by Bridget Lang
When she flinches, I remember.
“Um.” I pull back, watching the stunned look on her face fade into uncomfortable worry. “Maybe we should head to the hotel.”
“Yeah,” she confirms. “Yeah, we should definitely do that.”
I watch her walk to the car, my heart sinking. If there had been a chance between Claire and myself, I think I just blew it.
The honeymoon suite is fully stocked with a very nice mini bar, and before I even put my bags down, Claire is already taking full advantage of the selection.
Out of the corner of my eye I watch her guzzle bottle after bottle of mini airplane booze down her throat, like she’s Alice trying to find a way to make herself small enough to disappear in Wonderland. I ignore her, giving her space; besides, she seems like she needs the booze more than I do.
I dig through my bag, and head into the bathroom to take a long shower. I’ll never admit it to anybody, but Claire's prick of a boyfriend actually got in a couple really good shots. I’m more than capable of taking a punch, but there is a spot near the bottom of my ribs that still throbs.
When I walk back out, I’m surprised to see Claire draped over the bed, her messy hair cascading around her shoulders. “Hello, Mr. Lang,” she slurs, grinning. On the nightstand is a vast assortment of empty bottles.
“Mrs. Lang,” I reply. I can’t help but smile. Even drunk, she is adorable.
“You know.” She rolls over, looking at me upside down. She kicks one leg in the air, and her dress turns into a puddle at her hips. “It's our wedding night.”
“It is,” I agree cautiously. Shit. This might not be headed in a good direction.
“You're my husband,” she continues, “and I'm your wife.”
“Getting married will have that effect, yes.”
She flips clumsily to her knees. “Most people consummate their marriage on the wedding night.” She seems to think she’s speaking in a sexy purr, but her words are horribly loud, mangled and slurred.
“Most couples, yeah, but Claire…”
She isn't listening. She shuffles off the bed and starts humming a tune that reminds me of old burlesque shows, with loud trumpets and piano that she tries - and fails - to imitate. She kicks off one shoe, staggers, catches herself, and kicks off the other. She starts swinging her hips back and forth aggressively, pulling at one of her dress straps. “Are you enjoying the show, Mr. Lang?” she giggles.
“I…” My mouth is dry. The truth is, I am enjoying the show. I am enjoying the absolutely shit out of it. Claire Donnelly is a sexpot. Who knew? But she is as drunk as she is sexy.
She spins all the way around, looking confused, then twirls until she is facing away from me. She pulls her zipper down (with considerable difficulty) and shimmies, letting her dress fall away. She turns back around, grinning and snickering.
“Look!” she exclaims, bouncing around excitedly. “They gave me special underwear for our wedding night.”
Special does not even begin to describe it. It is a soft pink that stands out against Claire’s pale skin. Her bra is covered with elaborate lace designs, and her panties are so small they are simply a barely-there tiny triangle of lace, enough for me to see that she is completely shaved.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I look around, like maybe there will be some kind of available escape route. My dick is as hard as a rock, and begging for release, but this just can’t happen. She will kill me in the morning, and then my agent will bring me back to life and kill me again.
She struts, or, more like stumbles right up to me and drops awkwardly to her knees. Her massive brown eyes flutter at me, and she starts tugging on my belt.
“Even though you’re a jerk, you’re still really hot,” she muses, her fingers fumbling. “I liked you sooooo much in freshman year. You were such a piece of shit back then, but you’ve actually been pretty nice to me tonight.” She beams up at me and licks her lips in what she clearly thinks is is very sexy and appealing. “I wanna be nice to you too.”
I swear that my heart completely stops. I have never, and I mean never wanted to fuck somebody so badly. I’ve had supermodels planting themselves in my lap, movie stars passing me their room keys at hotels, and even other players’ gorgeous wives slipping into the locker room when they knew I’d be alone. I’d fucked dozens and dozens of the most gorgeous women in the world.
But this is Claire.
Claire Donnelly - now Claire Lang - had spent college trying to live down the dumb bullshit I put her through, took care of her mom, and was repaid for it by getting the shit beaten out of her by the boyfriend who should have been standing beside her helping to shoulder the burden. She isn’t just some chick who’s had so many drunken hook-ups another can’t possibly matter to her in the morning. She isn’t just some chick, period. She is beautiful and strong, and brave and she needs someone to finally care about her and help her out.
I’m no honorable gentleman by any means, but no way am I gonna do anything that might hurt her again. And my dick definitely is not what she needs from me tonight.
“Hey.” I grab her hands. She looks disappointed. “Maybe later, okay? But I think you should drink some water and get to bed.”
“Uh-uh!” she pouts, staggering to her feet. “You’re not my dad, you can’t tell me what to do!”
“Claire, I’m serious. When’s the last time you drank like this?”
She screws her face up and looks like she’s thinking. “Um… My 21st birthday, I had a few Long Islands.”
Jesus Christ, she’s never been this drunk in her life.
“Okay, come here.” I guide her to the fluffy king-sized bed. “Just sit here, okay?” I rummage through the fridge, find a few bottles of water and put three on the side of her bed. “Drink one of these right now, okay?”
She frowns, but twists the cap open anyway.
I head out into the hall and down to the lobby. “Hey.” I sidle up to the front desk. “Do you have any chips or anything?”
“Of course,” the girl behind the desk chirps. “We have a wide menu selection, and you can order at any hour.”
“Great.” I glance at the menu. “I’m just gonna order a bread basket for the honeymoon suite. And can you please get that to me as soon as possible?”
I wait in the hallway in front of the room for room service to appear. I don’t want to risk Claire opening the door in her tiny underwear. I have a feeling she’s going to have enough to regret in the morning.
When I walk back in, Claire is still working on the water bottle I gave her. I hand her a couple rolls. “Eat these. There’ll be more bread on the nightstand if you want any more. Make sure you finish that bottle of water, and then go to sleep.”
Claire sticks out her bottom lip. “But Jett,” she whines, and I hold up a hand.
“Just trust me, okay? I have a lot of experience in getting completely shitfaced. You’re going to need to do something to make the hangover a little less intense. Get under the covers.”
“I’m too hot,” she complains.
I take the ornamental top cover off of her. “Better?”
“Yeah.” She snuggles into the pillows.
“Are you sleepy yet?”
She shakes her head, but yawns.
“Okay. Well you stay there, finish your water, and eat, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”
I wander around the suite. Behind a door I almost miss, is a small living room with a couch and a few chairs. I pile decorative pillows up on the sofa and throw the blanket over it. It reminds me a little of how I slept in the trailer growing up. At least here I won’t have to deal with my younger brother kicking me and my older brother snoring all night.
I head back out to the bedroom. “Hey, Claire?”
I hear soft snores from the bed, but check on her anyway, only to find that she’s already asleep.
Good. She deserves some rest.
I pull the covers up around her and tucked her in, hoping that she won’t get too cold.
Even in her sleep, there’s a small, thin line of worry between her eyebrows. I remembered seeing my mother sleeping like that every night as though her fear of my father and all he’d put her through was so intense and overwhelming that she couldn’t even relax in her sleep. The only time my mom had ever looked peaceful was when she was laying in her casket after my father finally shot her.
My mom had deserved to have peace in her life. Claire deserves it, too.
Very gently, I run my hand over Claire’s silky hair, stroking it until I see her frown start to disappear. Her face gradually relaxes, and she gives me a soft, contented sigh. I kiss her on the forehead, and she smiles in her sleep.
Lying on my makeshift bed, I actually feel good. I did the right thing. For the first time, I’m the good guy.
I shuck off my pants and boxer briefs and grab my hard cock, quickly stroking myself. Being a good guy is great, but I’m left with a massive case of blue balls, and as clumsy as it was, that strip-tease of Claire’s is going to be at the top of my spank bank for a long time.
Chapter 5 CLAIRE
I think I’ve died and gone straight to hell. My head is pounding, and my stomach is sour. Whimpering, I roll over and crack open one eye. I’m grateful to see the shades pulled down, and even more grateful to see some aspirin and water on the bedside table.
I down the pills and tear off a few small bites of stale bread from a basket of rolls on the nightstand, waiting for all of my senses to arrive. I’m clearly in a hotel room, the nicest hotel room I’ve ever been in. The bedroom alone is as big as the house I’d grown up in. Everything is decorated in white lace.
Slowly, memories return. The bar with Aaron… the fight with Jett… the diner… the insane proposal… that ridiculous marriage with a half-in-the-bag minister…
I look down. I’m not in my wedding dress. In fact, I’m not wearing much at all. An icy chill runs through me and paralyzes me momentarily before red hot anger seethes through my veins like a lava flow.
I am dressed in nothing more than the practically nonexistent underwear that the pushy saleswoman forced me to buy for my “special night.” A special night that I can’t remember, but that had apparently been pretty eventful for one of us.
I am livid. I’ve been taken advantage of before by Aaron, for whom nothing is too low. But, now I have to watch my back around the guy who promised to help me. Once again, I’m nothing more than a slab of meat. The bastard. I will fucking kill him.
I hear the water running in the shower and throw off my blankets, storming into the bathroom. I hardly notice the steam billowing out at me, and rip open the smoked glass door to see Jett, soaping himself up and looking stunned. “Jesus fucking Christ, Claire!” he bellows, not making any attempt to cover himself, “Give a guy some warning.”
“Warning?” I scream. I climb into the shower and pound on his chest and shoulders with my fists. “Did you give me any warning before you fucking raped me last night?”
“What are you talking about, you lunatic? I didn’t do anything.”
“Then explain to me how I woke up in nothing but my underwear, you fucking creep. I don’t remember anything past when we arrived in the room. What did you do, wait until I passed out? I will kill you!”
He grabs my wrists and although I writhe and try to free myself, he is too strong and immobilizes me easily. My punches hadn’t seemed to affect him much either. I’ve never had the best upper body strength.
“Will you calm down? I didn’t do anything to you, I swear. I slept in the other room.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s true.” He turns the water off and storms out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. I follow him through the bedroom and into a small living room area. “Look!” He points to a couch piled high with decorative pillows and a lacy blanket. “See? I slept here all night! I wasn’t even in the bed with you.”
“Then why am I in my underwear?”
He sighs. “Because you took your dress off. You were super drunk and you started talking about how you wanted to ‘be nice’ to me and ‘consummate the marriage,’ and you started doing this strip tease.” The corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly.
The blank spots in my memory start to fill. I put a hand to my mouth, remembering bits and pieces. I was singing some stupid tune, trying to get his pants off, and he forced me into bed with water and bread.
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God.” I look up at him, mortified. “I - Jett, I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he grunts, wrapping his towel more firmly around himself. “Just next time, could you wait until after I’m done showering to try to kick my ass,” he teases.
I put my head in my hands. “I am a mess,” I whisper.
“Yeah, sort of.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I’m going to go finish my shower. You should get dressed. My agent called and said we have to leave in about an hour to go back to my place.”
“Of course.” I watch him walk away as I wilt in humiliation.
*
The plane ride is completely silent. I stare out the window, doing my best not to make eye contact with my new husband. What had I been thinking? Just because I woke up in my underwear, I assumed he took advantage of me? Sure, Jett was a jerk in college - and he kind of still seemed like one - but did I really have to immediately go there?
Besides, Jett had been with tons of beautiful women. It was stupid to think he’d even consider doing anything with me. Even though Take Back the Night had taught me that rape was about control more than anything, Jett would probably be disgusted by the very thought of touching me. He laughed when I was afraid he was going to want me to have sex with him. Just like he had in college, he’d just laughed.
Why would I think a guy like him would ever even think about touching a girl like me?
*
I thought the hotel room we’d stayed in was big, but Jett’s home is twenty times that size. The wrought iron gates part for us, and Jett drives us up the long driveway to his garage. I know my mouth is hanging open the whole time, I’m completely absorbed in the view of the beautiful trees scattered throughout the yard and the massive, pale blue mansion with white trim. Two men are standing next to the garage door. At first, I think they might be butlers or some sort of hired help, but then Jett whispers, “Oh, fuck me.”
“What’s wrong?”
He points to the two men. Both are tall and fairly well-built like Jett, one has shaggy black hair and tattoos, while the other is dressed to the nines in an expensive looking business suit.
“My brothers,” he sighs. “I’m so sorry.”
The moment we open the doors, the two walk toward us. “What the hell?” the one in the suit says, looking outraged. “You got married?”
“And we had to find out from a fucking tabloid?” the other adds.
Jett takes a deep breath and turns toward me. “Claire, this is my older brother, Grayson, and my younger brother, Cade. Apparently they’ve come to celebrate our honeymoon with us.”
“Fuck off,” Grayson, the well-dressed brother, snapped. “We’ve put up with a lot of your shit over the years, but this is beyond the pale. I know you think you’re too good for us half the time -”
“I never said that!”
“- but you couldn’t even give us a phone call? Jesus, Jett, how selfish can you be?”
Cade extends a hand towards me. “Nice to meet you,” he says sarcastically. “I’m assuming you’re some foreign model I’ve never heard of?”
“Um.” I just look at his hand. “No, actually. I tutored Jett in college.”
Both brothers look shocked. “Wait,” Cade says, “you’re that Claire?”
“Oh my God!” I slap Jett’s shoulder. My voice quivers, “You told them about college?”
“At the time, yeah. I didn’t think they’d remember it.” Jett turns to his brothers. “Guys, listen. It’s not a big deal. Claire was having a, um, diffi
cult time, and we decided to help each other out. Larry thought I should get married, and Claire was available, so…”
“So you paid her to marry you?” Grayson asks. “That’s just creepy, Jett.”
“Not exactly,” Jett tries to explain, but Cade cuts him off.
“You must be pretty fucking desperate to marry him,” he says, nodding at his brother. “What, did you have a gambling debt or something? Some bookie threatening to break your bones?”
I’m surprised by the twinge of defensiveness I feel, not for myself, but for Jett. “Not a bookie,” I snap. “A boyfriend threatening to break bones. He succeeded once or twice, too. I don’t think he’s going to bother me now that I’m living with a team of bodyguards, though.”
All three brothers look down at the ground. My outburst, it seems, has made them uncomfortable. I made them uncomfortable. Stupid girl, getting kicked around by some asshole, I imagine them all thinking.
“Now,” I say, “if you don’t mind, I’m going to go inside and find a bedroom.” I grab my meager bag of belongings, a couple of outfits I bought on the way out of Vegas. “It was not completely terrible meeting you.”
I storm into the house, trying to block out the whispers that follow me through the door.
*
“Claire? Claire, where are you?”
I gasp at Jett’s voice and wipe hastily at my eyes. I had tried to find the most secluded, out-of-the-way guest room in the house, but I knew Jett would find me eventually. Crap. I had hoped he wouldn’t find me sitting in my new bed and sobbing.
The door opens slowly. “Claire?” Jett takes in my puffy, red eyes and trembling lip. “Shit, I’m sorry. My brothers were just being dicks. They were pissed at me and ended up taking it out on you, and that wasn’t cool.”
“They’re fine. I get it. I… I’m not crying about them,” I stammer, wiping my nose and hugging my knees to my chest.
Jett frowns and sits on the end of the bed. “Then what are you crying about?”
“About - Jesus, about everything.” I throw my hands in the air. “This whole thing. I already feel like garbage all the time, and this is just making it worse. First I have a boyfriend who looks at me like I’m some dog shit he stepped in, I barely have any possessions, and nothing that I can actually purchase for myself, I have a husband who thinks I’m some ugly little mutant that’ll make women think he’s sensitive, and my new brothers-in-law, along with everyone else probably, think I’m just some, some, some fuck-whore.” I can’t stop my tears from flowing, but I cover my face with my hands. “I try not to let shit get to me, but there’s only so much a person can take. And now, the only person in the whole world that I have to talk to is you, the inventor of the Titless Wonder.”
