by Carian Cole
I’m not ready to tell Megan I’m taking an antidepressant. Just the word makes me uncomfortable. Antidepressant. I’m not depressed. I’m happy and I have goals. It’s not like I’m holing up in the bedroom all day, refusing to leave, wishing I didn’t exist.
“What does the therapist think about you getting married for insurance?”
Gawd. It sounds so bad when it’s actually said like that. It makes me sound like I’m involved in an insurance scam, or like I’m using Jude.
“I didn’t want to tell her at first, but the only way she can help me is if I’m honest about everything. I could tell she was shocked, but it’s not her job to judge me. If it wasn’t for Jude, I wouldn’t be able to see her in the first place.”
Because I’m not on Jude’s plan yet, I’ve paid cash for the first few appointments. But if I had to be in therapy long-term without insurance, I’d be broke in a month and have to stop going.
“True,” Megan says. “It’s just a really weird situation.”
“And that’s why I only want people to know who need to know. I don’t need people judging me.”
“I got you, boo. No worries.” She looks over at my hands. “I like your color better. Why did you let me do electric blue?”
I picked a pretty autumn, coral-ish color. She chose a fluorescent blue.
“Like you would’ve listened to me?” I tease.
She laughs. “You know me so well. I guess I’ll deal with it. I’m too lazy to do it all over.”
When we’re done with our nails, we clean everything up and sit on my floor, gossiping about our favorite reality TV shows. I have to admit I’ve become addicted to the drama of them. Especially the relationship ones.
“Do you want to see the pictures from the ceremony?” I ask, after debating it in my head for at least ten minutes. We’ve just had a huge discussion about Married at First Sight and how awkward it must be to marry a stranger, so it seems fitting for me to show her.
“You have pictures, and you haven’t shown me yet?” she says. “Are we even best friends?”
Laughing, I grab my cell phone and bring up the first photo of Jude and me standing next to each other. I edited all the photos last night, and now they look really pretty and dreamy.
“Aw, look how cute you look!” Megan says. “That skirt is the bomb!”
“Thanks.” I flip to the next photo, and she grabs the phone out of my hand, zooming the photos with her fingers.
“Wait… are you two kissing?”
“It was just a quick peck. The officiant asked us to. She doesn’t know the deets, so we did it just to make sure we looked legit.”
“Um, it looks very legit. And look at your sexy foot up in those heels, girl!”
“I’m never wearing those again. I almost broke my neck.”
“That hand on your cheek, though. Dammmmm. Those tattoos. Fuckity fuck. My ovaries are exploding.”
“Right?” I say, taking the phone back to look at them again for the fiftieth time. Carol caught us in some perfect moments over several photos. Jude and I staring into each other’s eyes. Our lips touching. His thumb across my cheek.
Gah. We do look like real newlyweds. In that moment, I felt like one. Pictures can be so deceptive.
Damn that whole kiss the bride thing! It’s opened up a pandora’s box.
“You look stunning,” Megan comments. “I’m not surprised he couldn’t keep his hands off you.”
“His hands were not on me.”
“I’m going to try to talk Erik into getting some tattoos after graduation. That shit is sexy as hell.”
Agreed. Jude has totally turned me on to tats. Like Megan, I’d love to date a guy who had a few.
“You think you’ll still be together then?” I ask.
Her smile fades, and her eyes narrow at me. I wish I hadn’t said that. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
“You’ve never dated anyone longer than three months. I didn’t think you wanted something serious?”
“I literally just told you a few minutes ago I love him.”
“I know, I just didn’t realize you meant love love. Like, long-term love.”
“Duh. What other kind of love is there?”
Lots, actually. But, we’re just high school girls. Do either of us know what love love really is?
Chapter 18
Jude
“How was your ride? Swallow any bugs?” Skylar asks when she steps out of her car and walks up the driveway. I just got home myself after finally having a Saturday free to take off on my Harley for the day. She watches me as I open the garage door and push my motorcycle inside.
“It was good. No bugs flew into my mouth this time. How was work?”
“Busy,” she replies. “I’m not used to working Saturdays.”
I pull my T-shirt off and use it to wipe the sweat off my forehead and face. I catch the way her lips part slightly as her eyes zoom in on my chest, then flicker down to my abs. I’m just as guilty. My own gaze has been pulled like a magnet to her bare stomach, exposed by a thin, white blouse knotted just above her belly button—and the thin silver ring looping through the delicate flesh. The sun glints off a turquoise gem—the same color as her eyes—dangling from the belly button piercing.
Fuck. She could easily be a fashion model. Endless tousled blonde hair, long, tan legs, flat stomach, pink, pouty lips shiny with gloss, torn jeans, and cowboy boots. Those ocean eyes—always a myriad of emotion—dazzling one minute, soulful the next. And damn, that fucking smile. My favorite curve.
I tear my eyes away when I remember this perfection is all wrapped up in an eighteen-year-old girl.
This chick will undo me.
“It was hot as shit out there today,” I say, emptying my saddlebags.
She runs her fingers over the airbrushed wolf’s head design on the gas tank, then slides them down over the worn seat. Her palm flattens over the leather as if she’s caressing it. Unfamiliar jealousy burns through me, wishing that touch was for me.
“I’ve never been on a motorcycle before,” she says wistfully. “Maybe someday I could go with you?”
The offer is tempting.
Too tempting.
Nope. I don’t trust myself to be trapped between her thighs, with her hands wrapped around my waist for hours on end while we’re way up in the mountains with nothing—and no one—around us but trees and blue skies.
This low-key, flirt-fueled heat simmering between us has me tweaked. It’s been two weeks since the wedding-day kiss, and the memory of it still invades my thoughts when I’m alone at night.
Throwing my shirt over my shoulder, I wink at her. “You ain’t tall enough to get on this ride, Sparkles.”
A flirty smile plays on her lips. “You talking about the bike, or you? ’Cuz I think I can handle both.”
Oof.
Laughing, I shake my head. “I guess I asked for that, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.”
“Did you eat?” I ask, quickly changing the subject. “I’m gonna take a shower and make a quick sandwich before I head out to meet Kyle.”
She nods. “I had soup earlier with Rebecca.”
“I’ll be home late,” I tell her as we step out of the garage. I yank the door shut behind us and lock it.
“I’ll be binging Outlander, so I’ll probably still be awake.”
“More men in kilts?”
“You know it.” She glances sideways at me. “Maybe you should wear one. You have nice legs.”
“I don’t think you could handle it.”
She grins as we walk up to the house, and I unlock the front door, swinging it open to let her go in first.
We’re greeted by Cassie and Gus with wagging tails and chirpy meows.
“Gus seems to be slowly turning into a dog,” she says. “See how she runs to the door now when we come home?”
“It’s even better when I come home—all three of you come running to see me.”
She playfully punches
my arm. “Shut up. It’s not to see you, I just get excited about a front door that people can actually go in and out of.”
“You lie like a rug.”
“Want me to make your sandwich?” she calls after me as I head up the stairs.
“Do you really hafta ask?”
For someone who’s afraid to eat a lot of food, she makes a mean grilled turkey and swiss on rye.
The Possum’s Den is a small bar known for its decor of taxidermized critters, most notably, a cross-eyed possum perched on a shelf behind the bar that once was the owner’s pet.
They also serve a killer cheese-stuffed burger on a toasted bun with a side of homemade balsamic ketchup.
I’d be eating that shit right now if I hadn’t eaten that turkey sandwich Skylar made me.
“’Bout time you showed up.” Kyle slaps my back after I wade through the crowd to our usual spot in the back.
“Better late than never, right?” I scan the room, which is unusually busy—even for a Saturday night. “Are they giving away free beer or something?”
He shrugs and tosses me a pool cue. “College kids celebrating some sport thing. The chicks are hot, though, and they’ll be drunk soon.”
Ever since Kyle’s fiancée dumped him, he’s been plowing through half the town’s female population like a lawnmower.
While he racks the balls, I flag the bartender for a beer and chalk my cue stick.
“You go riding today?” Kyle asks.
Nodding, I lean over the table and break. “You should’ve come with me. Got a good hundred miles in. Probably the last chance I’ll get this season.”
“My clutch cable’s still snapped.”
I pull a sip of my beer and put it back on our table, glancing up to find a redhead watching my every move and making no effort to hide it. I take a quick visual inventory. Pretty smile. Twenty-something with makeup, thirty-something without. Short skirt. High heels. Waist-length, spirally red hair. Thin, gold chains draped over cleavage busting out of a tight V-neck blouse. Thick black eyeliner.
I might be game.
Snaring the eye contact, she comes over, cocktail in hand.
“I love your tattoos,” she coos loudly, wrapping her hand around my bicep.
I watch her hand move over my arm, then lift my gaze to meet hers.
“What’s your name, red?”
She cocks her head to the side and purses her lips around her straw, sucking bright-pink liquid from a goblet, before answering.
“I’m Jolie,” she says.
“Hey, Lucky, your turn, man,” Kyle yells.
The girl’s brown eyes widen, and a teasing smile dances on her lips. “Your name is Lucky?”
I nod.
Her hand waltzes up my arm, beneath the sleeve of my T-shirt, dragging her long nails over my skin like a raptor.
She leans closer. Close enough that her breath tickles my ear. Her perfume permeates my senses, but it’s not a scent I like. “Want to get lucky, Lucky? I know I do.”
I let out a snicker and flash her a bored look. “C’mon, red. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Her smile twists into a disappointed frown as I slowly back away.
I make my way back to the pool table, throwing a look over my shoulder to find her still watching me even though she’s mingled back in the fold with her friends.
Kyle stares at her as we continue our game, attempting to hijack her attention. He fails. Red only has eyes for me, it seems.
Picking up women has been a competitive sport for Kyle since we were in high school. I could give two shits which one of us wins the girl. It’s not that important to me to get laid every weekend.
He, on the other hand, has to leave with a different woman every week.
When we finish up our game, Jolie and a blonde friend approach us and split like a wishbone—the blonde moving to Kyle and the redhead sidling up to me.
“You going to tell me your name now, handsome?” she asks.
I finish off my drink. “You already know my name.”
She stares up at me with intoxicated eyes, leaning her hip against mine. “Something tells me that’s a nickname.”
“That’s all you’re gettin’.”
Her fingers touch the ends of my hair. “Do you come here a lot?”
Jolie obviously isn’t winning any points for original conversation.
“You tryin’ to pick me up or put me to sleep?” I ask jokingly.
She giggles. “You’re a hard one, aren’t you?”
“I might be if you weren’t boring me, darlin’.”
To my left, Kyle has his tongue down the blonde’s throat and his hand up her shirt. Jolie watches them kiss, then licks her own lips.
“Do you want to get out of here?” she offers. “There’s a motel down the street.”
There was once a time I spent so many nights at that motel I’m surprised my name’s not on one of the doors instead of a number.
It’s been a while. My hand could use a rest.
I’m just about to grab her waist and steer her to the back door when Skylar’s smile flashes through my mind.
How her eyes sparkled when she handed me the turkey sandwich earlier—made exactly how I like it with a light layer of spicy mustard—even though the color and smell of it makes her gag.
I chew the inside of my cheek.
Jolie’s hand slinks down to my wrist.
“C’mon,” she whispers. “You can find out if my hair color’s real.”
I blow out a gusty sigh. “I’m gonna have to pass. I’m kinda involved with someone.”
Her lips press against my cheek and she whispers, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Scandalous indiscretion used to turn me on.
But now, it just feels dirty.
“I’ll see ya around, red.”
I don’t look back this time when I walk away and head to the bar. Staring at the cross-eyed possum, I nurse a soda while I wait for Kyle to return from his rendezvous in the parking lot.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks when he comes back. “That redhead was smokin’. I would’ve taken her over the blonde.”
We jostle through the crowd to a small, private table, passing Jolie and her friend who are now hitting on two other guys. She smiles at me and I just shake my head and laugh.
“Eh, I’m just not into her,” I say when we sit down.
He throws back his Mind Eraser shot and grimaces. “How could you not be into her?”
I lean back in my chair and run my fingers over the condensation on my glass. “I gotta tell you something wild I did, man.”
“Now you’re talkin’”
“It’s not a sex story, asshole.”
“Oh.” He coughs and straightens. “Sorry.”
“I got married,” I blurt out.
He stares at me, face frozen, then busts out laughing. “Good one, Lucky. That’s not even fuckin’ funny.”
“I’m serious.” I give him a deadpan look and he slowly stops laughing.
“Wait… come on.” He blinks, waiting for me to admit I’m joking. “Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Back the fuck up. To who?”
I’ll probably regret spilling my guts to Kyle in the morning, but he’s my friend and I feel like I need to tell someone. He has his moments when he’s not a total dick.
“No one you know,” I lie, deciding not to tell him it’s Skylar. He doesn’t need to know that she’s only eighteen.
“So, who is she?”
“Just a girl I met. But we’re not together. I married her because she was in a bad situation.”
“Holy shit, did she need a green card?”
“No, she lives here in town. She’s got some health issues and needed insurance. She was living in a really shitty, unsafe situation, so I said… why the fuck not? I’ll help her out.”
He grabs the edge of the table. “Have you lost your mind, man? You fucking hate the idea of m
arriage.”
“I know, but it’s not real. It’s just an arrangement. On paper.”
He stares at me and chugs his beer. “I’m gonna need another shot.”
“I think you had enough.”
“Lemme get this straight. You married some chick just to give her health insurance. And now she’s living in your house?”
I nod. “That’s basically it.”
“Is she ugly? She’s gotta be ugly.”
My jaw clenches. “No, she’s hot. She’s beautiful.”
“Is she a ghetto rat?”
“No, dickhead.”
“She better not be involved with a psycho. You don’t want to get messed up in that shit, man.”
“She’s not dating anyone. She’s just a nice, normal girl that life kept kicking.”
“Is she at least letting you hit it?”
“I know this might be a hard concept for you, but I actually don’t think with my dick 24/7.”
He looks at me like I have ten heads.
“Did you have a wedding? You didn’t even invite me? Shouldn’t I have been your best man?”
“There wasn’t a wedding. Just a private ceremony.”
“This is so fucked up, dude.”
I shrug. “I wanted to do something nice for someone. It feels good.”
My seriousness sobers him up a little. “So how does that even work? Does she have her own room?”
“Hell yeah, she does. She’s in Erin’s old room.”
“How long is this supposed to last? Forever?”
“Nah, maybe a year. Then we’ll get a divorce and she’ll move out. That’s all. It’s just a temporary thing.”
His eyes blink rapidly with confusion. “I never would’ve expected this from you, man. My mind is blown.” He makes an explosion sound.
“Yeah, mine too.”
“Is that why you didn’t hook up with that redheaded hottie? You feelin’ some kind of misplaced marital guilt or some shit?”
Yes.
It doesn’t make any sense. We’re not really married. We’re not even dating. I’m free to stick my dick in anything I want.
And yet, I don’t want to.
I pause before I deny it. “I dunno. Maybe,” I reply. “That chick was just into my tattoos.”