Page 24 of Vegas Daddies

I raise my eyebrows. Thank fuck some good has come out of today.

Finally, justice will be restored. It’s been twelve years since a random attack left Mom dead and bleeding out on the streets of Las Vegas. The bullet was identified as Russian and belonging to one of the Bratva groups here in the city, and revenge has coursed through my father’s veins ever since that day.

Maybe he’s been working with authorities over the past few months to make this campaign possible, but behind closed doors, I know he’s been mapping out the operation ever since Mom’s funeral.

The tightness in my chest eases for a moment, and the drunk marriage doesn’t feel as severe.

Daddy is the best mayor Las Vegas has ever seen.

6

LIFESAVER

Girls swing elegantlyaround poles in bright-colored lingerie. A few smile my way, but I don’t smile back, which is unlike me. I blame the hangover, but that pretty much went away when Brander reminded us that we got married last night.

To Alice.

It was her idea, and I didn’t think we’d actually go through with it, but it turns out all three of us simp over the girl harder than our favorite celebrity crushes. Mine is Margot Robbie. I actually saw her once in Vegas, and when I glimpsed her sipping on margaritas in VIP my heart didn’t burst out of its cage like it did when Alice drunkenly proposed.

I sit back in my chair and absentmindedly watch strippers twirl, and I wince. Stumbling hand in hand with Alice down the street is all I remember. I think Brander had directions up on his phone guiding us to the nearest chapel, and Match, I think, was the first one to slur an “Ido.”

“The vicar only pretends to marry you in Vegas, don’t they, when you’re drunk?”

Brander deadpans a “no.”

“So it’s official. We actually fucking married her?”

Side-eye from Brander is all the confirmation I need to know we tied the knot.

I glance at Match. He doesn’t look like himself. A corpse has more color than him right now, and though his eyes are staring at the strippers, the vacant look in them suggests that his thoughts are elsewhere. Not even on planet earth.

There are worse places to sit and regret last night than a corner VIP booth at a twenty-four-hour strip club. The windowless building gives the illusion that we’re not living in reality, something I think all three of us are fighting to escape currently. Red lights twirl from spotlights above, landing on the seven girls center stage that move around their poles. Other podiums are dotted around the room. Near us is a girl in pink lace who keeps making eye contact with Brander, but he doesn’t look interested. No offense to the woman—her body is one made in heaven—but I prefer Alice. This woman doesn’t have the same innocent look in her eye, and her body moves entirely different than Alice’s.

The strip club isn’t working. It was my idea to come here, to rinse away the thoughts of yesterday. After dropping Alice off at the Venetian, we last-minute booked ourselves into Caesars for somewhere to crash. At that point, the marriage and the tattoo were starting to come back to me, but it could’ve all been a dream.

It wasn’t.

We really hitched up her skirt after the two-minute ceremony and borrowed a tattoo gun from the parlor next door to brand our names into her ass cheeks.

“Till death do we part,”said Brander as he inked out the design, Alice bent over the altar.

Match flings his head back into the booth. “This isn’t helping. We should all go home.”

I sigh. “I think you’re right.”

“We also need to ring Alice so we can organize an annulment,” he adds.

The word stings my chest.

“Brander?” Match continues. “You have her number, don’t you? Let’s get out of here and we can give her a call.”

Brander remains in the same frozen position he’s been sitting in for several minutes now. He sets his eyes. Shuffles even more onto the edge of his seat.

“Brander?” Match repeats.

“Quiet.”

He angles his heads.

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