Not So Nice Guy

by R.S. Grey

  “IAN!” my mom shouts, desperate. “What is she wearing?!”

  I scan down her body. “A white dress…lace.”

  “Poofy?”

  “Straight.”

  I’m not sure how she managed to find it so quickly, but it looks like it was made just for her. The top of the dress is fitted and the V-neck dips down across her chest, her creamy skin glowing under the night sky. The bottom half flows around her legs as she walks.

  “Is her hair up?”

  “No. It’s down and wavy and long, the brightest thing in the room.”

  A few kids stop and stare at her as she passes. One girl asks, “Mom, is she a fairy princess?”

  I wipe the back of my hand across my cheeks, jerking away the tears in the manliest way possible. It’s no use. Sam’s crying too, crying and laughing as she nears me. When she gets close, I finally notice she’s holding the red rose I left on her desk with a blue handkerchief tied around it.

  “Hi,” she says shyly.

  “Hi.”

  “I like your tuxedo.”

  “I love your dress.”

  Her eyes widen at the compliment, and then she glances down, smoothing her hand over the fabric. “I found it at a consignment shop. $30.”

  “Nice.”

  “I bet you look so beautiful, Sam!” my mom shouts.

  Sam jerks up and looks around, trying to figure out where the voice came from. I pat the breast pocket of my tuxedo. “My parents wanted to be here too.”

  She laughs and tips forward until her mouth is aligned with the phone. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher!”

  “Call us Mom and Dad!” they shout in unison. “If you want!”

  The rabbi steps forward and introduces himself to Sam. He and I talked logistics and he knows the drill. We can’t loiter here for very long. This can’t be a full-length ceremony.

  “Rabbi?” Sam mouths to me as he gets started.

  I smile and shrug.

  “You two might not know,” the rabbi says, “but a traditional Jewish wedding ceremony takes place under the chuppah, or a canopy, which symbolizes the home the new couple will build together.” We must look confused, because he continues. “So, getting married beneath the entire Milky Way might mean the two of you have quite the future ahead of you.”

  “Even if we aren’t Jewish?” Sam asks.

  He laughs. “Even then.”

  I keep one eye trained on the entrance to the room as he continues. If we’re careful, we should be able to pull this off. He tells Sam and me to join hands, and I see a security guard lock eyes on us then speak hurriedly into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder. I swear I hear him whisper, “We’ve got a Code Matrimony, all units please respond.”

  “Oh god.”

  Sam follows my gaze. “What?”

  “I think we’re busted.”

  “Busted? What do you mean?”

  I turn back to the rabbi. “Plan B.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulls the rings I gave him out of his back pocket and asks us quickly if we take the other person as our lawfully wedded husband and wife. We quickly say yes and Sam’s hand is shaking as I fumble to put her ring on. I had to guess the size, but it fits and she’s really my wife now. I’ll have time to revel in that fact later.

  “Ian, what’s going on?! Why are we rushing?”

  I don’t have time to fill her in because the security guard is onto us and we still have to sign the marriage certificate. I hand her the pen and turn around so she can use my back as a desk to scribble her signature just as another security guard joins the first. They start making their way toward us. I sign as fast as I can.

  “GO!” the rabbi shouts, yanking the certificate out of my hand. “I’ll drop this in the mail for you guys! GO! HURRY!”

  I grab Sam’s hand and take off toward the exit across the room from the security guards. She trips over the hem of her dress before she reaches down and hoists it up to her knees.

  “Why are we running?” she shouts, but I don’t slow down. “Ian!”

  “Hurry, c’mon. The museum has a strict policy against unsanctioned ceremonies!”

  “What?!”

  “It’s like $20,000 to get married here. We aren’t millionaires!”

  Security is rushing toward us and calling for backup. I pull Sam to the left, using a group of preschoolers as little human shields as we rush out of the room. The entrance to the museum is in sight, but we still have to make it through the entire front lobby. There’s a large fossilized T-Rex standing between us and freedom. I want to run between his legs, but then we’d really be in trouble.

  I veer around it.

  “Hurry! HURRY! They’re coming!”

  “HEY! YOU TWO LOVEBIRDS! HALT OR WE’LL CALL THE POLICE!”

  Sam screams then breaks out in a fit of laughter. “Oh my god! They’re going to lock us in museum jail!”

  We break free of the museum and I keep running once we’re outside, tugging Sam after me. I didn’t necessarily know we’d need a quick getaway when I was planning today, but this arrangement works out nicely. We’re across the street and inside the lobby of a swanky hotel before the security guards even make it out of the museum. I turn and glance back just as they dart outside. They jerk their gazes this way and that, scratching their heads like we up and vanished into thin air.

  “Are we going in here to throw them off our scent?” Sam asks as we rush through the lobby.

  Everyone stops and stares at us, not only because we’re running in a fancy hotel but because we’re very clearly dressed like we just got married. Sam’s still holding her rose.

  We’re at the elevators and I press the up button incessantly.

  “We probably need a room key to use the elevator,” Sam says, clutching her chest like she’s about to keel over.

  It’s in my wallet.

  The elevator dings and slides open. We step inside and I press the button for floor 4.

  Her eyes slice to me and I unfurl a slow smile. “Happy honeymoon, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  It’s the first time we’ve stopped since I initially saw her in the museum. It’s our first moment to breathe.

  “No way! Only rich people stay here! Mafia Dons and foreign dignitaries and Beyoncé!”

  “If anyone asks, we’re from the Russian consulate. Let me hear your accent.”

  “Iz theez the ótel Zaza?”

  “Too French.”

  “Right. Let’s just say I’m the Queen of France.”

  “Wasn’t Marie Antionette the last queen of France?”

  Then, her hand flies to her chest and her eyes go wide. “IAN!” Her chest is rising and falling dramatically. She’s gulping in air like she hasn’t breathed in a decade. “We didn’t kiss. We didn’t have our first kiss!”

  She says it as if it’s a deal breaker, as if because there was no kiss, we aren’t really married.

  The elevator ascends and I only have seconds to make it happen, but it’s enough. I cross the elevator and push her up against the handrail. My hand cradles her cheek as I lean down. I can feel her pulse beating wildly. Her tongue wets her bottom lip in anticipation. She sucks in a sharp breath and her hand tightens around my wrist.

  “You may now kiss the bride,” I whisper before pressing my mouth to hers.

  Now she’s officially mine.

  “Uh, yeah…” my mom says from my tuxedo pocket. “By the way, we’re still here.”

  21

  S A M

  We’re running down the hall to our hotel room and my cheap, poorly fitted shoes are gone. I have no clue when exactly they fell off, but I’m barefoot now and the floor is lava. It’s burning our feet and we both know without saying—only the hotel bed will be safe.

  “Hold on,” Ian says, and before I can ask him what he’s doing, he yanks me to the side, crashes us up against the wall, and kisses me, hard. That elevator ride sparked something. We can’t get enough of each other. Good thing he hung up on his parents or I’d ne
ver be able to make eye contact with them again.

  His hips press forward, pinning me in place. His hand curves around my neck and I’m fisting his tuxedo jacket like I’m trying to rip it in two. I’ve never kissed someone while this worked up. We have to break apart every few seconds to gulp in air or we’ll die, but then we go right back to it. He takes my lower lip in his mouth and bites down. Tingles ZING down my body until they settle right between my legs. I’m warm and turned on and anxious to make it to our room.

  Actually, any room.

  “Where do you think they keep the ice machine?”

  “Why?”

  “I think we should just try to make it there. It should be secluded enough.”

  “No, we’re almost to the room.”

  He says this while nuzzling my neck and fingering the zipper of my dress. Dear god, I think he’s going to strip me down right here.

  A door opens down the hall. Voices filter in our direction and we take off running again.

  “What’s our room number?”

  “419. C’mon!”

  And we’re off. Ian is sixteen times my size and has legs that go on for miles, so he does the running and I am mostly just along for the ride. I’m a small teddy bear flailing in the wind behind him.

  There’s no danger. The security guards gave up the chase as soon as we left the museum, but I don’t think Ian and I are running from danger anymore; we’re running toward it.

  “412!” he shouts, picking up the pace.

  “Agh! I have a cramp! Go on without me!”

  He doubles back and hooks his arm under my legs so he can swing me up against his chest. He runs the last few yards carrying me against him, and for the first time all day, we’re the stereotypical image of a bride and groom. He’s about to carry me over the threshold.

  We reach the room and he holds me with one arm as he extracts the key with the other.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, would you do the honors?”

  The name chokes me up, but I don’t let him see my reaction. I focus instead on trying to turn that little red light green. It takes 45 years. I’m too impatient.

  “Hold it there for longer,” Ian instructs.

  “I am!”

  Of course I’m not. I tap it, jerk the knob, and curse when we’re still locked out.

  “Here, gimme.”

  Ian yanks it out of my hand, opens the door, and sweeps me inside. I don’t touch the lava even once. He tosses the key and my rose in the general direction of the desk then hauls me up against the back of the door. My lace wedding dress gets shoved up somewhere near my thighs, not because we’re there yet, but because it’s the only way to wrap my legs around him without tearing the delicate fabric. Still, it tears a little.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” Ian says, breaking our kiss to glance down.

  “I DON’T CARE—KISS ME!” I jerk his face back to mine and kiss him senseless. His tongue sweeps into my mouth as I tilt my head, and we’re kissing like someone’s about to grab ahold of each of us and drop us on boats sailing to opposite ends of the world.

  “I…I think I need water.”

  I really do. I’m parched, and if we’re going to do this all night (which we are) I need proper hydration. Ian sets me down on the ground very carefully while also taking hold of my hand. He leads me into the bathroom and fills two glasses with water. We drink them while staring at each other in the mirror. We swallow the last of it and drop them to the counter at the same time. Our reflections breathe heavily, eyes locked. The tile in the bathroom matches his eyes. I feel like I’m surrounded by Ian on all sides.

  He steps behind me and drops his hands to my shoulders. It’s a perfect fit with me nestling snugly under his chin. I meet my own reflection and realize how wild I look. My waves have gone mad. My chest and neck and cheeks are flushed. My eyes are bright, wide, and rimmed with coal black mascara. I wore red lipstick to the museum, but it’s been completely kissed away.

  “Do you have your cell phone? Mine didn’t go with my dress.”

  He nods and tugs it out of his pocket. I hold it up and capture us just like that, with his hands on my shoulders and our mouths beet red. It’s the only photo we’ll have of our wedding day—well, other than the grainy museum footage of us they’ll show on the local news, and probably America’s Most Wanted—so I take three more just in case.

  “I can’t believe we actually went through with it,” I say, setting his phone on the counter.

  Ian toys with the straps on my dress, brushing his fingers underneath so his knuckles rub against my skin. I shiver and shift my gaze to his reflection. He’s staring down at me, watching his hands at work. He’s concentrating hard, brows furrowed deep in thought.

  “How do you feel?” he asks. “Any regrets?”

  “None.”

  In a flash, his eyes meet mine and any remaining resolve burns away.

  He unzips my lace dress in one quick tug and it pools at my feet. I’m wearing a matching bra and panty set in the palest shade of blue—Ian blue. Like my dress, they’re lace. Unlike my dress, they’re brand new. I picked them up yesterday at a lingerie shop. I rubbed the silky fabric between my fingers and imagined Ian looking at me while I wore it. Reality is better. His eyes devour my newly revealed skin: my delicate collarbones, the soft swell of my breasts above the lace cups, my quivering stomach. There’s a tiny bow at the top of my panties, in the very center, and that’s where Ian’s eyes stop for a short eternity.

  “Sam…” He exhales, sounding pained.

  “I’m not Sam—I’m the Queen of France, remember?”

  He reaches one arm around my stomach and tugs me back against him. My butt hits the front of his tuxedo pants and I feel his hard length press against me. His fingers dip beneath my panties and my stomach swoops.

  Not so fast. I turn and push him away so I have room to turn and hop up on the counter.

  “You have to undress too. Bareness is fairness.”

  “Want to do it for me?”

  “No. I want to watch.”

  He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. If I had a radio handy, I’d tune it to slow jams, something he can sway his hips to. I want a show.

  First, he bends down and picks up my wedding dress so he can hang it on the back of the door. I’m about to call him out for stalling, but it’s a sweet gesture, so I let it slide. When that’s done, I lean forward and wait. If this were a cartoon, I’d have a cloth napkin tied around my neck and a knife and fork clenched in my fisted hands.

  “You sure you don’t want to move to the bed?”

  “Ian.”

  He relents, tugs his bowtie loose, tosses it onto the counter beside me. I reach for it and loop it around my neck. Now, I look like I’m all wrapped up, a present just for him. Clearly, he likes the idea, because he pauses and moves forward to kiss me, brushing his hands around the curve of each breast. I tsk and push him back to the task at hand.

  “You’ve got a long way to go, buddy boy.”

  His shirt goes next, and there is no chest more perfectly toned than Ian’s. He takes his workouts very seriously, and I applaud his efforts. Next, he reaches for his pants.

  “No, wait. Come closer,” I beg.

  He steps within reach and my hands feast on his chest and shoulders. I pick a favorite part—his biceps—and then immediately change my mind—his abs.

  “Are you flexing?”

  “No.”

  “Did you do pushups in the museum before I got there or something?”

  He laughs. “They actually frown on using the place as a gym as well as an illegal wedding chapel.”

  “So you just look like this…always?”

  That can’t be the case. We’ll never leave the house. I can’t be married to someone with this kind of body. People will pass us on the streets and wonder why he settled.

  “What about you?” His hands are on my waist and he’s tugging me to the edge of the counter. I stay perfectly silent while he touches me, scared of
the strange primal noises that could slip out of my mouth if I let them. “Are you this smooth everywhere?” he asks, dipping the tips of fingers into the waistband of my panties.

  My stomach clenches and I dig my fingers into his shoulders.

  Dirty questions like that will get him mauled. He really should be careful.

  His head tilts down to rest on my shoulder and he sighs. “I’m losing my head here, Sam.”

  My fingers thread through his hair and I let him hold me for a few seconds before I remember my goal. “You can continue now. I want to see the rest.”

  “You saw me naked in the shower,” he reminds me, stepping back and unbuttoning his pants.

  “That was ages ago. I need a refresher.”

  His tuxedo pants fall to the floor and Ian stands in front of the hotel shower in nothing but a pair of white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. I bite my lip, tilt my gaze to the ceiling, and count to ten.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Praying.”

  “It looks like you’re about to break off a chunk of that granite counter.”

  Maybe I am.

  “Wait.” He steps closer. “We aren’t even. You need to catch up now.”

  I stare back down at him with an arched brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Your bra…lose it.”

  It’s Not So Nice Ian talking now—demanding, in fact.

  I think my face goes slack.

  “Or do you need help?” he asks with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  He steps forward and I hold up my hand to stop him. If he touches me, that’ll be the end.

  I reach back and find the clasp for my bra. “Are you sure?”

  He tilts his head and grins. “You’re right, leave it on.”

  I sigh and drop my hand. “Phew. Okay.”

  In one second, he’s on me, reaching around and unhooking that clasp. The lace cups fall away and cool air rushes in. My nipples tighten and I wrap my arms around myself to cover up, but then I remember it’s Ian who’s standing in front of me, my husband. My breath rushes out of me every time I think that word. I can’t be shy around him. He’s waiting for me, rubbing his thumb just below my ear, up and down the side of my throat, coaxing. Slowly, I drop my arms, and he releases a shaky breath. I look down to see what he’s seeing. My breasts are cream and pink and perky, and they really are decent, not so big that they’ll knock someone out, but when Ian reaches for them, they fill his palm, and best of all, they’re oh so sensitive. My head tips and hits the mirror behind me as my eyes roll into the back of my skull. He’s working his magic, rolling his thumbs in slow circles, and then I hold my breath as he bends down to taste. Slowly, methodically, he takes each breast into his mouth, looking up at me while he does it.