“You aren’t alone anymore. Neither am I. We may still be in a cage . . . and I know that’s my fault. But we’re together.” I felt a lump rise in my throat and looked away. Damn my feminine emotions.
“Do you know that two is an untouchable number too?” Finn said after several long minutes, his eyes on his hand.
“It is?”
He nodded slowly and traced the dots which now numbered six. “And six is what is known as a perfect number. The sum of its divisors—one, two, and three—all add up to six. The product of its divisors are also six.”
“So what you’re telling me, then, is together we are perfect and untouchable?”
Finn’s eyes shot to mine, and the yearning in his face made me long to be anywhere but where we were. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his, needing his mouth, even if only for a heartbeat. I pulled away immediately, not wanting to draw the eyes of the other passengers.
Finn took the Sharpie from my hand and turned my right arm so my palm was facing up. Then, on my inner wrist, he drew the sign for infinity, a slumbering black eight, about an inch long.
“I’m guessing you’ve always been perfect and untouchable. But now you’re mine. And I’m not giving you up,” Finn said quietly, but his expression was fierce. It sounded to me like he was trying to convince himself.
ALMOST ELEVEN HOURS from the time we ditched Albuquerque, the bus came to a squeaking, shaking, gasping halt outside a huge casino right on Fremont Street, the epicenter of old, downtown Las Vegas, north of the strip. Fremont Street was still glitzy and neon encrusted, but she was showing a little tear in the fishnets, and her pancake makeup didn’t hide her age.
The bus made two more stops, and Finn bribed a little, Hispanic woman on the seat in front of us, in broken Spanish and hand gestures, to buy herself and us water and sandwiches and to keep the considerable change. We hadn’t gotten off the bus a single time in the whole trip, even using the onboard bathroom (ugh!), and I was stiff and shaky-legged as I descended the steps of the bus. I was used to taking buses, but my tour bus was a far cry from the Greyhound that smelled like exhaust, stale cigarettes, and too many people. And we were going to have to get back on another bus to get to LA, a fact that made me groan inwardly and think of the millions of dollars I had made in the last few years with angry longing.
We immediately purchased bus tickets to Los Angeles, fearful of not making it now that we were so close. We were in Vegas. We were here. The original destination. Now, we had just a little bit farther to go, and maybe the craziness would end.
The bus we were on was heading in another direction, but there was a bus to LA at eight o’clock that night. It was three o’clock now. And I needed a dress worthy of the Oscars and a tux worthy of Infinity Clyde. Tall orders when I was trying to keep a low profile, wearing dusty jeans, a ball cap, and granny glasses. Finn had combed his hair with his fingers and tied it back again, the miles and the travel making him look none the worse for wear. In fact, he just looked like Finn—big, blond, and beautiful. It made me want to smile and cry simultaneously.
Finn caught my expression and cuffed my chin. “What?”
“I’m feeling especially Hank Shelby-ish at the moment, Clyde. Mean and ugly. I need a miracle makeover, and I don’t think I can pull one out of a Wally bag.”
“We’ve come this far, Bonnie Rae. We can find a dress in a party town like Vegas with our hands tied behind our backs. We have five hours, and we’re in walking distance of everything. Don’t cry, Hank. We’ll find you a pretty dress.” He winked at me, and I gave him a smile, but Finn had no idea what he was getting into. I decided not to even try to explain.
I hadn’t been to the Oscars before, but I’d been to the Grammys and the CMAs, and it was flash bulbs, air-brushed people, glowing skin, million dollar necklaces, and designer dresses. I would have Finn on my arm, which was better than any diamond bracelet, but I needed to sell a story, a love story, our love story, and I couldn’t do it if I looked like I was hanging on by a thread . . . or wearing threads.
I couldn’t walk into a store and throw around my celebrity status—even if I could, I didn’t have the funds to buy a designer dress. That meant I had to find a store that had a decent selection. I cringed at the thought of going to the Oscars in a sparkly cocktail dress, like I’d just been asked to the Homecoming dance. I knew what I needed, and I didn’t know if I was going to be able to find it, and if I found it, it had to fit perfectly. Finn’s tuxedo had to fit him perfectly too, which might be an ever harder proposition. Finn wasn’t built like the average guy, and though I was secretly thrilled that he wasn’t, it made our mission all the more difficult.
I didn’t want to wander up and down the streets. I was too tired for that. Finn and I found a couple of chairs in the hotel lobby, and I started googling dress shops like a mad woman. I eliminated all dress warehouses because I figured we would need a little more help than a warehouse could provide, and then I nixed hotel boutiques because they were too pricey and too intimate. I was wearing red cowboy boots and a black tank top beneath my fluffy pink coat, and I would draw way too much attention.
I stifled the urge to cry again. I felt hideous, and Google wasn’t helping. I needed a woman’s referral. I needed to ask questions. Somehow, I didn’t think any of the women at the nickel slots behind us would be able to help me.
I looked around desperately, and my eyes landed on the concierge desk. A slight man with glossy, swept-back hair, a dapper bow-tie, and an impeccable suit was busy polishing the counter in front of him. I told Finn to sit tight, and I walked toward the fussy little man, hoping he loved fashion and hated gossip. I almost laughed. There was no such thing. Gossip was the lifeblood of the fashion world. They were as inseparable as Bonnie and Clyde. My stylist knew everything about everyone. And she made sure I knew it too. I had often wondered what she told people about me.