Page 63 of Fake Dark Vows
She was quiet during the flight, head tipped back, and eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, her fingers splayed on her lap as if the diamond was weighing her hand down. I left her to her thoughts. We both want to get through this as quickly and painlessly as possible, although I’m certain the million dollars I promised to transfer into her father’s account will help somewhat.
“Come on.” I offer her a hand off the bed, and she takes it, smoothing the covers when she stands.
“Where are we going?”
“Where do you think?”
The slot machines are loud. Tacky. All jangling tunes, coins being pumped into trays, and bright, flickering buttons encouraging people to try their luck at winning their fortune. You can tell the die-hard gamblers, the ones that have been there all day, by the trash in the can next to their seats, the pale skin, and the twitch in the corners of their eyes.
Rose soaks it all up, imprinting it in her mind.
“Ready to try your luck?”
She shakes her head. “Later. There’s too much to see.”
She stands in the middle of the grand lobby and turns three-sixty, staring at the elaborate ceiling, the columns, the gilt statues, the concierge and bellboys in their peacock outfits.
We wander outside to the Grand Canal where a gondola glides lazily by and underneath a golden bridge.
“Can we get a gondola?” she asks, like a child asking for ice cream.
She is oblivious to the photos that have been snapped of the two of us together over the past few days. She doesn’t notice people staring at her, judging her hair, her clothes, the ring on her finger. She is like a goldfish taken out of a bowl and tossed into the ocean, blissfully unaware of the sharks heading her way, and I have the overwhelming urge to protect her.
She wouldn’t stand a chance in a room full of people like my mother and Damon with their sharp tongues and their privileged outlooks. She was right to ask what’s next. Her life will never be the same after this, and I feel responsible for her in the same way a rescuer feels responsible for the life of the person they saved.
The gondola makes me feel queasy, but I try to focus on Rose’s ever-changing expressions. She would make a terrible liar, and I remind myself not to let her get sucked into a poker game in the casino later. She points out the landmarks decorating the skyline, the aerial roller coasters, the pyramids, and the glass towers, and I try to figure out how best to let Rose Carter down gently when this is all over and the backlash over the leaked images dies down.
“What would you like to do while we’re here?”
She raises her hand and examines the diamond on her finger. She doesn’t realize it, but she unwittingly chose a diamond from the cheaper end of the range, and I don’t know if that was instinct borne from a lifetime of being frugal, or if it was really her preference.
“Can we see a show?”
I slide out my phone and scroll through a list of resident artists.
“What is it?” she asks.
I shrug. “I don’t recognize half the names.”
“That’s because you live under a rock. Tell me some names you do recognize.”
“Adele.” She shakes her head. “Mariah Carey.”
“You listen to Mariah Carey?” She grins at me.
“I never said I listened to her. Lionel Richie?”
“Better. I love 70s music.”
I park the information for now—too much and I’ll start to form an attachment to the real Rose when I need to focus on the Rose wearing the ring. “How about this then? Rod Stewart.”
“Yes!” She sits forward so abruptly the gondola rocks, and I cling to the side. “Can we go see him? Please? My dad used to listen to his records all the time when I was a little girl.”
I wait for the boat to settle, swallowing bile.
“Do you always suffer from motion sickness, Brandon?” She furrows her brow.
“It’s the concussion. We’ll go and see Rod Stewart.”