Vegas Baby: A Bad Boy's Accidental Marriage Romance

by Amy Brent

  “Hey, look at you,” he said, his eyes sweeping up and down my body. “You didn’t have to get dressed up for me.” He held up the bag of pot and shook it at me. “Got your favorite, Lolo. Harvest Gold. We’re gonna get fuuuucked up!”

  “Shit, Kevin, what are you doing here?”

  His smile melted into a frown. “We had plans to hang out, Lo.” He started to step inside, but I put a hand in the center of his chest to keep him on the porch. He glanced down at my hand, then back up with a hurt look on his face. “What the fuck?”

  “I’m sorry, Kevin, but something’s come up and I can’t hang out.”

  He gave me a suspicious frown. “What’s going on, Lo? Why are you so dressed up? Where the fuck are you going?”

  “I’m not dressed up, you bonehead. It’s just a summer dress.”

  “Yeah? So where are you going?”

  “That’s really none of your business.”

  “Ah, I see…” His eyes cut into mine like angry lasers. “Let me guess, you met some guy and you’re breaking up with me.”

  I snorted and rolled my eyes. “First of all, I’m not breaking up with you because we are not a couple. Second of all, even if I did meet a guy it doesn’t mean you and I have to stop being friends.”

  “But we have to stop fucking,” he said, his face turning as red as his eyes. He had already hit the Harvest Gold. He was high as a kite. “I see how it is. I’m good enough to hang out with and get fucked up with, but that’s it. You fuck me for years and then meet some other swinging dick and then it’s fuck off, Kev? That’s bullshit, Lo, and you know it.”

  “Kevin, you need to lower your voice,” I said, glancing over his shoulder at Mrs. Crown’s house. I could see the old busy-body peering out her front door. “The neighbors are watching.”

  “Fuck the neighbors,” he yelled. Kevin could be a real douchebag when he was drunk. He was a big guy and I’d seen him pick fights with people just because they looked at him wrong. Luckily, he wasn’t drunk. He was just high, which usually mellowed him out. He lost his balance and stumbled backward off the porch. He managed to right himself without dropping the six pack or the bag of pot. He glared at me like a mad dog and gritted his teeth.

  “Tell me who it is!” he demanded. “Tell me who you’re fucking and I’ll fuck him up!”

  “The only person you can fuck up is you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Go home. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “There a problem here?”

  My heart stopped when I heard Ryder’s deep voice. I stepped out onto the porch and looked toward his house. He was standing at the line where our yards met. He was wearing the tight jeans and boots. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. The muscles across his shoulders were pumped. His chest slowly rose and fell. His hands were balled into fists. The muscles of his arms flexed. When Kevin saw him, I thought he was going to shit his pants.

  “What… who the fuck are you?” Kevin asked, mustering every ounce of courage the pot had to offer. “This is none of your business, man. Fuck off.”

  Ryder walked slowly toward Kevin. I could see his nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge. His shoulders were hunched, head down, his forehead cut into a deep frown. Holy shit, he reminded me of those big wrestlers on TV, all pissed off and pumped up as they stomped to the ring to beat the living shit out of an opponent.

  “I’m her neighbor, asshole,” Ryder said, stopping just a few feet from Kevin. Ryder gave me a sideways glance. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, stepping to the edge of the porch. I almost did a pirouette to show him my dress. I know, I’m an idiot. I nodded at Kevin and took on a sympathetic look. “This is Kevin. He’s a friend. He’s just a little fucked up at the moment.”

  “Fuck you,” Kevin growled. He was still holding the six-pack in his right hand. I wondered if the was thinking about swinging it at Ryder. I hoped not. I had the feeling it would be the last time he used that arm for a very long time. Besides, Kevin wouldn’t waste good beer. He looked at Ryder and gritted his teeth. “And fuck you, too.”

  I saw the muscles in Ryder’s arms ripple. I could tell he was doing his best not to cream Kevin right there on my front lawn. Kevin was being a douche, but he was my friend. I was the one in the wrong here, not him. I quickly came off the porch and moved to stand between them.

  “Ryder, it’s okay,” I said. “Kevin doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “Ryder?” Kevin said the name, then bounced his bloodshot eyes between us. “You’re the Navy SEAL motherfucker with the dead wife. And what, now you’re trying to fuck my girl?”

  “Kevin, that’s enough,” I said, putting my hands on his chest, pleading with him. “Go home and get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going any fucking where,” Kevin said. He dropped the six-pack on the ground and shoved the bag of pot in his back pocket. He reached around to his other back pocket. When his hand appeared, he was holding a knife. He pressed a little button on the handle and a blade popped out.

  “Kevin, stop it!” I screamed.

  “Fuck you, you fucking cunt,” Kevin growled. I had forgotten how strong he was because he was usually so laid back. He pushed his elbow into my chest and threw me to the ground. I landed hard on my ass. It knocked the wind out of me. Before I could suck in enough air to scream, Kevin lunged at Ryder with the knife outstretched.

  What happened next was like something out of a Jason Bourne movie. It happened so fast I nearly missed it. Ryder calmly sidestepped Kevin’s lunge, throwing Kevin off balance. Ryder grabbed the wrist holding the knife with one hand and grabbed the back of Kevin’s hair with the other. He kicked Kevin’s legs out from under him, sending Kevin face first into the ground. He twisted Kevin’s wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back. The hand holding the knife ended up between Kevin’s shoulder blades at an unnatural angle. Ryder plucked the knife out of Kevin’s hand and tossed it aside.

  “Okay, Kevin,” Ryder said as he put his knee into Kevin’s spine and twisted the wrist to the point that I thought it was going to break. “You have two choices. I can let you up and you can go home and sleep it off. Or, I can break your fucking arm in three different places and you’ll never be able to grip a beer bottle or hold a joint again. You choose.”

  Kevin tried to squirm free, but he couldn’t move. He turned his head to the side to face me. There were tears in his eyes. His face was smeared in blood from the impact of his nose with the ground. More disturbing than anything was the look of hurt and betrayal in his eyes that told me that our friendship was over.

  “Kevin?” Ryder asked. “Choose. Home or the hospital?”

  “Home…” Kevin said. “Fucking home.”

  “Good choice,” Ryder said, relaxing his grip on Kevin’s wrist without letting go. “And if you bother Lolita again, you’ll answer to me. Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand,” Kevin said. “Fuck you, I understand…”

  Ryder let go of him and stepped away to retrieve the knife. He folded the blade into the handle and held out a hand to Kevin, who refused his help getting up.

  “You ever pull a knife on me again Kevin and you’ll find it shoved up your ass,” Ryder said calmly, holding out the knife. Kevin stared at it for a moment, then took it and slid it into his back pocket. Ryder hitched his head toward the street. “Now get your beer and get the fuck out of here.”

  Kevin wiped the blood from his face on the back of his hand, then picked up the six-pack and turned to me. He moved close enough that I could smell the dirt and grass in his hair and the blood on his face.

  He said, “You’re going to be sorry.” He cut Ryder a hateful glance, then trudged to his car. He started the car and slammed his foot on the gas, the tires smoking as he squealed away. He held up his middle finger and yelled for me to get fucked. Fine. That was exactly what I planned to do.

  “You okay?” Ryder asked, moving in close, putting his hands on my arms, caressing them gently with his fingertips. I al
most melted into him, then I remembered we had an audience. Mrs. Crown and a half dozen others were standing out front of their houses now, watching, wondering what the fuck was going on.

  “I’m fine,” I said, taking a step back. I tucked my hair behind my ears and looked at the ground between my feet. I could feel Mrs. Crown watching my every move so she could report it to my mother. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Ryder asked with a smile that told me it wouldn’t make any difference if he was.

  “No, just someone I hang out with,” I said. I glanced down at my dress and held out my arms to the side. “I was on my way to see you and he showed up.”

  “You still coming over?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said, stealing a quick glance at the old woman still watching us from across the street. “It would take more than a fucked-up idiot like that to keep me away from you.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll go back inside and finish getting dressed.”

  “Don’t get dressed on my account,” I said, giving him a sly glance. “Clothes just slow me down.”

  For the neighbor’s sake, Ryder and I didn’t touch again as we said goodbye. He gave me a friendly nod and I gave him a friendly wave. He went back inside his house and I went back inside mine. I would wait a few minutes, long enough to give Mrs. Crown time to waddle her fat, nosey ass back inside her house, then sneak over to Ryder’s house to let the real fun begin.

  Chapter Eighteen: Ryder

  I won’t lie. I was tired as fuck on Monday morning when Quinn called to ask if I’d meet him for coffee around nine. I had spent a good part of the weekend doing wild and wondrous things with a gorgeous nineteen-year-old girl, and the rest of the time dealing with a rambunctious four-year-old boy, who Hank and Emily dropped by the house on Sunday right after church at noon. Honestly, I’m not sure which one wore me out the most.

  Lolita was the most amazing girl—woman— in and out of bed. When we weren’t doing devious things to each other’s bodies we were talking and laughing and eating and drinking and bonding like old friends. It was as if we had known each other for years. To be so young, she had an old soul that seemed to connect immediately and directly with my own.

  We had lots of things in common besides an insatiable appetite for sex. We both loved science fiction movies, greasy cheeseburgers and fries slathered in ketchup, Pearl Jam, long walks on the beach, hiking in the mountains, swimming in the ocean, The Black List, the Rock, Julia Roberts, and Dancing with The Stars (okay, I lied about liking that one, but we were on a roll).

  Sunday afternoon I introduced Cody to his new nanny. He eyed Lolita suspiciously for a moment, then asked if she liked Legos and Barney and that was all she wrote. Within minutes they were the best of pals and Cody was dragging her all over the house by the hand showing off his room and his toys.

  Lolita could not stop hugging and kissing him and telling him what a great little boy he was. Cody insisted that she stay for dinner (Domino’s Pizza because I had not had time to go to the grocery store) and demanded that she read him a story before going to bed.

  As I walked her to the door around eight on Sunday night, I took her in my arms and gave her a goodnight kiss that was filled with passion and emotion. I thanked her for a wonderful weekend and told her I’d see her in my dreams.

  Watching her tiptoe barefoot across the lawn to her front door, I could barely believe how happy I was that she was in my life. It took every ounce of willpower not to beg her to spend the night, but neither of us thought it was a good idea for Cody to wake up to find a strange woman sleeping in his daddy’s bed. Maybe someday, but not quite yet.

  Besides, she’d be back first thing in the morning to watch Cody while I met Quinn and dealt with a few things. I fell asleep with her on my mind, and as I’d hoped, found her waiting for me in my dreams.

  * * *

  If you looked up the phrase pussy hound in the dictionary (if it was actually in the dictionary), my best friend Quinn Blackwell’s picture would pop up. Quinn was forty-two, 6’2, lean, muscular, with sandy brown hair and dark brown eyes that women couldn’t seem to resist.

  He had never been married, never been engaged, never even been serious with a woman as far as I knew. He changed women as often as most guys changed socks.

  Even in Iraq and Afghanistan, where willing, fuckable pussy was as scarce as clean water and edible food, he had bitches lined up outside the gates to fuck him.

  I was always a little jealous of Quinn and his lifestyle. Good looking, rich, sexy, smart, successful. Yet, sometimes I thought he might be a little jealous of my settled home life. Married with a kid, nice little house in the ‘burbs.

  He’d always been playfully flirty with Bethany, who would just roll her eyes and call him a pig, even though I could tell she thought he was a good-looking guy. He’d said more than once I should be thankful that I found Bethany before he did. And he thought my son was the greatest kid on earth. Cody loved Uncle Quinn and Uncle Quinn loved him. He made it a point to look after my son while I was away. There was no better friend in my eyes than Quinn Blackwell.

  Quinn wanted to meet in a little coffee shop on the outskirts of Falls Church, in a strip mall a few miles from the enormous house in the hills he shared with two German Shepherds named Milo and Otis. His office was on the tenth floor of the Credit Suisse building in DC. It was a busy, noisy place; too chaotic to talk about the death of my wife and my future with his firm. The coffee shop would be a nice, quiet place to talk.

  “So, how is Cody holding up?” Quinn asked as he watched the ass of the young waitress who had just delivered our coffee walk away. He picked up the steaming cup of black coffee and settled in with his elbows resting on the table. “Poor kid. Must be hard for him.”

  I shrugged. “He’s okay. He’s too young to understand it all, thank God.”

  Quinn held the cup to his lips and blew into it. Steam settled beneath his eyes. He set the cup aside to let it cool and gave me a wary look. “How are you holding up?”

  I shrugged again. “You know, it is what it is. I’m sorry she’s gone, but things weren’t great between us. She told me she was divorcing me when I left for Mosul two months ago. Other than the occasional Skype chat to check on Cody, we hadn’t talked at all. Soon as Cody would lose interest in talking to me, Bethany would click off without even saying goodbye.”

  “Yeah, you told me things weren’t going well,” Quinn said with a heavy sigh, as if he could feel my pain, or what little pain I was feeling. I felt guilty about not being more depressed by my wife’s death. I mean, this was a woman I once loved and would have died for. Now, it was almost like I barely knew her, like I was trying to grieve for a stranger.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, man,” Quinn said, as if he had read my mind. “Marriages don’t last. People change. It wasn’t entirely your fault.”

  “I know, still…” I picked up my coffee cup and took a careful sip. I set the cup on the table and tapped my fingers to the sides. “Did I tell you she was pregnant?”

  Quinn had picked up his cup and was bringing it to his lips. His hands froze at the word pregnant. He slowly lowered the cup to the table. “Jesus, buddy, I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t mine.”

  He blinked a few times, then looked at me from beneath his perfectly manicured eyebrows. “Not yours? How the fuck do you know that?”

  “I shipped out eight weeks ago for Mosul,” I said, holding up eight fingers, then folding down two. “The medical examiner said Bethany was six weeks along.”

  “Son of a bitch…” Quinn shook his head and looked out the window at the gray sky. A storm was rolling in from the ocean, dark clouds on the horizon. The air was heavy with ozone and salt.

  His eyes fixed on the sky, he said, “I can’t fucking believe it…”

  “You can’t believe she was pregnant or that she was fucking around on me in the first place?” I asked.

  He took a d
eep breath and thought it over. “Both, I guess.”

  The waitress came back to see if we wanted to order anything. I wasn’t hungry and neither was Quinn, which was surprising because he could usually eat a tall stack of pancakes and a pound of bacon without blinking an eye. “Just coffee,” he said without looking at the waitress, who shrugged and walked away.

  “Any idea who the guy was?” he asked.

  “No, but I intend to find out,” I said.

  He frowned at me. “How?”

  “Bethany’s car has been released by the cops,” I said. “I’m headed to the tow yard as soon as I leave here.”

  “What do you expect to find in her car?” Quinn asked. His voice had taken on an edge, as if talking about Bethany and her lover was getting under his skin more than it was getting under mine. That was Quinn for you. I was his best friend. If something was bothering me, it wouldn’t take long before it was bothering him.

  “I talked to the cop in charge, a Lieutenant Mason. The lot manager has her purse. I assume her cell phone is still in the car. And I assume she had been calling or texting whomever she had been fucking. I’ll get a number and a name from her phone, and then—”

  “And then what?”

  “Then maybe I’ll pay the guy a little visit.”