The Pact

by Max Monroe

  My eyes narrow, and she starts to pace again, her earlier agitation coming back with a vengeance.

  “I was running from something much more life-altering than the office flirt. Something that I can’t actually run from… So, I guess, in a way, I was attempting to run from my own stupidity, but as you can see, I can’t really run away from myself. I just…just thought maybe I could run from tonight, you know?”

  I don’t have a fucking clue. This woman is intriguing, but also confusing as hell, and I don’t have a scrap of the time and energy it would take to figure her out.

  But I don’t have to crack the code of her innermost workings to be a little bit of what she needs tonight. To be an escape from reality. Surely my brothers can handle keeping themselves alive for one night without me. They’re all grown.

  Mind already made up, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and shoot off a message.

  Me: Something came up. Go ahead and start tonight’s festivities without me. Catch up with you later.

  Instantly, Remy responds with a, What are you talking about, bro?, but I promptly lock the screen and move my attention back to a still-pacing Daisy.

  I hold out my helmet again and jerk my chin to the space behind me.

  “Get on.”

  “Get on?” She repeats my words, surprise evident in her voice. “Why? Where are we going?”

  “Away from the Strip, and away from tonight. You in?”

  She considers me for a long moment, her eyes positively churning with the angst of endless possibilities. Whatever’s driving her inside, though, it wins.

  Taking the helmet from my hands, she nods and swings a leg over the bike again, leaning into my back. I pause before firing it up, three words making my chest rumble under her hands.

  “My name’s Flynn.”

  Daisy

  Bright lights dance through the dark window, and a car’s headlights flash by on the street. I follow the stimuli like a gnat searching for a place to land, even with an entire rectangle-shaped bar and several tables beyond that between me and the outside.

  The truth is, I haven’t known what to say since my new friend Flynn pulled up outside this little bar on a quiet street removed from the busy Vegas Strip. The glitz, the glamour—we left it all behind for life just outside the bubble, and with the way he is, that means neither one of us has uttered a syllable in over twenty minutes.

  It’s awkward—as I would expect it to be with a complete stranger—but somehow comfortable at the same time. There’s no overt pressure, no prying. In fact, he seems content to sit here and let me stew on myself for as long as I want.

  The bartender sets a fresh glass of ice water in front of me—a pointed choice I made given that I’m on the verge of a huge breakdown and in the presence of someone I know virtually nothing about—and I heave a sigh as Flynn stares blandly at the TV above us. There’s a game of some sort on, but I can’t tell for the life of me what’s actually going on. I think it’s something European.

  Rubbing my lips together roughly, I swallow once before finally clearing my throat, turning a little bit on my stool to face my companion, and I find my voice.

  “I guess you’re probably wondering what would possess a person to go screaming from a hotel in the middle of the night and hop on some random stranger’s motorcycle, huh?”

  He lifts his eyebrows, turning away from the TV to look at me directly, and I can only imagine the things he’s thinking. Probably that I’m reckless with my own well-being and maybe that I’m needlessly wild with my life at all times. Maybe he thinks I sleep around or prostitute myself or something. I mean, who knows at this point? I wouldn’t blame him.

  His blue eyes are calm, kind even, but as far as what’s running through his mind, they give nothing away.

  I nod to myself, answering for him. “Well, of course you are. I know I would be.” I scoff. “I’d be half tempted to call the police on my crazy ass, to be honest.”

  He smirks, and a nervous niggle makes my chest ache. Oh God, I hope he doesn’t call the police. They’ll report me to Immigration, and if I’m convicted of a crime, they’ll never give me another visa!

  I calm down briefly by reminding myself that he’s a big, tough guy and probably doesn’t have nearly the hair trigger about calling the police that a petite woman like myself would. On that thought, I lay out my thinking for him to digest. Plus, it’s always good for a man to get a little reality check about life as a woman.

  “Not that you’ve got as much to worry about as the average woman does. Statistically, nearly one in every five women is raped in their lifetime, and that fact doesn’t even take non-sexual assault into consideration. I mean, mugging and murder and all that included, it has to be like one in three, right?”

  “I’m not gonna call the police,” he says easily, and I’m almost surprised his voice isn’t scratchy from disuse.

  “Oh. Well, that’s good. For sure. I don’t want to be at the Wynn right now, but I don’t necessarily want to be in jail either, ya know?”

  He almost smiles, sitting back in his seat and rotating his body slightly to face me. It’s a small change physically, but mentally, I feel as though he’s placed a big, warm hand on my thigh and squeezed. I shift and fidget a little under the extra attention. It’s so intense, it almost feels like scrutiny.

  “Jail would be really bad, actually,” I state with a shake of my head. “Pretty sure it would make everything worse.”

  “It usually does.”

  “Ha!” I laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. It does. But in this case, I’m pretty sure it would mean I was completely and totally screwed, like, no take backs ever. And right now, I’m just in the utterly fucked department.”

  His forehead wrinkles slightly, but if it weren’t for that, I’d swear he didn’t even care to know what was going on with me at all. I don’t get it. If some stranger shanghaied me like I did him, I’d be doing the million-question march right now.

  I rub at the condensation on my water glass and sigh. Maybe he really wants to know, but he’s not asking out of politeness. Maybe I just have to be the one to break the ice—to offer up an explanation so he doesn’t have to come digging for one. Resolute in my conclusion, I nod, pushing my glass away slightly and turning to face him so our knees just barely rub each other’s. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s not like telling you is going to change the situation, but maybe it’ll feel good to get it off my chest.”

  He shrugs, jerking up his chin as though to tell me to proceed.

  So, I do. I proceed like a goddamn spinning top that can’t slow down once its momentum gets started.

  “I, well…I’m Canadian…from Canada. I mean, I don’t live there right now. I live in LA. But I was born in Canada and came here because I got offered my dream job a year ago. Well, one year and two months, to be exact.”

  “Canada, eh?”

  “Wow,” I remark. “I guess that joke really transcends all Americans. Even the ones who otherwise barely speak.”

  He laughs but doesn’t say anything else, instead taking a sip of his own water. For a couple of people at a bar, we make quite the boring pair.

  “Well, as it turns out, I’m kind of challenged when it comes to keeping up with my mail and important documents and such, and I just got notice tonight that I let my visa lapse. You know, just the very essential visa that was making sure I was in this country legally.”

  His eyebrows lift, more than they have before, a sign that he realizes how serious my situation is, and I nod vigorously. “Yeah, it’s bad. It’s, like, end my career at my dream company, go back to my sad life in Canada with no clear direction for my future bad. I don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’m going to fix it. I don’t have connections with the overlords at the immigration office, and processing times to get a new visa are over a year. I have zero options. Hell, I never even date, so there’s no American man in the picture who would be willing to make some kind of marry-me-to-save-my-ass-from-deportation p
act. Basically, I’m just waiting for ICE to come take me away in handcuffs and put me on a plane back to Vancouver.”

  I take a huge swig of my water and slam it back down on the bar before turning to face him again, my whole face collapsing. “So, yeah. You’re kind of stuck dealing with me on one of my worst nights, and if I had any kind of inner peace whatsoever, I would apologize to you. As it is, though, all I can do is sit here and whine. And hydrate, though I’m considering switching to vodka. And quite possibly, go on the lam.”

  He leans forward into the bar, puts his elbows onto the surface, and lets out a quiet breath that I’m surprised I can hear over my own breakdown. It’s easy—not at all troubled like my own—and I think that might have something to do with just how caught off guard I am when he speaks.

  “Fuck it. I’ll make that pact.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll marry you.”

  I whip my head toward him violently, so much so that a pop in a tendon of my neck makes stars flash on the surface of my eyes. Still, the beginning stages of an aneurysm or stroke or whatever can wait.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  He looks at me closely, his eyes reading mine with careful intent. His posture is calm, his stature poised, and he doesn’t repeat himself. I know he doesn’t waste words, ever, and so I can only assume he doesn’t reiterate the same ones when he doesn’t need to.

  “You just said you’d marry me.”

  He just stares. Relaxed, cool as a cucumber, and not all freaked out by what he just offered.

  “You just said you’d marry me, and you don’t even know me. How does that make any sense?”

  He shrugs. “Because you don’t need a husband. You need a green card. And I don’t have any plans to have a real wife.”

  “You don’t even really speak.”

  He shrugs. “You talk enough for the both of us.”

  That’s…well, that’s true. Especially right now, in the midst of my freak-out. But should I really make the completely insane, rash, life-altering decision to get married while I’m this mentally unstable? I don’t even know anything about this man! Nothing. Zilch. Zero.

  “I don’t even know your last name.”

  “And?” He smirks. “You worried it’s not going to go with Daisy or something?”

  “You want to make a marriage pact with me, a woman you don’t know anything about? I’m starting to think I’m having a stroke or I’ve suffered some serious accident and I’m actually in a coma.” I laugh. Almost hysterically, really. I am one of the hyenas from The Lion King, and I can’t seem to stop it. “We just…we can’t…”

  He raises his eyebrows and takes a drink of water before standing up from his stool and holding out a hand.

  “Flynn. This is crazy.”

  But just crazy enough to get you a green card…

  I stare into his magnificent eyes and try to find a shred of doubt or worry in them that matches the absolute scrambled-egg feeling going on in my insides, but try as I might, I can’t see anything in there but steadiness.

  My hand, shocking me to my core, doesn’t even shake as I slide it into the hollow of his. As his fingers close around mine, so does the reality of the impending domino effect my lapsed work visa will create.

  Awesome job? Done for.

  All my goals and hopes and dreams? Poof. Gone.

  I take a deep breath. “And what are the terms of this marriage…well, fake marriage pact? You marry me so I can get a green card? And that’s it, no strings attached?”

  He nods. “Pretty much.”

  “This really is crazy.” I giggle through a shaky smile. But also, I can’t bring myself to do anything but accept the life vest he’s just tossed into my ocean of chaos. “Okay, yeah, count me in.”

  “Winslow,” he says, and I quirk a brow. “My last name.”

  Winslow. Flynn Winslow, I silently recite his name. Welp, at least it actually goes with Daisy and doesn’t put you in a Julia Gulia situation…

  “Right. Next stop…Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.”

  Flynn

  Neon lights that read Happy Chapel flash obnoxiously in front of us, and I pull my bike to a stop in a small parking lot just off the main drag of the Strip. Just as I push my foot against the kickstand, I cut the engine and plunge us into pseudosilence. It’s not quiet—not with the buzz of the Vegas nightlife so close by—but without the sound of the engine rumbling in my chest, it’s damn near tranquil.

  Daisy’s arms don’t loosen like I expect them to, so I prompt her with a couple generous words I’d usually not bother with.

  “We’re here.”

  I feel the edge of her chin in my back as she nods against it, but still, the hold of her grip doesn’t loosen.

  Rather than rush her, I put the weight of my bike onto the kickstand and wait. Red neon lights outline the chapel’s big sign, and a pair of kissing doves are painted on the side of the white brick.

  Given our proximity to the desert, the spring night is more balmy than cool, but I swear I feel a shiver run up my clinging companion’s spine.

  It’s only afterward that her iron grip softens, and one of her toned legs makes a move to step down onto her sky-high heels.

  I stay still, acting as a steady brace as she finds her feet off a leaning bike, and climb off only when she backs away several steps and wraps her arms around herself.

  Her curls poke out from the bottom of my helmet, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning as I take a couple steps toward her and help her remove it.

  “Oh,” she says through a laugh as the padding scrapes over her ears on the helmet’s way off her head. “Right. I’m supposed to take that off, I guess.”

  She’s nervous, obviously, but after living with my sister Winnie for as many years as I did, I’m not sure there’d ever be a woman who wasn’t when in this scenario.

  And most men would be, too.

  I set my helmet on the bike and lock the ignition, and then I head for the door, placing a hand on the small of her back and gently guiding her along with me as I go.

  She moves freely and with ease, but her eyes are the size of very pretty saucers.

  A happy, laughing, clearly drunk couple stumbles out through the doors ahead of us, and I sidestep, taking Daisy with me to keep them from barreling into us.

  Daisy watches them with avid interest, and I have to squeeze the side of her hip to get her to precede me when I hold the door open.

  Steps careful, she eases her way into the entry of the chapel, where red carpet, disco lights, busts of naked women, and dozens of bouquets of flowers await. This place certainly lives up to the Vegas wedding scene that most people picture. The front desk isn’t occupied by any other couples, so we’re able to step right up to it, and to the waiting man behind it.

  “Welcome to the Happy Chapel!” he greets cheerfully, leaning into the plexiglass top with his elbows. “What can we help you with tonight?”

  Daisy’s body locks, her muscles turning to stone and her eyes rivaling those of a cartoon. She looks like the lead character in a Disney movie, her wild curls dancing in the breeze of the air conditioning and tickling at her face.

  “Ha!” The man at the desk laughs then, completely ignoring my companion’s audition for the movie Frozen. “Just kidding, obviously! It’s safe to say you’re here to get hitched, which means you’re in the right place. Step right up and take a look at our different packages! We’ve got the quicky, the slicky, the all I want’s the dicky.” His cackles take over, and Daisy’s frantic eyes come to me briefly.

  I know she’s looking for some kind words and comfort, but the only thing I can manage is a soft, reassuring smile. Interestingly enough, the entire expression of her face changes at the sight of it, and all of the tension leaves—at least as far as I can feel—her body.

  Nodding swiftly, she steps up to the counter and looks down below the glass as the front desk comedian runs through the options in more detail. “The quicky’s just the ce
remony without the thrills. No flowers, no décor, just the quick and dirty contract. It does include a witness if you don’t have one of your own, though. The slicky has a lot more pomp and circumstance, two gold wedding bands, and you get to choose a bouquet and a slice of cake. It’s twice the price, but honey, can you really put a dollar limit on love?”

  Daisy glances over her shoulder at me, and I offer an amused raise of my eyebrows. This guy is really something. When she turns back toward the desk, I don’t miss the longing way she looks up at the display of cakes and bouquets above the man’s head. Eventually, though, she replies, “I guess just the quicky will be fine.”

  That look of hers is the same one I saw cross her face after we left the Clark County Marriage License Bureau and she spotted a small shop with tuxedos and dresses.

  It’s also the reason my attire tonight transformed from jeans and a T-shirt to full-on black tuxedo.

  “You don’t want to hear about the dicky?” The man behind the desk questions with a quirk of his brow.

  “Um, no,” Daisy says through a giggle, glancing back at me.

  “Are you sure?” he asks again, looking me up and down. “It’s very sexual, and the tension between Mr. Tall, Dark, and Silent back there and you is pretty thick.”

  I also want to laugh at his absurdity, but I step into the fray and place a soft hand on Daisy’s back that nearly makes her jerk several joints out of their sockets trying to contort to see it.

  “Actually, we’ll take the one with the flowers and the cake.”

  Daisy’s big green eyes meet mine. “What?”

  “A wedding, any wedding,” I tell her, “has flowers and some cake.” When she doesn’t respond, I pointedly touch the lapels of my black tuxedo and then smile at the formfitting cream silk dress she’s been wearing since she tried it on at the rental shop.

  We’ve dressed the part, Daisy. It wouldn’t feel right not to include the cake and flowers, too.