by Jana Aston
Hmm?
We were both drinking, we’re both to blame. That’s not even me rationalizing, it’s true. It’s still a mess though. A big ole hot mess. One that I’d prefer to deal with tomorrow, so right now, I need to go. I ease out of his arms and slip out of the bed, tossing a regretful glance back at Vince as I go.
He has nice lips too. I don’t think I’ve given enough credit to those lips because I’ve been sidetracked over his tongue. But his lips. Hmm. Full, soft, good at sucking.
Focus, Payton.
I find my phone and notice that I already have a picture of Vince wearing his wedding ring. I notice it because I’ve made said picture the screensaver on my phone.
At least my drunk self and my sober self are consistent.
Consistently nuts.
Wouldn’t it be great if my drunk self was some kind of secret genius who did difficult things like making sound financial investments instead of easy things like picking a good photo of Vince? Drunk Payton did pick a good photo though, I gotta give her credit for that.
My camera roll is jam-packed with selfies from last night. On Fremont Street. At the chapel. In bed. Some are of Vince alone. Sometimes he’s smiling. Sometimes he’s brooding. Sometimes he has no idea his picture is being taken. But most of them are of us together. Smiling, laughing, me making ridiculous faces while Vince makes a normal face.
Us. I exhale hard. Us is not a thing, Payton.
Chapter Twelve
After collecting my clothing from around the hotel suite I quietly get dressed and then slip out, fuck-me heels dangling from my fingertips and a stuffed shark shoved under my arm until I reach the hallway, easing the suite door closed behind me and slipping the heels onto my feet. Vince won the shark for me last night at the arcade and I have big plans to sleep with it until I’m forty.
I say a silent thank you to Jesus for making today a Sunday because it means I get to do the walk of shame through the hotel—the same hotel I work at—while bumping into as few co-workers as possible.
I left my car at home last night because I’d intended to ride Vince’s dick home from Double Diamonds, so I order an Uber in the elevator. Then I hold my head up high and glide straight through the lobby to the cab pickup line, waving hello to Henry in bellhop services and Renee working the concierge desk. Fuck ’em. This could be my church outfit, they don’t get to judge me.
Still, I breath a sigh of relief once I’m in the Uber. God, last night was fun. The most fun I’ve ever had. Obviously I’d left the house intent on having a good time, but you can’t plan a night like that. You can’t plan to laugh so hard you have to squeeze your legs together so you don’t pee. You can’t plan on tripping and nearly running into an Elvis impersonator riding a bicycle with a parrot on his shoulder, then getting pulled back in the nick of time by Vince as he says, “To hell with it,” and kisses you until you’re so breathless you’re not sure if it’s from your near-death experience or from his lips. You can’t plan on the slushies being available in foot-long penis-shaped containers. That’s just good luck.
You can’t know that stopping for a slice of pizza will result in triggering a memory of that Halloween party in college where you thought a raccoon was a cat. So you left the door of the frat house open for him, thinking how great it was that these guys had a frat-cat. But then the frat-cat nabbed a slice of pizza right out of the box and everyone flipped the fuck out because it was a frat-coon, not a frat-cat. The term ‘frat-coon’ makes everyone laugh even more than it did when you coined it the first time.
* * *
“I love how you make him laugh,” Canon says. I know he means Vince because we lost Lawson somewhere in the last round of drinks. It’s hard to keep track when you’re drinking. I think that saying is supposed to be about fun, not people, but honestly if you think about it it totally applies to people. They are really hard to keep track of in Vegas.
“How is he laughing though? Is it like ‘haha, I want to bang you’ or ‘haha, I think you’re a clown?’”
“He doesn’t think you’re a clown.”
“Canon Reeves, you are the best wingman ever.”
“That”—he points his beer at me—“is a fact. I really don’t get enough credit for it.”
* * *
You can’t know that Vince Rossi actually is a filthy dirty talker way, way, way out of your dirty-talking league and is in fact your kryptonite no matter what that word means. He’s it. All of it. Everything.
* * *
“I need you, Vince.”
“Do you? Is your pussy wet for me, Payton? Wet and needy and hungry for my cock?”
“It is, actually.”
“Maybe I’ll give it to you later.”
“Please.” I lean closer, breathing the word onto him. He is such a fucking tease.
“I like it when you beg.”
“Jesus. I’ll crawl on the floor and take off your belt with my teeth if that’s what you’re into.” That’s partially a lie. I have no idea how to undo a belt with my teeth.
“I’d rather see you face down on my bed, ass in the air with my come dripping down your thighs.”
Oh. Holy. Shit. Hollleeee shit.
“That would be fine,” I finally manage to agree as nonchalantly as possible.
“It’d be better than fine, I can promise you that.”
* * *
You can’t know that suggesting A, you get a tiger tattooed on your ass or B, you get married would result in ending the night with a husband. I mean I knew he liked my ass. Liked it so much he’d be willing to marry me to stop me from defiling it with a tiger tattoo? I had no idea.
* * *
“I Payton, take you, Vince, to be my lawfully wedded husband. Before these witnesses, I promise never to get a tiger tattooed onto my ass. Never, ever.”
“And?” Vince prompts.
Oh, yeah. “I vow that I have handed out my last golden ticket. Till death do us part.”
* * *
If I could have planned all of that I’d be the event planner of the century. That was more of an adrenaline-fueled, hormone-boosted, alcohol-driven happenstance.
Except that ‘happenstance’ is just another word for ‘coincidence.’ And we all know that ‘coincidence’ is simply a boring word for ‘fate,’ so maybe none of this is my fault. I’d be fine with that explanation, because I’m a reasonable person, but I don’t know enough about my new husband to know if he’ll agree.
My husband. Husband. It’s such a good word, isn’t it? Maybe this is why my mother has gotten married so many times? Maybe this is one of those things I can only appreciate about her as an adult? I mull it over for a second and decide it’s not and I don’t.
Then I’m home, the Uber coming to a stop in front of my apartment building so I can stop dwelling on stupid shit and start thinking about the real issues I’m facing. Namely, if I’m out of Cheez-Its or not. But it turns out I’ve got bigger issues because when I unlock my door I find Rhys standing in my kitchen.
* * *
Oh, Jesus Christ. Rhys and Lydia. I forgot all about Lydia losing her virginity while I was sidetracked getting married. I am the worst friend in the world. Also, I’ve not actually met Rhys before so this is awkward. Again, for him, not me. I’m not the one who can’t get off without paying for it. But still, you’d think I could meet one of these guys in a normal way.
Lydia emerges from her bedroom and introduces us, then gives me a second glance. “Payton, why are you still wearing the same thing you had on last night?” Sweet clueless Lydia. Also, fuck my life, I cannot catch a break today.
“Am I? Enough about me. How was the sex last night?” Partly that’s a deflection, partly I really want to know. I gave away my virginity in high school to a guy who probably still thinks it was the best lay of my life. It wasn’t.
“Payton!” Lydia is mortified. “I’m not going to tell you what Rhys is like in bed when he’s standing right here.”
That’s fair. If by tha
t she means she’s going to tell me about it later. If not, it’s bullshit.
“So what are you guys doing today?” I glance between her and Rhys, confused about why he’s in our apartment. I assume he’s dropping her off from their night of debauchery but I don’t know why he’s still here.
“I’m just packing a few things,” Lydia says, heading back to her room. “Rhys wants me to stay over for a while.”
Oh, right, that month-long thing. I was kinda hoping we were going to ease into this by splitting Lydia like one splits a child during a custody arrangement. He’d get her on Wednesday evenings and every other weekend and I’d get her the rest of the time. I feel a lump in my throat, realizing that this is it. She’s packing up to spend the month with him, which means I’m never getting her back. She’s going to move in with him and make him crockpot dinners and sew buttons back on his shirts like it’s 1957 and he’s going to fall in love with her and keep her in his ivory tower with him forever.
“I live in a hotel, not in a castle,” Rhys responds, looking at me like I’m nuts, and I realize I might have said part of that aloud. Sue me, it’s been a long night and I’m dehydrated.
Chapter Thirteen
Once Rhys and Lydia leave I find a box of Cheez-Its and a bottle of Gatorade and take them into the shower with me. What? Like you’ve never eaten crackers in the shower after a rough night? I’m just a girl trying her hardest, don’t judge me. Besides, the countertop in my bathroom runs right up to the shower, so technically the crackers weren’t in the shower.
‘Technically’ is a word people use when they want to draw murky lines around their behavior and deflect away from information they might regret providing you with.
I’ve toweled off and am halfway into a pair of yoga pants when my phone starts buzzing with incoming texts. Texts from Canon, oddly. Odd because I don’t have Canon’s phone number and I’ve never added him to my phone as a contact. Yet here he is.
Canon Reeves: Vince is looking for you
* * *
Canon Reeves: How was the honeymoon suite?
* * *
Canon Reeves: Make sure you leave a nice review online. It’s the least you can do
* * *
Canon Reeves: A review about the suite, not Vince. That kind of language will get the review bounced
* * *
Me: HOW ARE YOU PROGRAMMED INTO MY PHONE AND HOW DO YOU HAVE MY PHONE NUMBER?
* * *
Canon Reeves: Oh, that was easy.
* * *
Me: Really?
* * *
Canon Reeves: Yeah. I pulled your number from your employment file. Then I hacked into your phone and added myself as a contact so my texts would show up with my name so you’d answer them. You’re welcome.
* * *
Me: REALLY?
* * *
Canon Reeves: Yeah, like I said, it’s not that hard.
* * *
Me: Not what I meant by REALLY, dick. INAPPROPRIATE use of my personal information.
* * *
Canon Reeves: Oh. So you didn’t want a heads-up that Vince is on his way?
* * *
Me: His way where?
* * *
Canon Reeves: To your apartment.
* * *
Me: How does he know I’m at my apartment…
* * *
Canon Reeves: Location services on your phone. It’s easy.
* * *
Me: OMG.
* * *
Canon Reeves: No, really. A child could track you this way.
* * *
Me: NOT WHAT I MEANT.
* * *
Canon Reeves: Should I add Vince’s number to your contacts? I was going to do it but I wasn’t sure how to enter his info. Vince Rossi? Husband? Boo? BAE?
* * *
Me: …
* * *
Canon Reeves: …
* * *
Me: So you hacked me, stalked me and gave Vince my address?
* * *
Canon Reeves: He knows I know how to do it. What was I gonna do, tell him no?
* * *
Me: Yes?
* * *
Canon Reeves: Don’t put me in the middle, bro. He’s my friend but I feel some loyalty to you after you made me your maid of honor last night.
* * *
Me: Not exactly how I remember it…
* * *
Canon Reeves: I picked out your goddamned veil. Just let me have my moment for fuck’s sake.
I’m about to reply when the banging on my front door starts. The banging is overkill because these apartments have doorbells. It’s Vince, obviously. Unless I’ve entered an episode of a murder mystery program and a serial killer has selected this moment to randomly knock on my door.
Peephole confirmation: it’s Vince.
Canon sucks at giving a heads-up. My hair is still damp while Vince has clearly had time to shower, shave and drive over here. And he’s not in last night’s clothing either, so he’s been home. He looks good. I bet he didn’t take a shower with crackers.
The knocking stops and he gives the peephole a dirty look before he speaks in a volume that makes me think he knows I’m standing on the other side of the door. “I know you’re home, Payton. Open the door.”
I sigh. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe he needs health insurance or a wife for an inheritance, you never know.
I open the door.
He’s braced one arm on the doorframe, his body filling the entire space. He looks even better today than he did last night, which should be impossible but is unfair if nothing else. He runs his gaze over me. I’m wearing a faded LSU t-shirt and yoga pants. My hair is still damp and I’m not wearing a drop of makeup. He looks like a god in a fresh-pressed shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a pair of worn-in jeans. Neither of us says anything.
“We should talk.” He finally speaks after it’s clear I’m not going to. He’s still standing in my doorway because I’ve not moved out of the way or invited him in either.
“Or we should have tacos?” I offer just in case the A or B game is still in effect. Talking versus tacos would be an easy pick for me.
He lifts his hand. He’s holding an iced coffee and a Del Taco bag. Holy crap. How did he know I wanted tacos before I told him I wanted tacos? He really is my one true love.
“How did you know I wanted tacos?” I ask, stepping back to allow him inside because show me a girl who doesn’t open the door for tacos and I’ll show you a grasshopper. I know that made no sense, but really, what would have? Show me a girl who doesn’t like tacos and I’ll show you… what? That idiom was destined to fail from the start. Anyway, I let him in because we’ve got that whole married thing going on so it seems like it would be rude to make him eat tacos on my doorstep.
“You mentioned it fifteen times last night.”
“I did?” God, what else did I mention? I’m fairly proud of my memory retention but I don’t recall anything about tacos.
“You did. Right before you told us the frat-coon story you said that you should never have given us the choice between A, tacos and B, pizza because you really wanted tacos.”
“Oh.” I tap my lip with my finger. That does sounds accurate. Nothing against pizza, I just really really wanted a taco.
“Then you sang about tacos during karaoke.”
“Stop it. That did not happen.” I walk the ten feet to the kitchen table, Vince right behind me.
“‘I love tacos,’” Vince starts in a voice that is clearly meant to be mine as he sets the takeout bag on the table. “‘I love tacos for lunch or dinner. Beef or chicken, it doesn’t matter.’”
Wait. That sounds familiar…
“‘I love them with lettuce and shredded cheese, jalapeños on the side or they’ll be denied.’”
Oh, God. I was rhyming. Goddamn tequila.
“‘Soft or crunchy, they’re always yummy.’”
“Okay, stop!” I think I’m blushi
ng. The man has seen my vagina up close and personal and I’m blushing over a taco song. Oh, the irony. “Maybe that happened.” I drop into a seat without looking at him. He sets the iced coffee down on the table in front of me before unpacking the tacos. The straw is already in the cup with two inches of wrapper left on the end like a tiny straw condom. I take it off and stick it in my mouth—the straw, not the wrapper. I glance up at him while I suck and imagine what having Vince in my mouth would feel like. Vince’s eyes darken as he watches me slide the straw between my lips and I think we might have matching visualization boards right now.
It occurs to me that I’m the worst wedding night lay in the history of wedding nights. I lost count of how many times he got me off and I didn’t even give him a blow job. I did give him a hand job in the shower so at least there’s that.
