He flips the channel, putting it on Good Morning America. The headline under the female anchor reads, “The King of Rock Takes a Queen.” The screen behind her is filled with a picture of Ten.
“In a shocking move that broke millions of hearts around the world, Tennessee King got married last night in a quickie wedding at the Palisades Hotel and Casino. And yes, Elvis even officiated.”
“Viva Las Vegas, right?” her smarmy co-host says.
No. No, no, no, no, no. Please tell me I didn’t get married last night. Please tell me I didn’t marry a total stranger.
My stomach sinks as I look down at my left hand, at the delicate eternity band sitting on my ring finger.
It feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me. I sink into the plush chair beside me, stunned, as they cut to a video of us during the ceremony.
A ceremony I don’t even remember.
We were obviously drunk as we said our vows, but we seem to have meant them. The look he gave me…it triggers something from the night before, and pieces come flooding back to me.
The way he kissed me. The sweet, yet filthy words he whispered in my ear as he moved inside me. The way he held me as we fell asleep, like I was something precious that needed to be protected.
I look at the ring again, trying to remember more.
Nothing comes.
When I look at Ten, his eyes are already on me. Brows furrowed, he stares at me like it’s the first time he’s truly seeing me this morning.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He looks pissed. Or maybe he’s just as confused as I am.
Well, he can’t be just as confused as I am, because I have no idea why this is even newsworthy. I mean, he’s obviously famous if the news is covering his wedding, but I still have no clue who this guy is.
Other than my husband, of course.
My eyes squeeze shut at the little reminder before I glance back at the TV. It’s playing concert footage from the night before last.
Apparently he’s the lead singer of a band. Kings + Thieves, according to GMA.
As I sit here watching the trainwreck that is my life unfolding on the TV screen, I absently realize I’ve heard that song before. It’s good.
You know what’s not good? When they cut to a picture of my Instagram feed.
“So who is Tennessee’s mystery bride?” the co-host asks. “We haven’t heard much about her. We certainly haven’t seen them together before last night.”
Oh, shit.
My stomach tangles into knots as the woman onscreen smirks.
“It seems that—in typical rock ’n roll fashion—Tennessee King got hitched to an, um, exotic dancer.”
“She’s a stripper?” her co-host asks gleefully.
Tears sting my eyes as both men in the room turn to look at me. Their judgment, although silent, is heavy and oppressive. I can practically hear all the nasty little thoughts going on inside their heads.
I’m almost relieved when my phone vibrates in my purse, until I realize it’s probably my mom, wondering where I am. Shit, she’s probably wondering who I am at this point. She has to know by now that I lied to her, and I’m not a cocktail waitress at Caesar’s Palace.
She has to know by now that her daughter’s a whore.
ELEVEN
Tennessee
She’s a stripper? I got married to a fucking stripper?
Hanging my head, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I feel a headache coming on.
Christ, Sawyer’s right. Bennett’s going to straight up kill me for this.
Just as my tequila-logged brain starts to grasp the full ramifications of what I’ve done—goodbye tour, hello rehab—a door slams, making me wince. I lift my head, realizing she’s shut herself in the bathroom.
Sawyer snorts. “Even the stripper’s embarrassed to be married to you.”
I cut a glare to my brother. “Don’t fucking talk about her like she’s less than. She’s still a person, for fuck’s sake.”
I get shit on all the time in the press, so I know how it feels to be talked about like you’re not even a person. Case in point, these two hyenas are still laughing at me on national television.
Scowling, I grab my boxers from the heap of clothes on the floor and stab my legs into them. My phone starts to blare from somewhere in the pile of jeans at my feet, and I groan when I finally fish it out of my pocket, seeing Bennett’s name on the screen.
Even his ringtone sounds pissed.
“Turn that shit off,” I tell Sawyer, glaring at the TV. Swiping right, I hold the phone up to my ear. “Unless you’re calling to say congratulations, I really don’t want to hear it, Bennett. It’s too early and I’m too fucking hungover.”
He snorts. “All right, then. Congrats, you idiot. Hope that piece of ass was worth losing half your money over.”
My teeth grit together as Sawyer leaves. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you got married without a prenup, dick-for-brains!”
Oh, shit.
I don’t remember much from last night, but that sounds about right. I have a bad habit of not looking before I leap.
“And a stripper? Seriously? Could you be more cliché?”
“I didn’t know she was a stripper,” I mutter quietly. Shit, I’m not even sure I know what her name is.
Bennett sighs. “This is gonna cost you, there’s no way around that. I doubt she’ll agree to an annulment, not when there’s a payday for her if she holds out for a divorce. Maybe if we offer her some money up front she’ll agree to the annulment…”
His words go in one ear and out the other as he talks about her like she’s just some gold-digger who’s looking for her fifteen minutes. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s probably right. I know squat about this girl other than the fact that she takes her clothes off for money and she willingly married a complete stranger.
That doesn’t bode well for me.
God, what the hell was I thinking last night? How in the hell did this random chick get me to marry her?
Her tits must be fucking filled with whiskey. That’s the only explanation I can think of.
I tune Bennett out as he reams me for being a careless drunk who can’t fucking keep it in his pants. He’s not wrong.
The bathroom door opens a second later, reminding me that my wife is still here. I’d completely forgotten.
When I turn to look at the girl awkwardly standing in the bathroom doorway, my frown eases. She looks…scared.
And fucking beautiful, if I’m being honest.
“I gotta go,” I say to Bennett, hanging up on him mid-rant.
She brushes a lock of wet curls behind her ear, her shy green eyes dropping to the carpet as she walks over and places something on the nightstand.
It’s her ring.
My frown is back as she murmurs, “We were pretty drunk last night. Shouldn’t be too hard to get an annulment.”
I don’t know what to make of this. Bennett had me convinced she’d be looking for a payout, but now that I’m face-to-face with her, she seems like a young girl who’s embarrassed by her mistake, not a shark circling the water.
“You want an annulment?” I ask skeptically. “Just like that?”
She kind of laughs as she adjusts the bag hanging off her shoulder. “Well we can’t stay married.”
The way she says it, like the idea of being married to me is just ridiculous, pisses me off. And even though I know damn well why we can’t stay married, it doesn’t stop me from asking, “Why?”
She shifts from one foot to the other, suddenly looking nervous. “I don’t even know you,” she half-whispers.
And I don’t even know her. Not really. All I have are hazy bits and pieces.
Like how she tastes. What she feels like. How dangerous her curves are under that sweatshirt and how beautiful she is when she comes.
She’s like a dream I can’t quite recall but at the same time I can’t forget, because I rememb
er how good she made me feel.
Like I was a person worth knowing. Like I was more than the lead singer of some stupid band.
Like there was still hope for me.
I may not remember the vows I said, but I’m slowly realizing I meant every word.
Pissed that she doesn’t remember, or maybe just doesn’t care, I take a step toward her. “You knew enough to say ‘I do.’ You knew enough to fuck me.”
She apparently doesn’t appreciate having that thrown in her face, based on the lethal glare she levels on me. “What’s my name? Huh? Five dollars says you don’t even remember.”
Goddamn it, she’s right.
My mouth thins into a harsh line as I pace away from her, willing my brain to push through the haze of booze still clouding it.
“Whatever,” she mutters, digging through her purse. She pulls out a pen and a piece of paper, scribbling something on it before setting it next to her ring on the nightstand. “Have your lawyer send me the paperwork.”
I’m in front of her before I realize what I’m doing. “You can’t leave.”
“Why?” she demands.
I have no fucking clue. I just know that I can’t let her walk out that door.
I feel like once she does, I’ll never see her again.
Running my hands through my hair, I huff out a breath. “You ever have one of those dreams where you can’t remember the details; you just remember how good it felt?”
She nods slowly.
“You see where I’m going with this?”
“No,” she says, clearly getting frustrated.
“Look, I may not remember your name, but I know we married each other for a reason. Aren’t you the least bit curious to find out what it is?”
She looks at me warily. “What are you asking?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. “I don’t know. Have breakfast with me while I figure it out.”
TWELVE
Caroline
I kind of wish I’d never agreed to breakfast.
Not that Ten’s not nice, or anything. In fact he’s gone out of his way to make me feel as comfortable as our awkward situation will allow. He ordered a veritable feast for breakfast and even put clothes on when he realized I was having trouble looking in his general, half-naked vicinity.
The reason I wish I’d never agreed to this is simple: I have no fucking clue what to say to this man, who is apparently now my husband. And it seems like I’m not the only one who has this problem, because aside from our phones going off every ten seconds, breakfast has been uncomfortably quiet.
I risk a glance at Ten across the table and fight the urge to roll my eyes when I find him already staring at me. Again. “Dude, you gotta stop.”
Ten chuckles, dropping his eyes to his plate. “Sorry. I’ve never had a wife before. I don’t know how to act.”
My face heats as I take another bite of bacon. “I’m not your wife,” I awkwardly mumble around my food. “Not for long, anyway.”
This only makes his smile widen. “I never thought I’d like being rejected this much.”
Wiping my hands on my napkin, I take a drink of OJ. “Well I never thought Elvis would officiate my wedding, but here we are.”
He leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “You’re pissed we didn’t go with Sammy.”
“Who?”
He snickers. “Nothing.”
My eyes narrow on him as I watch him eat. “How much do you remember?” Seems like it’s more than me.
He stuffs a forkful of pancakes into his mouth before a wicked smirk curves his lips. “More than you probably want me to.”
“Not about that,” I mutter, feeling the blush color my cheeks again. I pick up my fork and play with my scrambled eggs. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
Something flickers across his face before he frowns. “You didn’t know?”
A lot came back to me while I was taking a shower, but the fact that he was a famous rock star wasn’t one of them. “Not until I saw us on the news.” I smile ruefully, hoping that what I’m about to say doesn’t hurt his sense of pride. “I had to Google you when I got into the bathroom.”
He cringes. “I really wish you hadn’t done that. The media doesn’t always portray me in the best light.”
I scoff. “Looks like we have that in common.”
“Sorry about that.” Ten runs a hand over his face. Setting his fork on his plate, he sighs. “If it wasn’t for me, your face wouldn’t be plastered all over the news. No one would give a shit what you do for a living.”
“My family would. Or does, I guess, since I’m sure they know by now.” What do you know? My appetite’s gone. I set my napkin next to my plate, pushing it away. “Thanks for breakfast, but I need to get home and face the music.”
He pushes his chair out when I stand. “I’ll go with you. I should probably meet my in-laws anyway.” His smirk fades when he sees my horrified expression. It softens his face as he says, “Your house is probably swarmed with paparazzi. It’ll be easier to fend them off with me and a few of my security guys.”
Grabbing my purse, I frown. “You really think they’ll be camped outside my house?”
“I bet they’re camped downstairs too.” He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. “Ready, Caroline?”
The tiniest smile lifts my cheeks. “You looked at the paper I left on the nightstand.”
“How else was I going to learn my wife’s name?” he asks wryly.
***
Ten was right. It’s a circus outside when we try to leave the hotel. He gives me his sunglasses to wear while giving me a pep talk about how to deal with paparazzi, which is basically to just keep your head down and ignore them, no matter what ugly things they shout at you.
And they are ugly, indeed.
Apparently Roger’s telling anyone who’ll listen that he fired me last night for “inappropriate customer relations” and that Sinful Temptation doesn’t endorse prostitution. Yep, that slimy little weasel is going around telling the press that I was fired for being a hooker.
I freeze when a photographer asks me if it’s true, unable to keep the shock off my face, but Ten slips his hand in mine and leads me to the waiting SUV while his beefy security guys clear a path.
Once we’re inside and away from prying eyes, I break down.
“Hey,” Ten says softly, scooting over to wrap his arm around me as the driver pulls away from the hotel.
I wipe at my tears, trying to calm my hiccupped breathing. “It’s not true. What that guy said?” The security guys up front don’t seem to be listening, but it’s still weird trying to have a private conversation with someone when you’re not alone. I keep my voice low as I tell Ten, “I wasn’t fired for sleeping with the customers. I quit because they wouldn’t stop asking me to. Now the manager’s throwing me under the bus because I might’ve kneed him in the balls when he said he wanted to ‘test the merchandise.’”
I scowl, feeling bile rise up from just saying it.
Ten’s whole body tenses up beside me. “What’s his name?”
“Why?” I ask slowly.
“I need something to put on his tombstone besides ‘nutless dickbag.’”
I smile despite the tears drying on my face, but it doesn’t last. “I’m sorry.” Biting my lip, I shake my head. “Not only did you marry a stripper, but you also married a whore according to those photographers. Your label must be thrilled.”
He looks completely indifferent as he wipes the last tear from my cheek. “Fuck ’em. They don’t know you like I do.”
I laugh. “Yeah? And how much do you know about me, Mr. I-met-you-less-than-twenty-four-hours-ago?”
Brushing my hair behind my shoulder, he leans in, murmuring in my ear, “I know what you look like naked and how tight your pussy squeezes me when you come.”
My eyes flutter shut, my whole body heating at his words.
Despite the gaps in my memory from last night, I do re
call the sex being… Well, fucking spectacular.
He leans back, his eyes darting to my parted lips. It looks like he wants to kiss me, but I’m not sure I want him to.
For one, we’re not alone. And two, I don’t even know what this is.
I mean, yes, technically we’re husband and wife, but we’re not going to stay that way. Right?
We’re just a one-night-stand that…doesn’t seem to know its own expiration date.
“I also know that you make me feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. You’re generous. Kind. Thoughtful.” He shrugs. “You’re everything I didn’t know I wanted.”
His simple words make me feel anything but. They warm my chest, making emotion flood me.
I can’t put my finger on what exactly I’m feeling. I just know that I’m not ready for it.
I’m not ready for this easy back and forth between us—this chemistry I can’t deny. It’s bringing back all kinds of memories from the night before.
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like the bench seat of this giant SUV is too cramped. “I think I know how you got me to marry you.”
Ten grins. “Any idea how I can get you to stay married to me?”
My eyes narrow on him. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “What are you saying?” I ask carefully.
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the ring I left on the nightstand. Ten stares down at it for a second before holding it out to me. “I’m saying let’s give this marriage a shot.”
Incredulous laughter bubbles out of me. “Are you still drunk?”
“No,” he says, growing exasperated. He takes my left hand in his and slips it on my ring finger. “I might not remember all the vows I said last night, but I remember how it felt. I’m not ready to lose that. Are you?”
This is crazy. He can’t be serious. “Ten…”
“C’mon, what have you got to lose?”
I’d say my privacy and anonymity, but that ship’s already sailed, hasn’t it? “I can’t be married to you. I don’t even know you,” I mutter quietly.
Perfect Ten: A Rockstar Romance Page 6
