Page 4 of Vegas Daddies

Rachel, the psychoanalyst she is, listens.

“The wedding is off.”

My heart drops.

Tammy swings back around.

“You don’t deserve me,” Levi says. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

The call ends.

Cue the hyperventilating. My breath catches in my throat.

I stand. Walk around in a circle to knock some sense back into my head, but I struggle to walk even one step without shaking. It’s like I’m underwater. The air feels different. Heavier. For four years, Levi has been my breath. My lungs.

Now what am I supposed to do?

Cry apparently, and like a baby. Tears blur my vision. The disco ball spins faster, so much more than before, and it dizzies me. Induces a wave of nausea that I manage to swallow down before my vomit coats the polished floor. That’ll get us kicked out.

But we’re close to that anyway, the way my crying is going.

Crying isn’t the right definition anymore. What exits my mouth is more of a roar. To others in the club, I could be some sort of shape-shifter fighting to keep my human form, but to Levi, I’m nothing. Not even a speck.

Not even worth a visit.

He didn’t even have the respect to drop the news in person.

To tell me that he was fucking some long-legged whore with a chest more desirable than the ones sported by Victoria’s Secret models.

Do I laugh? Cry some more? Rip the disco ball from the ceiling and launch it out into the desert? My brain doesn’t know what it wants to do. Kill? Drive to Levi and stick a knife in his chest?

The wedding is off.

And not a cent of it was insured.

“Why would we need to do that?”he asked a year ago when we started planning.“It’s not like we’re going to fall out of love with each other.”

“Come on.” Softly, Rachel takes my hand. “Let’s go outside.”

“She can go outside when the club closes.” Tammy breaks our hands apart. “You have one task tonight.” She looks me square in the eyes, and I swear for the tiniest second, something in them flashes red. “Revenge. Let’s get a tequila shot down you.”

A hiss from Rachel. “No. That’s not a good idea. She needs sleep.” She pauses. “Or melatonin at least, tohelpher sleep.”

Rachel’s advice appeals more, although melatonin won’t do shit. I need something stronger. I can slip some morphine when I’m next on shift in the ICU.

But for now, perhaps Tammy is right. Another drink won’t hurt.

But god, the state of me. I’ve cried off my mascara. My bachelorette party can’t continue, especially since I’m in a white silk dress the same shade as the wedding getup I’m supposed to be wearing a week from today.

Sniffling, I propose an idea. “Let’s go back to Rachel’s, change and redo our makeup, and maybe on our way, stop by the liquor store to pregame for round two.”

“That would be a shame.”

Did one of my friends just have a voice drop? I flick my eyes between them both. Their mouths are both shut. Strange. They’re not even looking at me.

Something behind my shoulder has caught their attention.

But before I can spin around, two hands settle there—on my shoulder blades—and begin massaging them. It feels good. Somebody certainly knows what they’re doing.

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