Pretty Little Secrets

Aria pressed her lips together, staring at the fuzzy green felt on the table. Since there were no windows in this place, she had no concept of what time it was, but she and Hallbjorn had made the rounds of the blackjack, poker, and craps tables, sometimes winning a little, but mostly losing. It had been a lot of fun—Aria had worried about Hallbjorn being opposed to gambling, saying it was wasteful or that the chips were made out of non-biodegradable materials, but he’d seemed just as into it as she was, using his own savings to play the tables. But they were down a hundred dollars—money they couldn’t afford to lose.

“Really, we should be done. We need money for our marriage license and your visa.” Aria looked again for a clock on the wall before she remembered there wasn’t one. “Besides, I bet it’s getting late.”

“But I have a really good feeling about this.” Hallbjorn gathered the remaining chips in his palms. “One more on number seventeen. And if I don’t win, I’ll figure out how to get the money back. I’ll work washing dishes.”

He plunked down all of the chips they had left—two hundred dollars’ worth—onto number seventeen yet again. Aria shut her eyes, not able to watch the spinning wheel.

“All bets, all bets,” the croupier called. Suddenly, Aria’s skin began to prickle. She looked over her shoulder, feeling someone’s eyes on her back. But everyone was entranced in their own games. Even the obsequious cocktail waitresses were preoccupied.

The wheel made clack sounds as it spun. It began to slow, and Aria heard the ball plunk into a slot. Hallbjorn grabbed her hand. “See! I told you!”

Aria looked down and gasped. The little ball had landed on seventeen.

Everyone at the table began to applaud. “Big winner!” the croupier said. An old lady in a mink stole winked at Hallbjorn from across the roulette table.

The croupier pushed a pile of chips toward Hallbjorn, and then another. Some of the chips were black, one-hundred-dollar denominations, but nine were blue, the likes of which Aria hadn’t seen before. She turned one of them over and gasped. One thousand dollars, it said around the perimeter. Hallbjorn had won $9,800 in just one spin.

She scooped up Hallbjorn’s winnings and raked them into the little plastic bucket that had BORGATA emblazoned on the side. “We are done gambling for tonight,” she murmured to Hallbjorn. “There’s no way we’re losing this amount of money.”

“How are you going to spend it, honey?” the old lady in the mink stole cooed. “A swanky vacation with your girl? A new motorcycle?”

Aria wondered what they would do with the money, too—since they were getting married, technically it would be theirs. It would certainly pay for quite a few months’ rent on an apartment. Maybe it would even solve his legal problems in Iceland.

Hallbjorn grinned at the old lady. “I know exactly what I’m going to spend it on. It’s going to a good cause.”

He grabbed the bucket from Aria and strode toward the neon-lit cashier’s booth in the corner. Aria trudged behind, all of her excitement suddenly drained. He was giving it to a good cause?

She caught up with him just as Hallbjorn was passing the bucket to a dishwater-blond cashier. “So, um, you’re donating the money to Save the Whales or World Wildlife Fund, huh?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even.

Hallbjorn leaned against the counter as the cashier tallied up the chips. “Not that kind of good cause. I’m buying you an engagement ring.”

“What?” Aria stepped back. It felt like she’d just gotten an electric shock. “Why would you do that?”

He smiled. “Because you deserve it. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Hallbjorn signed the paperwork at the cashier’s stand, pocketed the cash, and dragged Aria across the casino floor, zigzagging around a couple of showgirls, dumpy tourists with fanny packs, and a group of skanky-looking girls at the bar until they came to an archway that said SHOPS in glittering gold letters. The lights in all of the stores blazed brightly, and the shop doors were open wide. After passing a Godiva chocolatier, a place that sold tuxedos and upscale gowns, and a vintage wine boutique that was holding a tasting by the register, Hallbjorn turned into a jewelry store called Hawthorne & Sons that had a lozenge-sized diamond in the window.

“You don’t have to get me a ring,” Aria insisted.

“Of course I do,” Hallbjorn called over his shoulder. “We’re getting married. The man has to buy the woman a ring.”

“I’m not that traditional,” Aria said, but suddenly, a little thrill went through her. It would be nice to have an engagement ring, something to spin around her finger in class. It would make the wedding seem so much more official.

The salesgirl, who barely looked older than Aria, glided over to them. “Looking for something special?”

“We need an engagement ring.” Hallbjorn gestured to Aria.

“Certainly,” the salesgirl said brightly, and brought out a tray of diamond solitaires. Each was sparklier than the last. Aria was kind of afraid to touch them.

“This one is a good value.” The salesgirl pointed to a huge round diamond on a thick white-gold band. “You get maximum bling for minimum price. All girls like bling,” she added to Hallbjorn with a tight smile.

Aria held out her finger, and the girl slid on the ring. It had some heft to it. She spread out her fingers and turned her hand this way and that, watching as the diamond threw prisms all over the room. The ring wasn’t that much different than the sparkler Jessica DiLaurentis wore. Spencer’s mom had a ring that looked just like this, too. But did she really want to look like someone’s mom?

Hallbjorn cleared his throat uncomfortably and made a face, like he smelled something bad. “Aria, I don’t think we should be supporting the diamond trade.”

“Agreed.” She wriggled the ring past her knuckle and handed it back to the salesgirl. Then she slid off the stool and peered around the shop, her eyes sweeping over the cultured pearls, sapphire pendants, and pink diamond tennis bracelets. There had to be something in this place that didn’t scream I’m Rich, I’m Suburban, and I’m Totally Boring.

And then she saw it.

Sitting in a display case in the corner was a thick white-gold ring carved to look like a coiled snake eating its tail. Sapphires formed its two beady eyes, and bands of onyx made up its striped scales. Aria darted across the room and pressed her face to the glass.

“Can I see this one?” she asked, pointing.

The salesgirl scrunched up her face. “That’s not an engagement ring.”

“Who cares?” Hallbjorn strolled over to Aria and peered at it, too. “That thing is awesome. And look! The gems were mined according to fair-trade laws!”

It felt like fate. The ring slid on Aria’s finger as easily as the glass slipper fit Cinderella’s foot. The snake head peered at her, its sapphire eyes glittering both menacingly and protectively. It seemed like a talisman, a good luck charm. As long as Aria wore this ring, nothing bad would happen to her. This snake would make sure her marriage to Hallbjorn was happy. It would ward off bad luck and evil spirits.

It would make sure A never, ever came back.

Chapter 10

I Do

“You have the most amazing skin,” a makeup artist named Patricia, who had a bunch of tattoos and smelled overwhelmingly of Head & Shoulders shampoo, said to Aria as she dusted some powder on her cheeks. “I hardly have to use anything on you at all.”

“Be sure to make my eyes smoky and dramatic, though,” Aria reminded her. “I want to look awesome for photos.”

“You got it.” Patricia rummaged around in her case. “So you’re getting married, huh?”

“That’s right,” Aria answered, puckering her lips for some gloss.

“Are you excited?”

“Definitely.” She shook her shoulders, feeling a little shiver.

It was the following afternoon, and Hallbjorn had surprised Aria yet again by booking her an in-room massage—with eco-friendly oils, of course—a visit from Patricia the makeup artist, and a professional blowout by Lars, who wore the tightest pants Aria had ever seen. The hotel room had been transformed into a salon, with Adele playing in the background, cucumber sandwiches and a pitcher of mimosas on the tray in the corner, tons of gossip magazines stacked on the bed, and the smell of massage oils lingering in the air. Hallbjorn had disappeared as soon as Patricia and Lars had come through the door, saying he’d wait to see Aria’s transformation when it was finished. Aria had taken a shot of him with her digital camera just as he left the room. She was trying to document everything today, from Patricia’s messy makeup bag to the seven earrings snaking up Lars’s ears, not wanting to forget a single detail.

“You’re going to be such a cute bride,” Patricia murmured now. “What are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

Aria nodded noncommittally, not wanting to say she was only seventeen. Her age was kind of an issue—when the porter had delivered the marriage license paperwork this morning, Aria indeed needed a parent’s signature to allow the state of New Jersey to marry them. She’d forged Ella’s name and included her own cell phone number, figuring she’d pretend she was Ella if anyone from the courthouse called to check.

She glanced at her cell phone on the bureau, feeling a guilty twinge. Should she call Ella and tell her what she was about to do? Or maybe she should call one of her old friends. It felt weird going through with this without anyone knowing. But this was between her and Hallbjorn, and the last thing she needed was someone trying to talk her out of it.

Soon enough, Patricia had completed Aria’s makeup and Lars had blown out Aria’s locks to perfection. She shut herself in the bathroom, slid the dress she’d found yesterday over her head, and stared in the mirror at the results. She’d fixed the rip at the neckline, and the dress fit perfectly at her waist and hips. With her straight hair and smoky eyes, she looked like a movie-star version of herself.

When she glided out of the bathroom and spread out her arms in a Ta-da! pose, Patricia whooped. “You look amazing.”

“Stunning,” Lars seconded, leaning coquettishly against the bureau. “You have your old, new, borrowed, and blue stuff, right?”

Aria looked at them blankly. Patricia and Lars both put their hands to their mouths. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue?” Lars repeated. “You’ve never heard that? A bride wears each on her wedding day! It’s good luck!”

Aria had heard it, but she’d just forgotten. She peered down at her dress. “Well, this is old,” she volunteered. “But it’s also new . . . to me.”

“Here’s something borrowed.” Lars slid a leather bracelet off his wrist. It had spikes on it and said BADASS, but it was just the right rock-star touch.

“And wait a minute . . .” Patricia darted into the hall and returned with a bunch of violets.

“Where’d you get those?” Lars placed his hand saucily onto one hip.