Chapter 2 A Maenad’s Tale
A MAENAD’S TALE
LANEY
TWELVE HOURS EARLIER
“Delaney Fisher. I don’t care if we haven’t seen each other naked since we were four and took bubble baths in your mom’s pink tub. If you don’t get out of the bathroom and show me that dress, I’m coming in after you.”
Still gazing doubtfully into the bathroom mirror of what had to be the smallest hotel room in Las Vegas, I rolled my eyes.
“Megs, you are such a liar. For one, you still bust into my apartment at all hours of the day and night, so you’ve seen me naked at least twice this year alone.
But I doubt your bridesmaids want the privilege.
Or the rest of the city, which is what’s going to happen if I actually wear this dress in public. ”
On the other side of the bathroom door, my best friend huffed. “That’s what you think. No one in this room or the rest of Vegas is going to care if they see your cooch, so get out of there and show us the damn dress.”
I turned back and forth in the mirror one last time.
The truth was, I was a little embarrassed for anyone to see me, much less my best friend who had been trying to “slutty up” my look since we had entered puberty.
Megan and her sorority sisters-cum-bridesmaids had taken one look at the clothes I’d brought for the weekend, immediately pooled their own wardrobes together, and shoved me into the bathroom with the group favorite to change into.
Considering the fact that the dress was about two sizes smaller than my best friend and had clearly been hemmed for my five-foot-two frame, I was starting to suspect the whole thing was a setup.
Megan had never intended to let me wear any of my own clothes on our last night in Vegas.
She had been saving this audacious frock for the moment I couldn’t say no.
Okay, so I wasn’t a Vegas kind of girl. Or a green dress kind of girl. More specifically, I wasn’t a this-green-dress kind of girl. Chunky cardigans, carpenter jeans, and a great pair of boots? Loved them. Stocked them. Sold them in the little shop my family owned in Seattle.
There wasn’t a green dress in the place.
“Laney!” Megan shouted in a voice that was already quaking from an extra glass of champagne. “I’m the bride, it’s my bachelorette party, and the bride demands that you at least show us all the dress before you wimp out of wearing it.”
“Just for that, I’m staying in here another twenty minutes,” I called back.
I was lying. I knew my best friend, and she really would barge in here with her three other friends even if I was sitting on the toilet for its intended purpose.
With a deep breath, I exited the bathroom into a room full of twenty-somethings all wearing their Saturday-night-on-The-Strip best—that is, dresses that were either far too tight, far too short, or far too both.
Every single one of them squealed.
“You look like a literal sex goddess.” Megan grabbed my hand and spun me around in front of the mirrors covering the closets. “Girls, doesn’t she look like sin incarnate?”
Compared to the other bridesmaids’ attire, the dress was almost conservative, a silk halter that tied around my neck with a whisper-thin strap, then flowed down to my knees.
The color, a muted emerald that matched my eyes, was practically sepia-toned next to their Barbie-neon pinks, blues, and reds.
Then I took a step, revealing the slit that just barely revealed the shadow of my hip bone. And immediately stepped back when all four women watching me whistled like cartoon dogs.
“I knew you’d fill that shit out.” Megan turned to the bridesmaid named Madison. Or Reagan. Or was that one Kennedy? They were all named after presidents, but I kept mixing them up. “Doesn’t she look incredible, Maddie? I can’t believe you’re actually wearing it.”
“I can’t believe I can’t wear underwear with it.” I pulled at the skirt, wishing I could pin the sliced fabric closed. Do something to cover up. “Megs, this is indecent.”
“Correction: it’s hot as fuck. But don’t pull on the silk; it’ll wrinkle.
” Megan came to stand next to me, adjusting her own much shorter and yet somehow more reasonable white and silver dress, topped with a tiara and a sash that said “I’m the Bride” in big glittery letters.
In case anyone couldn’t tell. “You’re supposed to feel dangerous.
Sexy. Like someone who doesn’t spend every waking moment worrying about abandoned dissertations, profit margins, or wool percentages. ”
I sighed. My friend definitely had me pegged. Two years ago, I’d put my dissertation on archaic Greek archaeology aside to take care of Mom when she got sick again. The cancer stole her away, but I was determined not to let it take away her store too.
Now, the woman in the mirror was a far cry from the rumpled grad student or the harried shopkeeper.
My brown hair fell in waves instead of being tossed into its usual practical bun, arranged loosely over one shoulder like one of the statues I’d seen in Athens.
My eyes looked bigger, brighter, rimmed with black, my lips were lush, full, and painted, and the simple gold jewelry I always wore somehow brought out the sun-kissed tones in my skin more than it usually did.
And then there was the dress. All together, I looked like… Not Laney Fisher.
Whoever she was, she made me nervous.
Well, it was just for one night. And it seemed to be making my best friend happy.
“Come on, girls.” Megan grabbed my hand. “It’s our last night in Vegas, and we’re going to get Laney laid.”
I reared. “What? No. Megs, this is your bachelorette party. Getting laid is not—”
“Stop. When was the last time you went on a date?”
Every painted face in the room turned for the answer.
Which I did not provide simply because Megan already knew the gory details.
Derek and I had been together for eight years, going from high school sweethearts to the biggest crash on the highway when my mother got sick.
Turned out the “love of my life” wasn’t interested in a girlfriend who spent more time at the hospital than with him, even if her mother did have terminal cancer.
He was, however, interested in one of the cute medical assistants who took my dying mom’s vitals each morning.
And here I’d thought he was just that dedicated to my family.
I wished I could say good riddance and move on with a rebound and a new boyfriend. Unfortunately, grieving the end of an eight-year relationship along with the death of my mother turned my lady parts into the Mojave Desert.
“Laney?”
I turned from the mirror when Megan tugged on my hand again.
Oh, no. I knew that look. The big, brown-eyed, puppy-dog expression that my best friend specialized in whenever she wanted something specific. I was powerless against that look. Everyone was.
“Laney,” she said again. “You’re the best friend, the best maid of honor a girl could ever want.
You got me the Backstreet Boys at the Sphere.
Cirque de Soleil and Magic Mike. I’ve seen enough six packs and swagger this weekend to last me a decade.
So, tonight is about thanking you because I love you to the freaking moon and back. ”
“Awwwwww,” came the presidential chorus behind her.
I blinked back tears. For all her bossiness, this was why Megan and I had stayed friends literally all our lives. We knew exactly what to say and when to say it. When to push each other and when to love.
“I love you too.” I accepted a tight hug. “Which is why—”
“Which is why you’re going to let me pull you out of your shell tonight.”
And we were back in push mode.
Megan waved her hand to usher me and the rest of her bridesmaids toward the door. “Tonight is about this hot bitch. Not about Derek the Douchenozzle, or her absentee dad, or her mom’s failing business—”
“Thanks for the reminders,” I muttered.
“It’s about dancing, drinking, and finding Laney Fisher the best eight inches Vegas has to offer. You and Derek broke up over a year ago. Your vagina probably has cobwebs.”
“Ew!” said the bridesmaid named Reagan. “Can you imagine dust bunnies down there?”
“You know that’s not the way vaginas work, right?” I decided not to mention the pretty purple vibrator that had been my sole nocturnal companion for the past twelve months. Reagan, much like her namesake, didn’t seem like the type to frequent sex shops.
The door shut behind us on a riot of cheers for my vagina’s right to sex, which quickly gave way to a debate about which nightclub we were going to.
As we waited for the elevator, I caught one last look at myself in another mirror.
Okay, so Megan was right. Not Laney Fisher was a legitimate smoke show.
Maybe Megan was right. Maybe I did need this.
Maybe I needed one night to ignore my family’s struggling store, my father’s hollow eyes, and the fact that I was twenty-seven years old and felt twice my age.
Maybe it was time to open myself up to a connection that went beyond romance novels and the purple battery-operated device I had lovingly named Rodney.
Even if it was just for one night.
The name of the club should have been the first red flag. If the last few nights had been any indicator, the more a Vegas venue leaned into Greco-Roman motifs, the more it turned into the hedonistic playground everyone believed the city to be.
Naxos was no exception. Once the bouncer let us in and we paid the truly astronomical cover charge (why did every club in Las Vegas cost fifty dollars to enter?), we were greeted with bass so loud I felt it through my toes.
Bodies writhed in cages and on a dance floor the size of an airplane hangar, and strobing lights split the world into fragments that could be put back together later.
It smelled of sweat, spilled drinks, and expensive cologne.
Everyone was here to make bad decisions, and not a soul was trying to hide it.