Page 18 of Cunning Lies
Uncle Jay knockson the double doors and I adjust my dress. It’s heavy from the beads everywhere. I’m grateful for the asymmetrical cut, because at least some of the fabric is cut out.
Patrick smacks his gum. “You ready, Vi?”
I shrug. “Do I have a choice?”
“This is it,” Uncle Jay mumbles. His blue eyes are full of tears. “Thank you, Vi.”
My eyelids flutter. It’s hard to be mad at your uncle for convincing you to marry a yakuza man when he thanks you for it. Patrick puts his arm around my shoulder.
“We couldn’t have done this without you,” he says.
“Let’s hope I survive,” I mutter.
“Dream house,” Uncle Jay says. He puts an arm around me too, and with their weight on my shoulders, I’m afraid these heels are going to snap. “Eyes on our prize, little Vi.”
“Retirement,” I say.
“Sure. Retirement.”
The door opens, and a tall man peers down at us. Black eyes. Dress shirt. A vest. Slacks. But while the other yakuza have tattoos on their necks, this man’s exposed skin is bare, andthatseems like a warning—he doesn’t follow traditions like the rest of the group. His gaze is fixated on us, and that’s when I see it—dark blue patches of color hidden in his black irises. His eyes are almost pretty, but the way he judges us, like he’s deciphering who we really are, gives me the creeps.
Uncle Jay is a shrimp compared to this man, but he never lets that bother him. He offers his hand—the one with all five of his fingers—and the black and blue eyed man bares his teeth.
“Hi,” Uncle Jay starts. “We’re—”
The man steps to the side, letting us inside of the lobby without saying anything to us. A woman with a clipboard runs forward.
“Thanks for letting them in, Niko,” she squeals. “You must be the beautiful bride.” Her voice high-pitched, like a cartoon. “You look amazing.”
The dress is whiter than copy paper, and it makes me look like I go to the tanning salon every day, almost like my husband wants tomockme for being ‘innocent.’ The asymmetrical cut is short in the front, and long in the back, showing off my calves. I don’t know why Kenzo chose this dress, but it reminds me of the outfit for the gala. Maybe he’s got a thing with legs.
Or maybe he wants easy access to certain parts.
I redden from head to toe.
“Thanks,” I say.
The woman hands me a rainbow business card.TRUE LOVE EXPRESSshines on the front in bright, bold letters, followed by her name.
“We run a tight ship. The ceremony starts on the hour. There’s a dressing room to the left for you and your family. Complete with refreshments, of course.” She winks. “If you need anything, give me a holler.”
The bride’s quarters are bigger than our motel room. There are multiple vanities, a full coffee bar, two champagne buckets, and a pastry table. I eye the apple tarts, but don’t indulge. If I do, it’ll come right back up. Patrick, on the other hand, helps himself to the champagne, sending the cork flying across the room. Uncle Jay laughs.
“You want some?” Patrick asks. I shake my head. I don’t drink anymore, unless it’s part of a job, like with the gala. After getting drunk and blacking out way too many times around Uncle Jay and Patrick, I stopped. It’s easier to be the designated babysitter.
Patrick downs his glass and Uncle Jay does the same, then they get into another round. I read the manual next to the espresso machine, wondering if another shot of caffeine will give me superpowers or a heart attack. I’m on the fritz already.
“Did your husband give you any Shabu Eight as a welcome gift?” Patrick asks.
“Fiancé,” I correct. We aren’t married yet, and I want to hold onto that fact for as long as I can. Kenzo’s warning, ‘forever,’ plays in my mind like a soundtrack to a haunted maze.
But there’s something comforting about it too. ‘Forever’ is a long time, and I’ve always craved a home like that. It sucks when you’ve been constantly on the move since you were six years old.
“So? Shabu?” Patrick asks again. I’m not sure why he wants meth at a time like this, but I stopped asking him questions like that a long time ago.
“No,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Get a sample,” he says.
