The Big God-Help-Me, Judy Colella [books that read to you .txt] 📗

Okay, this is bad. Really, really bad. Really, really, REALLY bad. No, Zombies have not launched their apocalypse, or whatever that weirdness is about. And as far as I know, aliens from another planet haven’t landed on the lawn of the U.S. Capitol. Nope. It’s worse. Much worse. Much, much…sorry.

Right! It’s Monday, I think.  I mean, it feels like Monday. Both Saturday and Sunday have their own, unique feel to them, and since the last day I can remember waking up on was Friday, I have to assume this is Monday. Make sense? Good.

However. Oh, boy. This is bad. For starters, I have no idea where I am. Well, other than Vegas. Maybe. Yeah, there’s that stupid pyramid thingy blocking most of my view from what I’m guessing is a sleazy hotel room. Why sleazy? Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the graffiti on the wall next to the bathroom door, or the sheets that…ew. I’m getting up now. Bleh!

I’m alone, too, which is actually part of the problem. The other part is what’s on my left hand. On the ring finger of my left hand. Yup, it’s a ring, all right, but I don’t recognize it, except to say that the stupid thing is very wedding-bandy. Although to be honest, I can’t imagine having been okay with it – the diamond on the thinner part is no more than a chip, and the thicker part looks like it’s made of gold-dipped aluminum. If some guy had offered this to me while I was sober and in my right mind, I’m sure I would have shoved it up one or both of his nostrils.

So. I’m in a sleazy hotel room in Vegas, alone, with a wedding ring on my left ring finger, and the shirt I’m wearing isn’t a night shirt, nor is it mine. It’s got frills down the front. And it’s lime green. I think it was part of a tuxedo, but dude! Lime green? What the hell did I marry? And yes, that’s the whole thing in a nutshell.

I married someone. That’s the only conclusion I can reach based on the very disturbing evidence before me. The good news is that I don’t think we, you know, did it. I know how I felt after a night of passion with my dear, departed hubby, and I sure don’t feel any of that right now.

Oh, sorry. Allow me to introduce my stupid self. I’m Sierra. Like the mountains. Yeah, don’t know what my parents were thinking.  Anyway, I’m twenty-four, and in case anyone cares, I’m five-foot-six, have short red hair, weigh a hundred and four, and as of this moment, have no idea what my last name is.

I’m also a widow, or was, which at my age really sucks. I was married three years ago to this very sweet guy named Bradley Collins, but about a year ago he fell off his bike. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except he was on a narrow mountain road and riding way too close to the edge. So when his front tire hit a rock, he went flying – literally. It happened right where the road curved sharply to the left, but since he went soaring straight ahead, the ground he landed on was a good three hundred feet below where he’d been riding. So, not good. Fatal, in fact.

Since then, I haven’t done a whole lot, other than attend a few book groups (yawn), go for walks (on parts of the planet that are nearly below sea level), take a rather unproductive road-trip, and watch movies on my laptop. I also work, but my job is even less exciting than my after-hour activities, if one can call them that.

Because of my spider-like existence, one of my co-workers nagged me nearly to death about getting out and trying to have fun somewhere. And like the fool that I am, I allowed her to con me into a trip to Vegas. I say “con,” because unknown to me at the time, she had no intention of going herself. Nope. Told me she would meet me there. Uh-huh. What met me there was her cousin, a guy who I won’t even try to describe because I might start throwing things.

Now I know what you’re thinking, and no. He’s not the purchaser of this Cracker-Jacks ring. How do I know? Because…because he…hmmm. Nah. I can’t imagine him wanting – oh, wait! There is a good reason for me not thinking it’s him. The shirt! You could fit four of him in one of the sleeves, for goodness sake! So her cousin couldn’t be the one, since the owner of this gross bit of clothing was probably related to King Kong or something. I mean, it looks like a nightgown on me, and those sleeves are rolled up about eighty times just to reach my elbows.

I gotta take this stupid thing off. Where are my clothes? Huh? How did they end up…never mind. Okay. I’m going to take a shower now. When I’m done, I’m going to get dressed and start asking people if they happen to remember seeing me before, and if so, who I was with. Then I’m going to start assaulting the various chapels in the area to find out if there’s a record of me marrying anyone.

No one will think twice about this, will they? After all, this is Vegas! And what happens in Vegas, stays…in…this is bad. This is really, really bad.

“Sorry, miss, er, ma’am. We have no photos of you here. Did you try the Chapel of - ”

“I’ve tried all of them. Every single one. This is the last. How is that possible? Look!” I thrust my left hand out, displaying the cheap wedding ring. “I had to get married somewhere around here!”

“Yes, but it wasn’t here. I’m very sorry.”

He’s giving me the same look I’ve gotten everywhere else – that how-pathetic-you-are look. Wonder if he’ll think me pathetic when I smack him in the head with my shoe? Yeah, probably will. “Awesome. Never mind.”

“You could have gotten married at the Courthouse.”

“What?! There’s a courthouse here?”

Now he’s smirking and I’m beginning to think my shoe isn’t hard enough. “Of course – it’s a city, after all.” Sneer.

Sin City. Great. Didn’t think of a courthouse, though. “Fine. Where is it?”

“The Courthouse?”

“No, The Las Vegas Home for Displaced North Pole Elves. Yes, the Courthouse!”

“Testy today, aren’t we…”

“We? Are you testy today, too?” I love alliterations.

“I’m getting there. Turn left when you go out, go four blocks, make a right, go two more blocks, and then another right, and you’ll see it on the left.”

I nod. I leave. I take out my phone and do a gps search. Do I care that everyone around me can hear that annoying robotic voice telling me how many feet it is to the next corner? Well, at least no one here knows me, so what difference –

“Sierra?”

Crap. The cousin. “No.”

“You’re so droll!”

Great. I’m droll, he’s a troll. We’d make a cute couple, don’t you think? “Not today I’m not.”

“Are you lost?”

“You have no idea.” I also can’t remember his name. Go me.

“Maybe I can help?”

“Maybe not? Thanks, though.”

“Was it something I said?” He’s grinning.

I can’t imagine why he’d be doing that, but there it is. And was it something he said? No, it was everything he’d said. Like when he told me I should try working out to tighten my ass. Or like his first sentence as soon as I met him, which was, “So you’re Sierra? Huh. I somehow pictured someone more, oh, I don’t know – exotic, maybe. More attractive.”

Let me set the record straight here – I am attractive in a Rebel Without A Clue kind of way; my eyes are an interesting shade of blue-grey, my features even and nicely symmetrical, and I’m in very good shape, thank you. So I have no idea why the little creep would have said those things. Jealousy, perhaps? The guy is pretty much the same height as me, and if his skin were blue, he’d look like an anorexic Smurf. He seriously ought to reconsider those stupid white slouch beanies he wears.

“Something you said? Of course not. Why would you even ask that?” You over-dressed herring.

He shrugs and says, “Never mind, then. Good luck.”

Throughout this ridiculous exchange, the gps voice has continued repeating the now-memorized instruction to turn right. To make it shut up, I turn away from he-who-shall-be-nameless-because-I-can’t-remember-his-name, and go around the corner.

I really don’t like this place. And not just because I somehow managed to get myself married to some guy I’d never met before and will probably never meet again. I’m rather good at making my way in new places, but I’m sorry. I almost got run over by some idiot on a Segway just now. Really? A Segway? Sheesh.

All right. Finally. The Courthouse. Turning off the gps (blessed silence at last!) and heading inside. I wonder how many cases like mine these poor slobs have to deal with every day?

“You did what?”

I repeat my dilemma to the clerk behind the desk. To her credit, she’s goggling at me but not laughing. Probably waiting until I’m gone before doing that.

“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever had to deal with that before!”

“You must be new here.”

“Not really. Similar stuff happens all the time, but normally at least the guy’s first name is known, and there’s some kind of description.” She sighs and turns to her computer. “Let me see if your name comes up anywhere.”

I look around, hoping no one is paying attention. The place isn’t all that busy at the moment, probably because it’s so early – for Vegas, anyway, or so I’ve been told.

“No, sorry. Have you tried the chapels?”

I glare.

“Ha! Guess so, eh?”

I glare some more.

“Is there anything else?”

“No. Thank you for your time. I’m going to go have a drink now.”

“Something with a kick, I would imagine?” Her grin is almost sympathetic.

And I’m thinking, yes. I’ll get a diet soda and imagine how great it would feel to kick my friend from work whose brilliant idea this was. “Something like that.”

I leave, checking my purse once more to make sure I still have all my credit cards and cash. Strange – none of it seems to have been touched. Well, the cash. I have no way of knowing if the cards have been used unless I go online and check my balance.

Ha! Check my balance! I wonder how great my balance was when I was slurring, “I do” at some as-yet-unknown altar!

My stomach starts grumbling now, too, so I’m thinking I should grab a bite to eat in a nice, quiet corner of a nice, quiet restaurant and try to remember what the hell happened. I also think I should call my friend and fill her in on what her plan hath wrought, but that might not be such a good idea. I might actually figure out how to go through the phone and strangle her.

Which, even if it were possible, still wouldn’t tell me what my new last