Billionaires in Vegas

I am married.

To Kathryn.

I look at her as she screams. She screams a lot, sometimes. Guess you could say I married a screamer.

Kathryn

Of all the shit to have happened...

...I got married in Vegas.

You don’t know how many times I’ve looked at this supposed marriage license. As of one AM this morning, I signed my single life away to the man I’ve been seeing for several months and seriously dating for about, oh... a few...

I’m having flashbacks. To my mother. You know, that woman who has been next to useless in my life. There was this one time, when I was fourteen and about to become sexually active for the first time (although I didn’t know it then,) and she took me aside and said, “Kathryn, you will do a lot of stupid shit in your life. Make sure it counts.” Then she fucked off to Europe only to be seen once or twice a year, if she was feeling generous.

Okay, so that wasn’t all she told me. As she downed one margarita after another, she pulled out condoms and bananas and proceeded to scar me for life by crushing a banana with one hand and snapping the condom with the other, all while cursing beneath her drunken breath. Poor me at fourteen was so mortified that she clawed at her mother’s bedroom window to get out. My only saving grace was my father, who came in at the right moment and told my mom to put the condoms away before I was scared away from safe sex for the rest of my life.

That was fourteen years ago. Half my life. Now I’m sitting on a couch in a fancy hotel room in Vegas, staring my husband in the eye.

My husband!

Well, it was nice knowing that yogurt I was eating.

“Katie!” Ian follows me into the bathroom, where I am hunched over the toilet, vomiting any and all contents I’ve managed to maintain since last night. I have another flashback. My head in another toilet, Ian holding back my hair as he starts swearing my throwing up is going to make him throw up too. Was this before or after we signed away our lives?

Oh my God, here comes some more!

By the time I’m done throwing up, I have gone through every single memory of the night before. I got plastered. At multiple locations. So did Ian. I vaguely recall someone named Ellen saying she would be a witness to something. I... I don’t even know. It’s all still a blur.

Ian cleans up the bathroom, murmuring, and I stumble back into the room with my wet hair sticking to my reddening face. I flop down on the bed. When I lift my heavy head again, I see Ian with the marriage license, poring over it as if he could find some loophole to show it’s fake and we’re not really married.

“Happy Hearts Marriage Chapel,” he mumbles. “I got married in a place called Happy Hearts.”

“Shut up.”

He looks down at me, the paper vibrating between his hands. “That’s not a nice thing to say to your husband.”

“You are not my husband!”

“Hmph.” He sits down, but doesn’t touch me. “That’s not what this says, Mrs. Mathers.”

I swear to God I am going to fucking kill him. I am going to rip his nipples off and shove them down his throat. Then his dick. Because my silly boyfriend would pick now to make jokes!

“Call me that again and I will crush your dick.”

“Calm down.” Ian folds the paper up and tosses it onto the nearest table. “Freaking out isn’t going to make this go away.”

I perk up. “So you agree it needs to go away.”

He rolls his eyes. “We need to talk about this rationally. We need to try to piece together what happened last night.” He puts a hand on my back. “We need coffee.”

* * *

When I packed this outfit, I imagined wearing it as I walked up and down the strip, going shopping, looking at funny stuff, and generally being a tourist with a ton of money. Cute jeans. Comfortable, cute heels. A flowy blue peasant top to keep me cool and to show off my cotton tank top beneath. I wanted people to admire how well put together I am. I wanted my boyfriend to think I’m hot and need to be spoiled with affection.

Instead, I’m in a crowded diner, one of those all-you-can-eat buffets with a focus on breakfast foods. We paid for the buffet, but Ian and I sit in a booth with nothing but coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs between us. He’s wearing jeans and a white linen shirt. Designer sunglasses grace the top of his head. He keeps breaking eye contact with me every time I hold his gaze for more than two seconds.

I haven’t felt this awkward around him since we started sleeping together almost a year ago.

“You look nice,” he finally says, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Feeling better?”

What a terrible thing to ask right now.

“Let’s cut the crap, Ian. I don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to talk about it. So let’s talk about anything but the giant elephant trampling around the room.”