His Virgin Bride

by Riley Rollins

"There's a guy with you."

  How does she always know?

  "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," I reply.

  She cocks an eyebrow. "You can't lie to me, Leah. I know you too well."

  And she does, too, which is the infuriating thing. Somehow, it's not enough to keep my mouth shut. I never leaked a word to her about Luke, and yet somehow, she knows. She knows. How does she do it?

  "Damn you," I say. "How do you do it?"

  She grins. "I knew it."

  "Answer me!"

  She laughs. "Because I have ESP."

  "Seriously."

  "Fine. I'll be serious. Because for the last few days, you've been checking your phone way more than is normal for you. That can only mean one thing."

  Ugh. Are my tells really that obvious? I guess so.

  "Fine," I say. "There may be 'a guy.' But nothing's going to happen." I slurp down another spoonful of noodles, then decide my pho needs to be spicier. I squirt a bunch of Sriracha into it and stir it around until the broth turns red.

  "And why is that?"

  "Because he's way out of my league."

  "Leagues don't exist."

  "B.S."

  "They don't.," says Aya. "And if they did, no man would be out of yours."

  I know that I shouldn't say what I'm about to say. It's only going to lead to more questions. But I just can't help myself. "Super rich, handsome guys are out of my league, and you know it."

  "Whoa-ho," says Aya, contorting her face into a look of combination surprise and approval. "Rich and handsome?"

  I decide not to elaborate on just how rich Luke Steele is, because it can't lead anywhere good. "Yes, both," I say. "I wasn't even sure I should text him back. That's how far out of my league he is."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. But yesterday evening he actually texted me back. And he said he can't stop thinking about me, and that he wants to see me again."

  "Is he a nice guy?"

  "Kind of? He can be sort of pushy, though."

  "Well screw him, then."

  "I guess."

  "No, I mean screw him."

  "Aya!" I realize what she actually means, and I feel myself turn red. Aya literally never gives up on trying to convince me to give up my v-card. Literally never.

  She laughs and I force myself to suppress my own laughter so she doesn't get any satisfaction.

  "Give me a break, seriously. Not everyone needs to lose their virginity by the time they graduate from college."

  "If you say so."

  "I do."

  "Fine, then," says Aya. "If you're not taking him, I will. Give me the deets."

  I roll my eyes. "He's mine, not yours."

  Aya looks confused. "I don't get you, Leah." She picks out a piece of beef from her soup, and starts chewing on it. "What are you waiting for?"

  I feel like we've had this conversation a million times. She's never understood before, and I don't think she ever will. It's not that I'm a prude. I'm not afraid of the idea of having sex. I just don't want to do it until I'm with a guy who'll mean something.

  Maybe Luke is that guy, though. He makes me feel more things than any other guy has in a long time, and I'm incredibly attracted to him.

  And now that I know he wants to see me again, I'm feeling more confident. Actually, I really can't wait to see him again.

  There was one guy in my past who I thought was the one for me. Edward, my first, and only serious boyfriend. I met him back in college at NYU.

  At first I thought he was a good guy who would wait until I was ready. But he always liked to party and drink, and I started to have my suspicions that there was something going on behind my back. And since he was my first serious boyfriend, I was too afraid to break up with him, which is what I should have done all along.

  Because in the end, I found out that I was right. Since he wasn't getting to screw me, he was screwing practically everything else. I still don't know how he kept it from me for so long. Either he was a master manipulator, or I was a truly naive child who only believed what she wanted to believe. Or maybe it was a combination of both.

  Whatever. I'm over it now. At least I managed to escape with my dignity mostly intact, and my v-card still in my possession.

  But now I'm more determined than ever not to give it up except to a guy who'll treasure it. And me.

  The truth is though, Edward and I never did anything below the belt at all. I've never actually gotten a guy off before, and a guy has never done it to me. That might be my deepest, darkest secret.

  I can't even imagine what Aya would say if I told her I've never gone past second base. I mean, there's a big difference between being a virgin and being completely inexperienced. I'd never hear the end of it. So I keep my mouth shut. I have absolutely no plans to tell her about that part of the situation.

  It gives me a lot of anxiety when I think about being with someone like Luke, though, who must have an incredible amount of experience in bed.

  "Aya, we don't need to go over this again."

  "Fine, but you know what I think."

  "Trust me, I do."

  "Someday you'll do it. Someday you'll bang."

  "Someday," I say with a grin, "but not today."

  "Well, when are you going to meet up with Mr. Rich and Handsome again?"

  "I don't know," I say. "I'm going to let him make the next move."

  Aya sighs with exasperation. "Of course you are. It's a good first step, I guess."

  I laugh.

  I lie on my bed in my small basement bedroom, scrolling through cat memes on Reddit. After lunch with Aya, I went to the public library and spent all day finishing the edits to my first book. I can't wait to submit the final draft to my editor so the publication process can get started.

  The day I get to walk into an actual bookstore and buy a copy of my own book is going to be one of the greatest days of my life. It's something that I've been looking forward to forever, and now that it's actually going to be a reality, I can barely wait for it. It won't be long now.

  Now, I just have to get focused on the rest of the books in the series and knock them out of the park, so that Diamond House renews my contract after this series.

  Waitressing is really, really not something I can see myself going back to. And I won't have to, as long as I do this right, and I don't blow the opportunity that I've been given.

  100% effort is what I'm going to put in, just like I always do. That's how I got to this point in the first place, by continuously improving the manuscripts I was sending in for publication, and being completely honest with myself about my weaknesses.

  That's what my dad always taught me to do, and I was brought up to believe that total self-honesty is the only way to live your life.

  But at this exact moment, I'm too tired to write another word. All I can do is soak up cat memes like a useless sponge.

  Then I hear a strange sound at my window. It sounds like knocking, but that doesn't make any sense.

  The window is a tiny little thing up at the top of the wall near the ceiling, just big enough to let a little bit of light into this miserable basement during the daylight hours. My spine straightens in bed and my stomach twists. I'm here by myself. Aya went out to get drinks with some guy, just like she does every night, and I'm home alone and vulnerable.

  And now there's some creep knocking at my window.

  Cautiously, I get out of bed and grab my baseball bat from the corner of the bedroom. I keep it here for protection, but I've never even had to pick it up, and now that I actually am, I don't feel like it's going to do much to protect me at all.

  Not like I could swing it with enough force to defend myself. Not like I'd even have the guts to swing a baseball bat at somebody.

  I like to think of myself as tough, but I'm pretty sure that if someone came down here, I'd just give up and hand over whatever they wanted.

  But I screw up my courage and hold the bat right to my chest. "Who's there?" I say in
my most menacing voice.

  "Guess who," says a familiar voice.

  It's Luke's voice.

  Sighing with frustration, I drop the bat onto the rug on the floor and step up to the window. I reach up on my tiptoes, undo the latches, and lift it up. Sure enough, there's his annoyingly handsome, smiling face. He must be laying down on the ground outside to be able to look in at this angle.

  "What in the ever-loving heck are you doing?" I say.

  He shrugs and grins. "Decided I'd been waiting long enough to see you again. Come on. Get dressed and come meet me outside."

  8

  Luke

  "I am not going to get on the back of that motorcycle," Leah says, exasperated. She has one arm crossed over her chest, and her free hand twirls the tip of her hair. "This is ridiculous. I don't want to end up as an oil stain on the highway."

  I grin at her. We stand on her street corner, and she looks back and forth nervously, like she's afraid of being caught out here with me.

  She looks so damn good in her t-shirt and sweatpants. I don't think she's wearing a bra, and it might just be my imagination, but I think I see the outline of a nipple through the fabric.

  "It'll be fine," I say. "We won't ride on any highways. Just through the city."

  She puts her hands on her hips and looks at my motorcycle. It's bright red and has "Ducati" emblazoned on the gas tank.

  After a day of hell at the office, a joy ride is exactly what I needed tonight. Well, that, and to come here and finally see this gorgeous bombshell that I can't get my mind off of.

  I gesture to a second helmet strapped to the side of my bike. "Wear that. And I'll give you my riding jacket."

  "So let me get this straight," Leah says. She sticks out a hand in exasperation and counts on her fingers.

  "One, you come to my apartment late at night, uninvited, and you knock on my window. Two, you think I'm going to get on your motorcycle and ride around Manhattan like a crazy person. Three, you're even thinking about driving this bright red motorcycle around New York at night. Do you know that red vehicles are the most ticketed? Four—"

  I wave my hands back and forth like a movie director cutting a scene and I laugh. "Just loosen up and relax. Jesus."

  "So you think taking me for a motorcycle ride is going to get me to loosen up? You're disgusting."

  I pause for a moment to think before I get her drift. "That one wasn't actually a sexual joke," I say, grinning, "Surprising, I know. But I like where your head's at."

  "You're an animal," she says, shaking her head. I can't help grinning. I like seeing this feisty side of her.

  "I'd like to see you act like an animal," I say.

  She reddens. "You'll never have the privilege."

  "We'll see about that," I say, smirking.

  Leah looks mad, but she keeps eyeing the bike and I can tell she wants to be convinced.

  "You hungry?" I ask. Food is always a good way to get through to a woman's heart.

  "Well," she says, her voice suddenly becoming less defiant, "I was actually thinking about going out for some dessert."

  "What kind of dessert?"

  "Donuts."

  "I know a great donut place," I say. I lean over and unbuckle the helmet from the bike and hold it out toward Leah's chest. "We'll go the speed limit," I say with a wink. "Promise."

  I twist the Ducati's throttle and we roar over the Brooklyn Bridge toward Manhattan. The speedometer only measures kilometers per hour because I imported the bike straight from Italy.

  Soon we hit 160 k/ph, about 100 miles per hour. The bridge is completely clear and the roads are dry tonight. I'd never put Leah in danger if there were traffic or dangerous conditions. But it's a clear, quiet night and I'm completely in control of the bike.

  The engine roars between our legs, and her hands practically claw at my abdomen as she hangs on for dear life. But the only danger to us right now is the cops, and I'm not worried about them.

  For anyone with the amount of money and influence that I have, the cops aren't a real threat. Even if they pull us over, they'll let me go after they figure out who I am. That was one of the things I learned back in my party days.

  Sure, a patrolman might slap some handcuffs on me and maybe even take me into the station for processing, but once it gets escalated to a high enough level, I'll get a call from some police sergeant or the police chief himself, apologizing for the inconvenience and notifying me that the entire episode was nothing more than an unfortunate mix-up.

  Of course, I don't make a habit of abusing that privilege. Not anymore. I'm a mature, respectable guy now. Well, maybe except for late-night, high-speed donut runs.

  The wind rushes by our heads, but I can hear Leah yelling at me through our helmets. The one word that I manage to make out is: "SLOWER!"

  So naturally, I twist the throttle even harder, and I don't hit the brakes until we clear the Brooklyn Bridge and thunder into lower Manhattan.

  I pull to a stop at the first red light—I'll speed over an empty bridge, but I won't run a red light. You never know who might be jaywalking, and the last thing I want to do is hurt some innocent person who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  When we come to a stop, I flip my visor up and I hear Leah's flip up behind me as well. Riding at over a hundred miles per hour causes a ton of wind noise inside a helmet, and my ears are practically ringing as she hollers at me.

  "You're insane," she yells from behind me. "You said we were going to go the speed limit!"

  I turn around and grin at her. "We did. The speed limit is what I say it is."

  "You're absolutely nuts." She slaps my shoulder. "I trusted you."

  "I got you here in one piece, didn't I?" I say.

  "We could have died."

  "But we didn't."

  She starts to talk again, but the light turns green. I reach around behind me and flip her visor down for her, silencing her mid-sentence.

  I chuckle to myself as she squirms behind me on the bike. Yeah, maybe she'll be mad at me, but this is the most fun she'll have this month. She'll get over it.

  I flip my visor down, too, and we accelerate through the intersection toward Times Square.

  The scent of fresh donuts swirls in the air around us. I smell fresh fried dough, frosting, cinnamon sugar, and confectioner's sugar. I take in a deep breath and savor it as we stand in line.

  Leah stands next to me, my riding jacket hanging unzipped off her shoulders. She's breathing heavy like she just got done running a marathon.

  "What flavor do you like?" I ask her.

  She side-eyes me. "I like double chocolate. And it's especially tasty with a side of being alive."

  I smile, shrug, and roll my shoulders, stretching my muscles. "I don't know about you, but I feel more alive than I've felt all week. Hell, maybe all month."

  We get to the cash register and order a dozen donuts. This joint is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. In the middle of the night, it's mostly drunk college kids from NYU and the other colleges in the city. It reminds me of when I was younger and freer, and I like it.

  When the cashier rings us up, I pull out my debit card to pay, but Leah sneaks a $20 onto the counter and pushes it toward the cashier. "I've got this," she says. The cashier shrugs, the cash register dings, and he starts to make change.

  "This was my treat," I say. "It doesn't make sense for you to pay."

  "I told you," says Leah, "I don't accept hand-outs."

  "A couple free donuts don't qualify as a hand-out."

  "It's not up for debate."

  I chuckle as we navigate through the crowd of college kids. We sit down in a tiny booth in the corner of the shop, right by the window. Outside, the lights of Times Square flash in rainbow colors.

  Leah looks at me from across the booth. "It feels really good to finally be on solid ground," she says, grabbing a double chocolate donut from the white paper bag and tearing off a chunk. "I can't believe we just did that."
/>   I reach in the bag and pull out a plain white powdered sugar donut. "Got to feel alive after a long week of meetings with tight-asses."

  She eyes me like she's psychoanalyzing me again, and I can't lie, it makes me uneasy. I feel like she's actually looking inside my mind, as crazy as that sounds. She's clearly got a special talent for understanding people, and I like that about her.

  "Why not go out and unwind with some coworkers or friends?" she asks, tearing off another piece of donut.

  "Well," I say, shifting in my seat. "I don't hang out with a lot of people outside of work."

  She raises an eyebrow. "You're telling me you're a handsome billionaire and you don't have any friends."

  "I have no shortage of people who'd like to be my friend," I reply.

  "So what's the problem?"

  "Everyone wants to get something from me."

  "So you decide not to be friends with anyone, just to avoid the few bad seeds."

  "Hey," I say, "You asked me. I'm not complaining about it. I got my business and my finances to worry about. And I got my professional network. That's good enough."

  "But everyone needs real friendships. And relationships."

  "Doing just fine," I say. But the truth is, this kind of thing is exactly why I go out to eat lunch at Jacob's Deli, and why I like to get on my bike and ride to shit-holes like this donut shop. Because when I come to these places, no one knows who I am.

  Sure, they might see me wearing a nice suit, and maybe they'll assume I'm rich, but nobody knows the full extent of it. It gives me a temporary break from all the sycophants, yes-men, and sugar babies that always try to hang around me in my normal life.

  When I'm out like this, I don't have to worry that the people around me are trying to get insider information, or favors, or just cold, hard cash. I can feel completely normal for a while, and less lonely.

  But I'm not going to admit that to Leah. Or anyone. I don't feel comfortable talking about that sort of thing. That's why business is my escape.

  "You know," says Leah, "If you want to hang out with me and my friends sometime… that would be cool. For whatever it's worth."

  I grin at the thought of hanging out with a bunch of twenty-something girls, and I have a vision of them bustling around me and putting cucumber and mud masks on my face. "Sure," I say. "I'm willing to give that a shot."