DIVORCE AND DENIAL
SWAMP BOTTOM #6
What happens in Vegas…
Comes back to ruin your life.
One month before her perfect wedding to the man of her dreams, Savannah is slapped with the consequences of the worst decision she’s ever made.
As the clock ticks and the stakes rise, she panics and kidnaps a very pregnant Adelaide, hopping on the first flight to Vegas. The plan is simple—plan a fake last-minute bachelorette party, get a quickie divorce erasing her drunken vows to Mr. Wrong, and return home with no one being the wiser.
There’s just one problem—the men they both love aren’t buying any of it. Racing against time, the sisters are on a mission to right their wrongs before Savannah’s fiancé finds out about her tequila soaked nuptials and Adelaide’s boyfriend locks her away until she gives birth.
Throw in a drunk and slot machine obsessed grandmother, and it’s a recipe for the craziest Dubois adventure yet.
I couldn’t help the loud breath of relief I let out as the tension diffused and the couple dozen pairs of eyes that had observed the exchange with the interest of a blood thirsty mob went back to their own conversations. As I watched Savannah rub Pope’s back in an attempt to calm him, Zep slipped both arms around my waist from behind, settling his hands on top of my swollen belly. I smiled, relaxing for the first time since Heather pulled up in her mobile prison camp, and sent everything down the shitter.
Well, I relaxed until Savannah leaned around Pope and pointed to a plate piled high with food sitting on the opposite end of bar.
“Where did you get that?”
Babs, who’d remained uncharacteristically quiet during the whole exchange with the guys, tossed back a shot of what I assumed to be vodka and picked up a giant toothpick with a dripping, colossal meatball skewered on the end. Just the way she eyed it like she was about to unhinge her jaw and suck the whole thing down in one bite made warning bells on go off inside my head.
Oh, God, no. No, no, no, please, for the love of all that is good and sacred, no.
Offering her a toothy grin, Babs gave the giant meatball a porn star worthy lick from the bottom to the very tip, then smacked her lips. “From buffet.”
Savannah’s face paled in watching the display just before our grandmother’s words registered in her head. “In the hotel? Babs, that’s not free! And you don’t make a plate and take it with you. It’s a buffet, not fucking h’ors d’oeuvres.”
“Then shouldn’t leave little plate by door.”
Did I say that the tension had been diffused? Apparently, it was just getting started.
Savannah all but fell out of her chair, grabbing Pope’s arm for support as she snatched the plate away and held it high above her head. “You’re a kleptomaniac.”
“Okay,” Pope said, taking the plate out of Savannah’s hands and dropping it back onto the bar. Pinning her arms by her side, he kissed her temple. “What’s done is done. No harm no foul. We all just need to get some rest. We’ll have clearer heads tomorrow.”
Wasting no time, Babs retrieved the plate and wrapped an arm around it like she was the guardian of congealed meat. “One problem.”
“Jesus, what now?” Savannah groaned.
Taking a bite out of the meatball, Babs held tightly to the toothpick in her hands and pointed what was left at each of one of us as if ticking off a hit list. “Six people, one bed. I okay to sleep with McHandcuff, Clam Digger, and Side Piece, but you two take floor.” Giving Zep an exaggerated wink, she took another sloppy bite off the ball of meat that now hung by a thread and a prayer and grinned.
“Oh God, I’m gonna have nightmares now,” Zep whispered into my hair.
He wasn’t the the only one.
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