Chapter 4 Las Vegas - Rust, 20 Years Old
“Let’s get married.”
Tally stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, setting down her guitar case. “Come again?”
Heat flashes along my cheeks and I clasp a hand on the back of my neck. I gotta learn to think before I speak, but it hadn’t even occurred to me that she might say no.
Humiliation be damned. I can’t give up now.
I point at a white canopy by the casino across the street. The words ‘Pop-Up Marriage License Bureau’ are emblazoned on it.
I put my guitar case on the ground and sink to one knee, grasping her hand. Her fingers tremble in mine as I try to find my voice to ask the most important question of my life.
“Tally Creed, I knew you were the one for me since I caught you stealing Dad’s favorite horse to run away to Nashville.”
Her breath hitches on a laugh. “And I knew you were the one since you didn’t snitch on me.”
“Will you marry me, Trouble?”
Tears of joy well in her green eyes. “Oh my God, yes!”
I jump up and lift her around the waist, spinning while I kiss her. “You just made me the happiest man in the universe,” I whisper against her lips.
We grab our instruments to rush across the street.
In the tent, a middle-aged brunette sits on a folding chair.
In front of her stands a plastic table with a vase of red roses and a red bowl filled with heart-shaped chocolates on it.
She even set up a decorative pillow with two simple, gold wedding bands.
The clerk smiles at us, eyes creasing. “Congratulations on your engagement!”
Despite the fact that she literally watched me propose to Tally on the side of a road without a ring, her tone seems sincere.
“Thanks!” Tally and I say in unison.
She pushes two clipboards and two pens toward us. “I was about to pack up for today, but I think I can stay a little longer for you. After all, during this month of love we’re here to help happy couples like you tie the knot on your terms.”
I glance at the forms. “This is legit and not a tourist scam?”
The clerk straightens. “All perfectly legal, sir. It’s is a brand new service we’re trialing for Valentine’s Day. My name’s Sandra and I’m a county clerk from the downtown bureau. I’m fully certified to issue marriage licenses, granted you’re unmarried, both over eighteen and the fee is paid.”
Tally shrinks. “How much is the fee?”
It’s been hard to get paid gigs lately and our wallets have suffered. Any small savings we scraped together before we left Redbird Creek were drained within the first months of our road trip. Most of it was spent on fake IDs so we could even get into dive bars to perform.
“Usually there’s a rush fee for the pop-up, but I’ll waive that for you. So it’ll be $77,” Sandra explains.
Tally shoots me a look that says, ‘We don’t even have that much, do we?’
Grinning, I grab my wallet from my pocket and find the hidden compartment. Secretly, I put away $200 of my money for an emergency. Marrying the love of my life seems like a good reason to spend it.
Tally gasps when I pull out two fifty-dollar bills and hand them to Sandra. “Thank you for waiving the rush fee, ma’am.”
“No worries. You seem like good people.”
Sandra gets the change from a cash box on a side table behind her. Then she walks us through the application process and we give her our real IDs before we fill out the forms.
“You’re here in Vegas for work?” She gestures at our guitar cases leaning against the table.
Tally’s happy expression falters before she catches herself and smiles again. “You could say that we’re traveling musicians. Been on the road for two years. We left home at eighteen.”
“Wow, that must be so exciting!” Sandra says enthusiastically.
“Yeah...” Tally mumbles and stares harder at her form, pretending to have forgotten her own birthday.
My heart aches as I read the disappointment on her face.
We haven’t really talked about it much, but two years of open mic nights in shitty dive bars and afternoon gigs in empty venues have taken a toll on her. I can tell she’s starting to wonder if it’s her fault. If she ain’t good enough.
The truth is, I think it’s me.
I’m holding her back.
We set out to make a name for ourselves, but country duos aren’t popular.
We tried targeting venues frequented by talent scouts and were only approached once.
The guy promptly asked if Tally could ditch her ‘bad backup vocalist’.
I practically had to drag her out of the club before she could smash a bottle over the fella’s head.
I’m the problem.
She’s born to be a star and I’m just a simple man. Lately I’ve been wondering if it’s time to hang up my guitar and leave the limelight to her. I’d be happy to cheer her on from the shadows.
Getting married won’t fix that self doubt inside her or that yearning for the stage, but I want her to know that we’ll always have each other. I’m in this for the long haul, through thick and thin.
“Done,” Tally says and returns the form to Sandra.
I quickly finish my own.
When the clerk hands us our license, her lips purse. “Do you guys have rings for the ceremony?”
Tally and I exchange a glance.
“No, ma’am,” I admit.
Sandra smirks. She palms the little silk pillow with the rings tied on top and offers it to us. “Now you do.”
Tally shakes her head. “But we couldn’t! Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?”
“Oops, they must’ve gotten stolen when I turned around to lock the cash box.” She winks.
“Thank you,” Tally whispers and her lip wobbles as she accepts the rings.
“Why are you doing so much for us?” I ask.
Sandra’s smile turns wry. “To be honest, you kids remind me of my little sister and her fiancé. Illness took her before they got to tie the knot. I want to give other young couples the happy ever after she didn’t live to see.
” She stifles a sob and coughs. “Sorry. Let’s just say I hope my sis is smiling down at us from heaven right now. ”
“I know she is,” I squeeze out.
Sandra blinks away tears. “If you take a right over there and walk straight on for about ten minutes, there’s a jeweler that does engravings.
If you tell him Sandra Jones sent you, he’ll do yours for free.
” She gets up and brushes over the wrinkles in her navy pantsuit. “Time for me to pack up. Good luck.”
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant dressed as Elvis rumbles tiredly. As soon as he finishes the sentence, he shuffles to the front pew and slumps on it.
An abhorrent mash-up of ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ and the bridal march plays while I dip Tally and slant my mouth across hers. I even slip her a little tongue. She giggles and I only let her go when the receptionist—who also acted as our witness—clears her throat.
“Congratulations,” the cool blond says with a hollow smile. She holds up a polaroid camera. “How about you take a picture under the flower arch? Before you ask again, yes, it’s included in the budget wedding package.”
Tally quickly checks her lipstick in a pocket mirror from her purse. I’m glad I got changed before we headed to the tiny twenty-four-hour wedding chapel across from our motel.
But even wearing my best shirt with pearl snap buttons and my favorite jeans, I feel underdressed next to Tally. She looks like an angel in her white summer dress and brown boots and I look–
Well, I look like I grew up on a ranch.
We step under the arch of fake red roses and twinkling string lights.
The polaroid camera gives a click-whirr as the receptionist presses a button.
A photo card slides out. She hands it over to me and I catch a whiff of a faint chemical scent.
It’s still a milky haze instead of a picture.
Together, Tally and I watch colors bloom into ghostly outlines, then figures, then faces.
Into us.
It feels like witnessing a core memory developing in real time. This is the happiest moment of my life and not even the old officiant’s snoring can ruin it.
Tally takes the picture and looks at the receptionist. “Do you have scissors?”
“Uh, I guess in the office?” the woman responds.
“Well, could I borrow ‘em please?” Tally asks.
The disgruntled lady darts into a backroom. She returns with scissors and a bottle of cheap sparkling wine. “Also included in the price. Help yourselves.”
I take the bottle while Tally gets to work with the scissors.
She confidently cuts the picture in half, separating us. I blink at her, a little hurt she’d destroy the precious memory—until she gives me the half with her on it and puts the one with my image in her wallet.
“That way we always have a piece of today. A piece of each other,” my wife explains.
Fuck, I love calling her that.
My wife. My wife. My wife.
Kissing, we stumble to the motel to consummate our marriage. Tally unlocks the door and I brush the curls aside to kiss her neck, making her squirm.
“Rust, we can’t drink warm prosecco on our wedding night!”
I sigh, adjusting my stiff cock. “Alright. I think I saw an ice machine by the reception.”
“Thanks! You’re the best!” she beams.
Tally disappears into the room to grab an ice bucket and presses it against my chest. When I take it, she backs toward the bed, slipping one dress strap off her shoulder.
“You better hurry. I’ll be right here, waitin’ for my husband.”
A shudder runs through me. Hearing her call me husband is the hottest thing ever.
“Yes, ma’am!”
I close the door and sprint across the parking lot to the ice machine. When I’ve filled the bucket and turn around, I notice a town car that wasn’t there before. It would’ve stood out to me. Tinted windows and shiny rims don’t fit into this shady neighborhood.
The driver’s door opens. The first thing I see is a pair of exotic snakeskin boots and the pant leg of a forest green silk suit. A man gets out, eyes shadowed by a dark cowboy hat. He puffs on a cigar, thin lips twisting into a sleazy grin as he approaches.
A shiver creeps along my spine.
Something about the way he walks, jerky and stiff, makes me think he’s not of this world. Like he’s a… thing, wearing the skin of a human.