by Tamie Dearen
“Uhmm,” he mumbled, as his thoughts scrambled about like mice in a maze. If Stephanie didn’t mind his eyes, could she possibly care about him more than she admitted? And what about his own feelings toward Stephanie? He’d never let himself consider the possibility of a romantic relationship. The same way he beat his body into submission with exercise and diet, he’d honed his emotions where Steph was concerned. Yet he’d failed, allowing himself to become dependent on her. Were there deeper feelings lurking beneath the surface? Was he in love with Stephanie, as Finn had suggested? Was he capable of love? And even if he admitted to being in love with her, didn’t she deserve better than a broken man?
“We’re here! I think I’m all shook up.” Steph sang the last phrase in a poor imitation of Elvis, chuckling at her own joke. “Let’s go.”
The door opened and Stephanie exited, her crutches clanking together as she dragged them out behind her. Branson followed her, using one hand to locate the top of the opening and his cane to find the curb. He stood up, waiting for Stephanie’s hand to guide him.
“Steph?” he called.
“Oh no! Branson, get back in the limo.” From a few feet away, her voice altered as if she’d been facing away and then swiveled toward him. Her crutches clomped back, and she grabbed his arm, clamping down so hard his adrenaline kicked into overdrive.
“What’s wrong? Did someone try to hurt you?” He attempted to shuffle in front of her, wishing he knew where the threat originated.
“No, but this place… it won’t work.”
“Why not? Is it a bad neighborhood? Are there drug dealers? Hookers? What is it?”
“It’s a wedding chapel.”
Chapter 15
Stephanie stared at the lettering on the glass door—Hunka Hunka Burning Love Wedding Chapel.
“Go on,” Branson urged. “What can it hurt?”
“We won’t actually be getting married, right?”
“We can’t. We don’t have a marriage license. The only person I can marry tonight is Finn.”
“Yes, but we won’t have to do the whole, I-do thing, will we?” If we have to go all the way through a fake ceremony, I might start crying. He’ll find out I’m in love with him. It’ll ruin everything.
“Would it be so hard to pretend we were in love?”
No. The hard part is pretending I’m pretending.
“I’m not much of an actress. It’d be better if we could skip the ceremony.”
“But Ellie would probably get a kick out of seeing her mom get married by Elvis on the video.”
“And how would I explain to her that you and I aren’t really married? Did you think of that?”
“You can tell her we made a movie together, like all those Elvis movies she watched.”
Yeah, but how will I explain it to my heart?
With a huge breath to bolster her courage, she pushed the door open and hobbled inside.
“Mr. Knight! We’re glad you made it.” A gray-haired man in a fifties-style suit—definitely not an Elvis look-alike—greeted them as they entered. “And this must be your lovely bride.”
She started to correct him. “We’re just here to—”
“That’s right,” Branson interjected. “This is Stephanie and I’m Branson.”
“I’m George. I’m the wedding director here.” He jotted down their names. “Mr. Sampson told me to take special care of you two. I understand you want the super bonus wedding package, right?”
“Whatever it takes to get signed pictures and a video with Elvis.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed, her fingernails biting into his skin. “What’re you doing?” she muttered from the side of her mouth.
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it,” he muttered back.
“Let’s take care of the financial details first,” George said, with a bright smile. “And if you’ll give me your marriage license now, I’ll be sure it gets signed. If we wait ‘til the end, couples sometimes forget. It’s not legal unless Priscilla signs it.”
“Priscilla? As in Elvis’ wife?” Branson asked.
“That’s right,” he said, as he swiped Branson’s credit card and handed it back. “Our wedding official is really named Priscilla. Only her last name is Parsons. She’s considered getting it legally changed to Presley. Wouldn’t that be cool? To have your marriage certificate signed by Priscilla Presley?”
“We aren’t getting Elvis?” Stephanie asked.
“You get Elvis, for sure. In the super deluxe bonus package, Elvis will sing you three love songs. Plus, you get digital images, an autographed print, and a video recording of the ceremony.” He frowned. “I don’t have your marriage license.”
“We don’t have one,” Steph replied. “And Branson’s in a pretty big hurry to get back to the hotel.”
George smiled, revealing a jagged broken front tooth. “I understand, man. Raring to get back for the honeymoon, right?” He doubled over, cackling with laughter until he started choking. Meanwhile, Stephanie searched the room for a hole to crawl into and hide until her face stopped burning. Her only solace was Branson appeared equally uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” he whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.
When did we put our hands together? Did I do that?
When George caught his breath, he coughed a few times, low and hoarse, like an old smoker. “Well then… no license? We’ll skip that part. We do it all the time.” George walked to a set of ornate doors and waved for them to follow. “Lots of people get married in Vegas without a license and have a legal ceremony later.”
“Can we skip the ceremony and just get the pictures and the video?” Steph asked, tottering behind him with Branson.
An incredulous voice behind them inquired, “You don’t want to get married?” The owner of the voice was woman, approximately the size and shape of a linebacker, sporting a low-cut blue-velvet dress and a mass of Orphan-Annie curls on her head. She stared for a long time, her round eyes, accented with thick black liner, taking in every detail of their appearance, and then burst out with a peal of laughter. “You’re teasing, aren’t you?” She stuck out a proportionately-sized hand. “I’m Priscilla. I’ll be doing the ceremony.”
For the first time, Stephanie realized how they looked—Branson in a sleek black tuxedo and her in a flowing, floor-length, designer gown that happened to be white, with tiny strands of embroidered coral flowers—exactly like a couple getting married. Would Priscilla believe Branson was wearing a tux for a charity tournament, while Steph had chosen her dress because it had a matching bolero jacket to keep her warm and a long skirt to hide the boot on her foot?
“We’re mostly here to get pictures with Elvis,” Steph explained.
The doors burst open and there stood a twenty-something Elvis in all his tight-white-panted, shiny-sequined glory. “Hello, darlin’,” he said, with a charming southern Elvis accent.
“Hi.” Steph couldn’t help the nervous giggle that escaped. She felt so silly, she was embarrassed to discover a video camera trained her direction.
Strains of music poured from overhead speakers and Elvis began to croon, “Love me, tender…” As he sang, his eyes zeroed in on Stephanie, his upper lip twitching, his body gyrating. He moved closer and closer, until he edged Branson out of the way. Her cheeks couldn’t have been any hotter if someone had lit a fire around her neck. When he finished the song on one knee, holding her hand and swearing that he loved her and he always would, George and Priscilla clapped and cheered.
He rose to his feet. “Thank you, very much,” he said, Elvis style.
“Can we get on with the ceremony?” Branson seemed irritated, probably because he wasn’t able to see the performance.
“You must be the blind groom.” Elvis turned and grabbed his hand, giving it a shake. “I’m Elvis. You’re a lucky man, marrying this beauty. Do you need help getting inside the chapel? There’s some steps at the front—might be kind of hard.”
Steph cringed. Branson hated it when
people assumed he couldn’t do anything without help, simply because he was blind.
“Shut up, Billy,” said Priscilla. “Pardon my son, Mr. Knight. He inherited my musical talent, but none of my social graces. Must’ve gotten those from his no-good, worthless daddy.”
“He’s your son?” Steph looked back and forth between the odd pair.
“I know.” Priscilla gave a conspiratorial wink. “He didn’t inherit my good looks either.”
“Sorry if I said something wrong.” Elvis apologized, his expression truly befuddled.
“It’s okay,” said Branson. “I’m not offended.”
“Well, you should be,” Priscilla insisted. “Billy, Mr. Knight here has more brains in the tip of his little finger than you do in your entire head. I believe he can navigate a set of steps without your help. Do you know who he is?”
“No.” Elvis scratched his head, staring at Branson as if he were an abstract painting.
“He owns Phantom Enterprises.”
“Oh geez!” Elvis snatched Branson’s hand again, and shook it even harder. “I’m your biggest fan. I own every video game you ever created.”
“That’s great,” said Branson in a tone that pleaded for interference.
Steph took pity and rescued him from his admirer. “I’m afraid I need my fiancé’s hand back, Elvis. And you might be surprised to know video games are only a small part of Phantom Enterprises.”
“Could I maybe get your autograph after the wedding, Mr. Knight? I could trade you for an extra Elvis print.”
“That’s enough, Billy.” Priscilla wagged a finger at him. “We need to start the wedding. Mr. Knight, come with me. We’ll wait in the front while Elvis walks your bride down the aisle.”
Elvis offered his elbow, and Steph place her hand in the crook, eyeing him with suspicion. “How old are you, anyway?”
“I’m old enough, sugar.”
She doubted it.
Crutches in hand, she stepped into the room, and there stood Branson, waiting at the front of the chapel, with George beside him, like a weird best man. The music began, and Elvis started singing I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You as they walked. Except it only took about half a verse to get to the front. The rest of Elvis’ song came while she and Branson stood awkwardly facing one another, once again holding hands. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought she would die any second. No doubt her drumming heart drowned out Elvis’ song. Yet Bran didn’t act as if he noticed.
His thumbs began to trace slow circles on the backs of her hands, calming her rapid breaths, but causing an ache in her chest. Each time she glanced up at him, his blue eyes were stripping her bare. He must know I’m in love with him. He can probably sense it through his fingers. Or feel it in is bones.
“Do you, Branson, take Stephanie, to be your lawfully wedded wife?” Priscilla asked in a sweet tone that belied her massive size. Stephanie thought no one would dare answer no, or Priscilla might beat them up. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, in sickness or in health, in poverty or wealth, forsaking all others until death do you part?”
After the question, the room fell deathly quiet. Trembling from head to toe, Stephanie stared at their joined hands, living out a silent nightmare. The fake ceremony was a mockery of her love. A tear dripped from her eye and trickled down her cheek, and for once, she was glad Branson couldn’t see. His hands squeezed her fingers, and she glanced at his face, shocked to find it wet with his own tears. His lips moved.
“I do.”
His answer was barely audible, but it rang in her ears and echoed inside her head, throwing her world into confusion. Was he acting? Or was it real? Surely he didn’t mean it. In two years, he’d never hinted he had feelings for her. If he loved her, why would he even consider marrying Carina?
His hand slipped inside his coat and emerged with a handkerchief to dab his eyes, as a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.
“I’ll get that.” George snatched it up, lest it mar the perfect photos of a wedding that was wrong on every level.
Priscilla repeated the same question to Stephanie. She said, “I do” before she lost her nerve, praying the rest of the ceremony would be quick, so she could escape this torture.
“Do you have rings?” Priscilla asked.
“No.” Steph sent her a pleading look. “Let’s skip that part.”
“I’m always prepared,” said George, as he retrieved a black cloth pouch from his vest pocket. “We have these solid gold rings available, just for you. They’re not included in the package, so they would cost an extra—”
“That’s okay,” Steph interrupted. “We don’t need—”
“We’ll take them.” At Bran’s reply, George flashed a smug smile. Tonight must’ve been a lucrative event for the little chapel.
Priscilla selected two bands. “These will do for the ceremony. We can trade them out after, if they don’t fit. Now Branson, take this ring and place it on Stephanie’s finger and repeat after me.”
Bran slid the thin band onto her ring finger and spoke in a strangled voice. His words of love and commitment had no more significance than the ones Elvis had sung to her. That it fit perfectly only sharpened the sting. She stared at the wedding ring on her hand, the image wobbling in her tear-filled eyes, and her heart ached at the perversion of meaning. It wasn’t real. It should’ve been made of cheap plastic, rather than gold.
Priscilla tapped her shoulder. “Your turn, dear.”
Moving as if she were swimming in a fog as thick as honey, Steph placed the ring on Branson’s finger and repeated Priscilla’s words. “With this ring, I thee wed, and promise to love, honor, and cherish you, with all that I have, and all that I am, as long as we both shall live.”
“By the authority vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
Would he complete the farce, sealing it with an empty kiss? For two years, she’d fantasized about this moment, never believing it would happen. He was everything she’d ever wanted. Every muscle coiled in anticipation, though she attempted to tamp down her expectations. It wasn’t like a single kiss from the lips of Branson Knight could wipe away the pain and humiliation of the sham wedding ceremony.
Branson’s hands rose in slow motion, cradling the sides of her face, tilting her chin up. Blood drummed in her ears, as his eyes closed and his mouth moved toward hers. His lips brushed against her own, only for a second, sparking a thousand nerve endings. Those lips returned, soft and tentative, a gentle caress that left her wanting more. Then his mouth slanted across hers. Colors erupted inside her head. Her hands locked around the back of his neck, to pull him closer. His demanding lips took possession of her mouth, as he stole her breath and stopped her heart in its tracks. She responded with a force born of years of unfulfilled desire. When his mouth wrenched away, he left her panting for air.
It was everything she’d dreamed it would be, and more. It was also an illusion. A mirage, taunting her with false promises. Fresh tears stung her eyes. Her insides hurt like salt on raw blisters. Even in a haze of pain, she recognized the weakness she’d exposed and hated herself for it. She was so hopelessly devoted to Branson Knight that she would replay the entire agonizing ceremony for another taste of his lips.
I’m such a fool. Like a wounded soldier who’d lost a battle, she limped outside, leaving Branson to collect the package that would become Ellie’s gift. Maybe she would throw away every mocking reminder and buy a pair of furry dice instead.
Five minutes later, she was back inside the limo with a solemn Branson. As they motored back to the hotel, he handed her an envelope. Inside was a flash drive and two signed photographs.
“Stephanie?”
“Branson, don’t. I can’t talk about it.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I thought maybe you…” He didn’t complete the sentence. Perhaps he sensed the feeble wall she’d erected around her emotions.
He was sorry. He regretted the ceremony as much as she did. He probably regretted the kiss as well. Everything was ruined. How would she be able to work for him, after this?
He knows. Steph balled her hands into fists, her nails biting into her palms. He knows I love him, but he doesn’t love me. He only needs me.
“I know you’re upset.” His voice broke into her thoughts. “But here’s something to make you laugh. George found that marriage license on the floor, and guess what… Priscilla signed it.” He pulled the license out and passed it to her. “So I think this means Finn and I are legally married.”
He snickered, shaking his head, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. When it burst from between her fingers, the dam broke. Stephanie laughed with Branson until they were both in tears and gasping for air.
“I’m just glad I didn’t have to kiss him,” Branson quipped. “I warned him about that.”
His comment sobered her as she, once again, relived their own shared kiss. No doubt, he hadn’t wanted the intimate contact, yet he pretended enough enthusiasm during the moment. Perhaps, with his experience and skill, a kiss felt no more personal than driving a car. More likely, her thrill at finally kissing the man she loved had simply blinded her to his reticence.
She was glad when the limo stopped at the hotel. With any luck, she could escape upstairs and leave Branson under the watch-care of his friends. Her pounding head would welcome the respite from the lights and noise of the casino.
The car door opened. “Welcome to the Grand Laurencia, where good times are had by all.”
Good times. Ha! Not even close. Steph’s eyes fell on the paper resting on her lap. All at once, the world tilted on end.
“Branson.” Her hand grappled toward him, clenching a wad of his tux coat, while she tried not to hyperventilate.
“Steph. What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t you and Finn.” Cold sweat broke out on her neck. “It’s you and me.”
Chapter 16
