Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`
The first time I gambled for a man’s life, I lost and he was shot. And that was shit. And I feel sorry about it to this day. I don’t know what I was expecting or even thinking to be honest but it seemed like something that was important not to refuse.
Roll the dice, and save this guy who was tied up to the chair. Don’t roll the dice and walk away and he dies. Dies, dice — they even sound the same. Full disclosure, I had some skin in this game because the tied-up guy and I had just married and it even though what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I didn’t think walking out on him tied-up in Vegas was cool. But hey ho, that’s exactly what ended up happening. Gamble a 4, roll the dice, get a 2 and boom! One dead just-married guy. One hell of a wedding weekend.
Beneath the plane’s wings earlier, Vegas had presented its usual dusty, weird self. Like the drunk that she is, the city doesn’t come up well in daylight. Bitter and withered and reeking of loss, but we didn’t have time to care about that, we just got the hell to the hotel so we could hit the tables.
It wasn’t until I saw the note on the suite door that I figured something was up. “FUCK YOU” in bold type. (Calibri, nice. This smooth asshole had seriously woke font style I’ll give her that). “Her”? Yep. But more on that in a bit.
Husband-to-be pulled the note off the door, laughed (awkwardly the more I think about it) and shoved it in his pocket. The hallway was empty, silent. Not even a maid’s cart, or congealed room service plates in view. Having had more than a few drinks on the plane I didn’t give the FUCK YOU much more thought, instead I couldn’t believe how big the suite was. It’s always a dilemma when travelling — how much do you shell out for a room you hope not to spend too much time in. But we were in love, he was loaded and I figured a substantial amount of fucking would need to take place in there for him to feel like it was a good investment. Me? Well, it didn’t matter what I thought.
Next minute, or at least that’s how it seemed, husband-to-be was on the phone in the bathroom speaking low and slow. Why would he need to make a call? He had insisted this be a “turn the phone off” weekend to celebrate the moment we were to pledge our troths in front of Elvis and embark on the happiest life EVER together.
Why the fuck was he on the phone right now? I mean shouldn’t we have been christening that gigantic bed? I had new undies on. New bra. Not cheap and now maximum impact had been wasted. Ugh whatever. I went to take in the view. Usual Strip, slowly starting to twinkle as the day came to an end.
Time to frock up, and get out there. If he wasn’t going to take advantage of the new undies then I wasn’t about to wait until he got off the phone. Dress on, “see you downstairs” whispered through the bathroom door and I left. Next time I saw him he was gagged, crying and minutes away from getting his head blown off. Like I said, brutal weekend that could have been entirely avoided if I hadn’t bought the damn lingerie from that stupid fucking bitch back home.
To be continued….