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Chapter Ten
Freedom
I can feel his entire body tense up the moment we step inside the Bellagio. I mean, if we’re going to gamble, we might as well pick a big one, right? The sounds of bells and sirens fills the large entry and people mill about, drinks in hand.
“I’m not sure about this,” he huffs, trying to pull his hand from my own.
Unfortunately for him, my grasp is as tight as Kenna Johnson’s skirt in French class, and there’s no way he’s getting out of my grip without Vaseline. “It’s gonna be fun, Sammy. Come on!”
I continue to pull him along, while he continues to huff and puff behind me, which I ignore, of course. Samuel Grayson wouldn’t know fun if it threw on a brightly colored sombrero and started to do the Macarena in front of him. He’d just stand there in his tighty-whities (confirmed he wears them, by the way) and his starched white undershirt, wearing one of those neckties…
Okay, I kinda like the neckties.
A lot.
But you understand what I’m saying, right? It’s practically my solemn duty to show him what fun is. We’re in the land of sin, after all. Gambling. Showgirls. Liquor. It’s time to set those tighty-whities on fire.
We stop at the first machine that’s open, and I fish a handful of bills from my cleavage.
“Jesus, Freedom. Did you just take that from your…” he says, waving his hand in front of his chest.
“Where do you think I keep money in this dress, Sammy?”
He swallows hard, his eyes dropping to the V at my chest. “I… Well, I wasn’t… I didn’t really give it any thought.”
Unfolding the money, I slide my boob five dollar bill into the machine. “It’s no biggie, really. I mean, my keycard is on the other side,” I tell him, as I bet a series of pennies and press the button.
I can feel his presence beside me as I watch the numbers spin and eventually stop in a line. I didn’t win anything, so I up my ante and spin again. Samuel doesn’t say a word, just watches as I lose a few rounds of penny slots. Then, Lady Luck finally lands on my side and I hit a whopping fourteen dollars and eleven cents. “Woohoo!” I celebrate, as if I just won a million dollars, dancing around where I stand.
Glancing his way, his face looks tight. Annoyed. “What’s wrong? Why do you look constipated?”
Horrified, he says, “I do not. I can’t believe the number of men standing around watching you.”
When I glance behind me, I find a couple of guys smiling over their beer bottles, watching my celebratory victory dance. “Those guys?”
“Jesus, Freedom, keep it down. They’ll hear you.”
Shrugging, I turn back to my machine. “So what? It’s not like I’m going home with any of them. I’m married, remember?” I say, my voice dripping with sugar.
Samuel clears his throat. “Trust me, I remember.”
My heart stops in my chest, and my eyes turn back to his. “You do?”
“Well, no. I don’t remember remember, but I do recall the fact we…got married,” he replies, the last two words barely audible.
“We did,” I tell him proudly, slapping him on the chest. And to really annoy him, I reach up and straighten his impeccable tie. No, it doesn’t need adjusting, but for some reason, I seem to really like touching it. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s win some cash,” I state, taking another of my boob bills and placing it in the machine next to mine. “Mama needs some new shoes.”
Samuel seems lost, like he doesn’t know what to do. Or he doesn’t want to touch it. Either way, I offer, “Need some help?” as I push the button on my own machine.
“No, I know what to do,” he says with another long glance down at the buttons. Finally, after what feels like a decade of waiting, Samuel takes a seat on the stool and pushes the button.
“You know, Sammy, I was thinking, when we get back to our room, I’m going to give you a massage.”
He’s silent, so when I press my button for another round, I turn his way. He’s pale in color, yet his cheeks are flushed with red. He also looks to be sweating a little as he reaches up and loosens his necktie.
“You okay? You’re not having a stroke, are you? Because I gotta be honest, I haven’t renewed my CPR card since high school. We had to take the classes as part of Home Ec junior year, but I let mine lapse, so if you need CPR, I’m going to have to get one of those dudes over there to do it,” I tell him, throwing my thumb over my shoulder to the small group of admirers.
“I’m not having a stroke,” he assures me, his voice deep and crackly.
