Page 19 of Cunning Lies
Uncle Jay laughs. “Ask for the family pack!”
Noise consumes me, a buzzing sensation warring in my chest. It’s like I’m on drugs; it’s impossible to think. Champagne flutes click. Deep male laughter. Banging on the door. Music thumping through the ballroom. The fluttery voice of the wedding planner trickling in through the walls like a bird who won’t shut up.
And then a flute crashes to the floor, interrupting the cacophony.
Patrick holds his stomach, a sudden pain twisting his guts. He runs to the only bathroom in the bride’s quarters.
“Shouldn’t have eaten from that food truck,” I say as he passes.
“Worth it,” he mutters.
Uncle Jay smirks. “It’s probably the tequila shots,” he explains. After Kenzo moved me to the suite at the Samurai Castle, the two of them went a little crazy on Fremont Street. They pretended like it was my bachelorette party, even though I wasn’t there.
I turn to Uncle Jay. “What am I doing again? After the ceremony, that is.”When I’m officially his wife.
“Find out what companies he’s working with.That’swhat our client wants,” he explains. Patrick’s retching grows louder, and the two of us wait for him to stop. My eyes pace around the room, my brain buzzing with nerves. Finally, Uncle Jay talks over the vomiting: “Who knows—maybe we can be out of there in a day or two, you know? We just gotta—”
We?It’s me doing this.Alone.
And I can’t take it anymore.
I grab the sides of my dress, hoisting it up so I can walk faster, my high heels tapping on the floor.
“What’s wrong, Vi?” Uncle Jay asks, his tone soft. But then he stands up and there’s a hint of accusation in his voice: “Where are you going?”
He thinks I’m bolting.If I had half a mind, I would. But I’m a sucker, and Uncle Jay’s promises keep echoing in my mind.
Just gotta get through this job and we won’t have to worry about this again,he had said.We need you to do this, sweetheart. This is going to change everything.
“Bathroom,” I say. “Give me a minute.”
In the entrance lobby, I make my way toward the public restroom. A few guests coo at my dress, but I don’t know any of them. Honestly, Iwantto work. To get this ‘celebration’ over with so I can actuallydosomething.
But this is the ritual I must endure, saying ‘I do’ before I can finally ‘get to know’ my husband… and his business secrets.
The waiting lobby restroom is quiet. Citrus and chemicals permeate the air. My heels tap on the marble floors, echoing between the walls.
In the mirror, I gawk at my reflection, but it isn’t me. Light brown makeup highlights my natural beauty, and the fake lashes make my eyes huge. My red hair is shinier than ever, and it’s pulled back into an elegant updo. Kenzo’s preferences, I guess. He sent another stylist to come pamper me before the wedding. I touch the candle tattoo behind my ear, wondering if he kept my hair up on purpose, so he can see it. He seems pretty preoccupied by it.
“Shit,” a woman’s voice mutters. She shuffles through the contents of a purse, then groans. “Right. Because I didn’t bring any with me today. Fuck this wedding.”
My chest tightens. That time of the month? Ugh. I hate when that happens. I quickly poke through my cleavage, finding the one tiny tampon I keep in my cleavagejust in case.It’ll work in a pinch.
The toilet flushes. The door directly behind me opens, and a woman steps out. A silky red wrap around dress, almost like a robe, shows off her fit, but feminine figure. The seams are lined in a shiny rose gold, with a matching bow. Short, red ankle boots finish her outfit. A septum ring hangs from her nose. A tattoo of pink flowers flutters down the side of her neck, but I can tell that’s only part of it. Like Kenzo, she’s probably covered in tattoos.
“Sorry,” I say. “I thought I was the only one in here. I’m Vi.”
She wrinkles her nose at me, then turns to the sink, the automatic faucet running as she washes her hands with ivory soap.
“Are you Kenzo’s friend?” I ask. She looks more American than Japanese, but I don’t know anything about him. She may be a cousin, like Patrick is to me.
“I’m his sister.” She holds out her freshly washed hand. “Cherry.”
“Cherry!” I say. Instead of taking her hand, I shove the tiny tampon into her palm. “Here. I always have one on me.”
Her lips crunch together, and she takes it from me slowly.
“Thanks?” she says, almost like a question. She stares at the tampon like it’s a bomb.
