quite ready to let go.
“My mother what?” I ask as Rheumy moves to the seat next to me and offers his half-consumed beer. When I decline, he pats his shirt pocket and mouths the word maryjane.
Or maybe he says, Marry me? It’s hard to tell. The guy has three teeth left, and either phrase is likely.
“Your mother is one of a kind,” James declares.
“I’ll drink to that,” Declan says.
Old Rheumy offers up his beer. Declan declines.
“Maryjane?” he offers, pulling out a fat joint the size of my ring finger.
At least that mystery’s been cleared up.
“No, thanks,” Declan demurs, helping me stand. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
“It’s free and clean,” Rheumy swears. “Got me a medical card in California and this is some prime weed.”
“I’m sure it is,” James assures him. “But, um...”
I jump in for the rescue, leaning over and tapping Rheumy on the arm. “The Illuminati are watching them. If the feds ever take them into custody and they have weed in their piss test, they’re toast.”
Rheumy’s eyes go wide. “No shit?”
“No kidding.”
“I knew it was all real,” he mutters, shaking his head slowly, giving Declan and James a sad, sympathetic look.
I nod toward the door and the three of us escape.
“What the hell was that about?” Declan says with a low whistle.
“That was a young woman thinking on her feet,” James replies, his face pensive as he walks fast toward the waiting limo, Geordi at the door. “You Jacoby women are a formidable force.”
“We have our moments,” I say, holding my head high, my sophistication infinite.
Until I trip over the outstretched leg of a beggar carrying a sign that says “WILL EAT PUSSY FOR CASINO CHIPS” and fall right into his lap.
“My prayers have been answered!” the guy hisses in my ear. “It’s raining women!”
Geordi rushes over to pull the guy away, while Dec and James extract me quickly, not looking back. My knee’s ripped to shreds, blood blooming like a rose through the torn pantyhose, and I feel like my elbow banged into a steel door. They funnel me into the back of the limo and shut the door, locks activated instantly.
“Your knee,” Declan says, reaching for a bucket of ice. James hands him a perfectly pressed handkerchief and in seconds, I have an ice pack on my bloody joint, leg stretched over Declan’s lap, James in front of us, frowning out the window.
I shouldn’t look back. Declan even tries to shield me from the tinted window. I can’t help myself. I know I shouldn’t.
But I do.
When I fell, my scarf must have unraveled and landed on the beggar. He’s currently, uh, using it as a sex toy.
Let’s leave the description right there.
Because what happens in Vegas—stays in Vegas.
Chapter Twenty
When you don’t have a thousand guests, when you’re not bringing in forty-one bagpipers, and you don’t use a floral designer who has more flowers than the garden at Versailles in your wedding, the actual ceremony is so simple.
And the emotions are still the same.
All the big resorts in Vegas have their own private wedding chapel on-site. In the movies and on television, you see people going to some twenty-four-hour quickie wedding place, getting married by an Elvis impersonator. Those places exist, but what you don’t hear about are the more sedate, calm chapels where couples can just tie the knot in peace, then go up an elevator and screw like bunnies afterward.