5. Sean
SEAN
S cott insists we opt for the hidden elevator rather than navigating down the Grand Staircase.
Reaching the casino level, we stumble and weave our way past the noisy Sportsbook on our right.
Cheers of bettors rooting for their teams compete with dinging slot machines and raucous table games on our left.
“Does the constant … ummm … excitement of Vegas … ummm … ever get old?” Lowri asks.
The alcohol’s getting to her now.
“Sure. That’s when I head to one of my other homes in Maui or Paris,” I say, speaking slowly, trying not to sound as drunk as I probably am.
“Wow. Ummm. That must be nice.” She giggles.
“You could go with me next time,” I say between hiccups.
She plants a big kiss on my cheek, and says, “That would be marvelous, darling.”
I can’t help laughing at her drunken imitation of an old movie star.
As we near the area with the Casino Stage, Lowri trips.
Fortunately, she falls toward me, resting her palms against my chest to steady herself as she says, “Does all the clinking and dinging of the … whatchamacallits … make you happy? Does it remind you of the mooooneeeey you’re maaaaking? ” She laughs.
“You mean slot machines.”
“Yeah, those.”
“I grew up here. It’s normal to me. Anything else would be boring.”
“Your noooormal is straaaange. Hey, look over there. They’re having fun,” she says, tilting her head toward the exuberant crowd standing in front of the Casino Stage. They’re dancing to the music blasting from nearby speakers.
“What’s thaaaat above them?” she asks, pointing to the sign hanging over the elevated stage, which reads,
Couples Needed
Pose for Wedding Photos and Set a New World Record
I needed more food today. My head’s spinning as I answer slowly, “I don’t remember the details. It’s something about setting a Guinness World Record. I think it’s for the most photos at the same place on the same night,” I say.
“There muuuust be two or three huuuundred couples. And look at their outfits. Feathers. Spandex, Weeeedding dresses. Tuxes. I loooove Vegas. You can beeee … ummm … any fantasy you waaaant. Noooo one … umm … will juuuudge you.” She hiccups.
“Right. Weeee better hurry. Weeee don’t … want to beeee … stuck in … this crowd.” Damn. I’m slurring my words now too.
“Waaaait. It looks fun. I’ve always waaaanted to … ummm … set a world record … for something,” she says as she tugs on my arm, pulling me toward the line of people near the registration table at the base of the stage.
“No way in hell am I waiting in that line for a photo.” That’s better. No slurring. I’m okay.
“Pleeeease. Do it for meeee.” She pouts as she bats her lengthy eyelashes.
“What the hell. Follow me,” I insist, leading her to the VIP area and bumping into a few obstacles along the way.
When the security guard recognizes me, he immediately escorts us to a registration desk with more privacy. It’s one of the perks of owning the place.
Lowri asks the woman in charge a bunch of questions. I’m not sure they make sense, but I’m not paying attention. I tune back in when I hear her ask, “Can we … ummm … have our photo … ummm … taaaaken?”
The woman says, “Of course.”
“Are the other couples married? They have flowers and … ummm … stuff. We’re missing … everything. Is that a problem?”
“No. We have what you need.”
Lowri turns to me practically jumping with excitement. I barely keep her from falling over in her deadly high heels as she begs, “Let’s do this. Pleeeease.”
The last thing I want to do is dress up with props for fake photos, but why not, if it makes her happy. “Okay, if it’s important to you.” I cover my mouth with my suit sleeve, suppressing yet another hiccup, and turn to the woman, asking, “What’s next?”
A server approaches, handing us flutes of champagne as the woman says, “Give me your IDs. Then you’ll sign extra forms for the world record.”
Handing over my driver’s license, I say, “Deliver the photos to my apartment.”
Recognition crosses her face as she looks at my ID. “Yes, of course, Mr. Cartwright. We’ll have everything sent to you in the morning.”
As we sip champagne, the woman takes care of the paperwork.
After that’s done, she asks, “Lowri, which color bouquet would you prefer? We have roses in yellow, red, white, and pink.”
Lowri stares at the flowers with a dreamy look in her mesmerizing eyes.
“Sean, wouldn’t the whiiiite roses … ummm … look great with my blue dress?” Lowri asks, pointing a shaky finger to a small bouquet.
“Of course.” I’m not sure why it matters, but Lowri being happy makes me happy.
The woman says, “Time to pick your rings. We have an assortment of styles and sizes for you to choose from.”
“Do we need rings?” I ask between large sips of champagne. Why does another drink sound appealing right now?
Lowri pats my chest, laughing. “Of course, we do, silly. It’s … ummm … part of the … wedding theme for … the … photos.”
She steals my glass of champagne and finishes it off. Hers is already empty.
“Why not? Which one is your favorite?” I ask, struggling to control my speech.
“You should … umm … pick mine, and I’ll … umm … pick yours.”
“You neeeed the biggest one,” I say pointing to a ring with a large pear-shaped crystal in the center and baguettes on each side. “How muuuuch is that one?” I’m slurring again. No more champagne.
“A hundred and fifty,” the woman says smiling.
“A bargain. Weeee’ll take it along with whichever ring Lowri picks for meeee.”
When it’s our turn, we hold the handrails to steady ourselves and climb the steps onto the stage.
It’s decorated with pedestals of white roses and greenery surrounding an arch in the center.
Arriving at the rose-covered arch, we attempt to look happy but serious as we pose with an actor dressed as a minister.
We’re both fighting off snickers at this point.
The photographer says, “Smile for the camera,” as the actor plays his role, asking, “Lowri, do you take this man to be your husband?”
“Yeeessss.” She laughs.
“Sean, do you take this woman to be your wife?”
“Why not.” I shrug, smiling for the photo.
The actor says, “Place the rings on each other’s ring finger.”
Between giggles and hiccups, we do as he instructs.
“Congratulations, you may kiss the bride now.”
Finally, the good part. Leaning in, I pull her close and plant my lips on her warm, soft mouth.
She throws her arms around my neck as she parts her lips, inviting my tongue to tangle with hers.
A zap of electricity travels from my head to my toes as she moans.
The world around us becomes fuzzy as we lose ourselves in each other.
Grasping the back of her head, I pull her even closer, needing more.
A woman coughs and taps on Lowri’s shoulder, breaking the moment and bringing our kiss to an end sooner than I wish. The woman announces, “It’s time to throw the bouquet.”
Lowri turns her back to the crowd on the casino floor and heaves the flowers over her shoulder.
As we leave with our souvenir rings, Lowri says, “That was soooo muuuuch fun. You knoooow what we should … ummm … doooo next?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Let’s skip the Oooomeeeega and go straaaaight to the honeymooooon. Okay?”
Thank fuuuck. Mission accomplished. She tossed our no-repeat rule out with the bouquet.
“Absolutely! Whatever my beautiful bride wants, she gets,” I say, keeping the joke going and moving the evening toward my bedroom.
What could be better than a honeymoon without having to actually get married?
First, we’ll sober up over a late dinner. Otherwise, we’ll be too drunk to enjoy our fake wedding night.