Page 1 of Vegas Daddies

1

ALICE

“Diamond, oh my!”Tammy yanks my finger into the light to more closely examine the engagement ring.

At this point, we might as well be throwing the bachelorette party for the two-carat diamond on my knuckle. God knows it’s been the center of attention ever since we all got to the club.

“It looks expensive.”

“Ridiculously expensive,” Rachel says. “I never would’ve thought diamond jewelry would be in an IT technician’s budget.”

“Me neither.” The diamond winks when it hits light from the spinning disco ball above. “But Levi works hard. Like, insanely. He’s in the office until late most days.”

I stare at the ring harder for a moment. Once at fifteen years old, I read a Vogue magazine in the waiting room at the dentist. It was an interview with an A-list Hollywood actress—some brunette diva with a perfect smile in a purple dress, and bold under the picture were these words:“Relationships aren’t like the movies. There’s always one imperfection. One thing not quite right.”

The diva is mistaken. Levi is perfect. His dark blue eyes disorient me every time I glimpse them, and his mousy-brown hair looks good from any angle. Back in college, we shared the same dorm block. He was one floor beneath me, and we met at a frat party two weeks into our first semester as freshmen, bonding over the fact that neither of us had a mother. Girls surrounded him like he was Henry Cavill or something, this oddity who everyone with a pussy wanted to fuck.

But he chose me.

I didn’t even speak to him.

Wasn’t even in the vicinity.

And a week from now, we’ll be married.

“It’s all very exciting.” Tammy takes a sip from her drink. “But a shame.”

Rachel slaps her on the arm. “What the fuck? She’s gettingmarried.M-A-R-R-I?—”

“Not that,” says Tammy. “You always wanted your wedding to be abroad, didn’t you? On sand that wasn’t the desert. Remember in high school when we first met in math class? When we went off topic and ended up discussing our dream wedding locations? I said England ’cause I wanted a British husband—still do—and you said Saint Lucia. You said you wanted to handpick the most perfect hibiscus flower and wear it in your hair for the big day.”

“True.” I bite the corner of my lip, careful not to smudge the lipstick I spent ten minutes perfecting in the Uber over here. It’s been a while since I last hit the strip. “But Levi’s too swamped with work to take the time off.”

“What about for your honeymoon, at least?” says Rachel.

I look up at the spinning disco ball to string together a response. I fear another “too busy with work”answer will have them rolling their eyes and, in a week’s time, objecting to the wedding for the man being no fun.

But Levi and I are both twenty-two now, past the time for fun. We both have our careers to focus on. Levi with the IT agency, and me in the hospital. Climbing the healthcare hierarchy is a difficult task, but that nurse practitioner role won’t come to me any easier if I’m jetting off to paradise for weeks at a time.

“Right.” I shoot up from the booth. “I think we need another drink.”

“Stay right there.” Tammy pushes me back. “The bride isn’t buying tonight.”

Rachel takes off too, leaving me alone in the booth. The night is young, most of it still ahead of us. I’ve only had two drinks, so my head feels pretty stable, but come to think of it, there’s not one night that has ended in me getting shit-faced. It’s either Tammy or Rachel, sometimes both at the same time. Holding back not one, buttwoheads of hair as they vomit simultaneously into the toilet isn’t for the weak. It’s a sport. Should be played in the Olympics. It’s why, despite their requests, I willnotbe ruining my no-vomiting streak and “getting loose tonight.”

They have put me off alcohol for life.

Tammy is a wreck. The most beautiful, put-together wreck I’ve ever come across in my life. Every time we attended a party in college, getting shit-faced and sticking her tongue down a frat guy’s throat was her goal. She never failed. Never went home empty-handed, those red manicured nails always wrapped around the hand of some strange jock who looked like he ownednothing but jerseys. Luckily, I stayed over at Levi’s most nights because he had a room to himself, but oh my. The stories. Two weeks into freshman year, the girl hadthreesometicked off the list. Next up wasanal. She always had drama, stories to tell, and still does, even now at her job in the hair salon.

That girl makes me curious sometimes.

What the hell would it be like to swap lives with her?

She stands at the bar flicking her long, black hair. It looks like silk. Her mom is Malaysian, her father Polish, so I think that’s what makes her one of a kind.

Rachel, like me, is the only child to two American parents.

Except she’s not like me.

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