When Alexis White awoke on New Year’s Day, sometime in the afternoon, her head ached but it wasn’t the worst hangover she’d ever had. She was thirsty and needed to pee, so she rolled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom.
She plopped down on the toilet, and the bathroom was small enough that she was able to reach over and pour a glass of water at the same time. As she sat there simultaneously relieving and rehydrating herself, she began to mentally reconstruct the previous night.
* * *
Jodie and Miss White had dinner at a steakhouse and headed to the bar, which was absolutely packed. It took forever to get a drink; the opening act was halfway through their set by the time Miss White emerged from the scrum with white wine for Jodie and a double rye for herself.
Miss White scrutinized the musicians onstage. It was an acoustic duo — two girls in their mid- to late twenties — who to Miss White’s eye had a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look. They had completely failed to engage the attention of the crowd, who were pretty much drowning them out with conversation; it was impossible to tell if they were even any good or not. They looked relieved when they finally finished their last song and slinked offstage to a tepid smattering of applause.
Jodie had quickly finished her wine and wanted another, but Miss White despaired of ever making it back to the bar. Instead she decided that they would secure a spot close to the stage, just in case the headliner turned out to be any good.
Slowly an audience coalesced around them. By this point it was after 10, and the New Year’s Eve-inspired energy in the room was palpable. People were ready to have a good time, and as time passed and the band failed to appear, the energy turned to an edgy restlessness. Miss White glanced over at Jodie, who looked pouty and annoyed — the music playing on the sound system was good, and she would have liked to dance, but there was no room to move — then back at the stage, as if that would help somehow.
Finally the house music went down and a spotlight appeared on the stage. A smallish, dark-haired girl in a flower-print dress appeared, and from the first chord she strummed on her guitar, she had the crowd completely in the palm of her hand.
Through the course of the song the rest of the band appeared — a bassist, a drummer, and two backup singers — but Miss White’s eyes remained riveted on the singer, who had a luscious body in addition to a powerful voice and a charismatic stage presence. It wasn’t until the third song that she realized one of the backup singers looked just like Jenny Baker. And it wasn’t until the song after that she realized — when the girl waved at them excitedly — that it actually was Jenny Baker. How on Earth was that possible?
Miss White wouldn’t find out until after the show, by which time it was after midnight and the Champagne toasts had been flowing frequently and generously. Jenny found them and brought them backstage, where she excitedly introduced them to Hana, Haley, Donna, and Dahlia. The dressing room had a well-stocked bar, which the seven of them depleted a bit before flowing out into the Las Vegas night.
Everything after that was a joyous blur.
* * *
By the time Miss White left the bathroom she was already feeling somewhat refreshed, though she fully intended to go back to bed for another hour or two.
As she crossed the room back toward the bed her eyes alit on a stack of papers sitting on the counter, and from the top page two words stood out: “Marriage License.” Suddenly a whole rush of images came flooding back: a wedding chapel; an officiant dressed like Elvis; Jenny and her bandmates acting as witnesses as Hana strummed “Here Comes the Bride” on her guitar.
Miss White looked over at Jodie, who was as always sweetly angelic in her sleep. After taking a minute to think about it, she decided that she regretted nothing. Except for the fact that she and Jodie hadn’t fucked Hana — at least she didn’t think they had. But they had the whole day ahead of them.
/fin/
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