by Lee, Nadia
It’s for a good cause. After this, nobody will be able to call Elizabeth’s auctions “fake.”
And she does do a lot with the money raised. This one was for pediatric oncology, but her foundation routinely helps struggling single moms trying to raise kids, like my own mother used to.
The casino’s overwhelming. My grip on Nate’s arm tightens as I look around at the bright lights, the loud cries, the jangling slot machines and clapping at a few tables where somebody must’ve won big. Skimpily dressed waitresses walk around with trays laden with drinks, weaving like slippery fish.
A guy comes over and smiles at Nate. His teeth are straight and white, blinding against his smooth, dark skin. The light reflects off his hairless head, but the bald look works for him. “Mr. Sterling!”
“Hey, Tiny. What’s up?”
I blink at the name. There’s nothing tiny about the man. He doesn’t even have a discernable neck. His black suit stretches over his giant muscles, and I’m afraid he’s going to rip the seams if he flexes too hard.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Tiny says.
“Been busy.”
“This your date for the evening?” He grins. “She’s pretty.”
I can feel myself flushing at the attention. Do not hurl…
“Yes. Evie Parker. This is Tiny Tim.”
I extend a hand. Tiny Tim holds it as gingerly as he would hold a snowflake and shakes gently. I like him immediately.
They exchange a few jokes about gambling and probabilities that go way over my head. Then Nate takes me past several crowded tables to an empty one set up for two, plus the dealer. Nate gestures at me to take a seat, and I realize the casino has prepared this just for us. His chips are already stacked high. This must be how it is when you’re a regular with deep pockets.
A waitress comes by for our drink order. “You already had three at dinner,” I whisper to Nate, not wanting him to lose his head at the casino and do something he’ll regret tomorrow.
“Yeah, but that glass of port was tiny.” He holds out his thumb and index finger with a microscopic distance between the two. “One more won’t hurt. I promise.”
I mull that over. I only had one glass of wine and the port, so if I must, I think I can manage him. And there’s always Tiny. “Well…okay. But just one.”
“You’re so strict.”
“I still remember what happened.” The most heart-fluttering moment of my life— and the most awkward, because I knew all the sweet things he said were alcohol-induced. So not doing that again. Ever.
A wince passes over his face. “You’re right. Champagne good?”
“I’ll have a mimosa.”
He orders our drinks and the waitress disappears. Nate tosses a few chips, and the dealer slides a card toward me, then another to Nate.
I check what I got. A ten of hearts. Not a bad start. I glance at Nate and the dealer. Poker faces. I lick my lips, nervous and excited at the same time.
The waitress hands us our drinks. I clink glasses with Nate while the dealer gives us our second cards.
“For luck,” he says.
“For luck.” I down the mimosa, which is amazingly refreshing. I feel a vague disappointment I won’t be having more. But I know if I do, Nate’s going to feel left out.
Besides, I didn’t come to Vegas to drink. I came here to…
My vision blurs for a second. Whoa. Weird. I’ve never felt this woozy before. Maybe the mimosa’s stronger than I thought—maybe more champagne than OJ? Don’t casinos want you drunk so you get stupid with betting?
I lean against Nate. Damn, he feels so good—solid and warm. But I really need to get my crap together, because I’m betting good money here, even if it’s not my own.
The last thing that crosses my mind is I really need to get the hell out of the casino before I do anything crazy.
Chapter Sixteen
Nate
Ow, fuck.
My head feels like a marching band on crack is banging away. Heavy on the drum section.
What the hell? Am I hung over? Really?
I don’t remember drinking much. I think I had maybe…what? Three…four weak drinks? But I can easily knock back ten shots of tequila and stay sober.
I sit up in the dark. The room does a slow spin, and I put a hand on my head so it doesn’t fall off. Then, carefully and with great effort, I take stock of my surroundings.
I’m in the hotel. The suite. My bare ass is touching the mattress. I’m missing my shirt, pants and shoes. My socks are still on, and my boxers are stuck at mid-thigh. What the fuck? I didn’t even take off all my clothes before falling in bed? I push at my ridiculous boxers, then kick them off to the floor.
The gears grind s-l-o-w-l-y…
Where’s Evie?
I turn my head gingerly, so my brain doesn’t spill out my ears. I spot her on the bed, next to me and facedown. Is she dead? Oh, shit. My heart stops. Some people choke on their vomit and die, and I’m certain she can’t drink like I can. I start to put a hand on her shoulder, but then notice her torso moving slowly up and down. Okay, so she’s not dead. That’s good.
A question pushes through the relentless throbbing in my head. What the hell happened? Evie and I are on bed together, and I’m more or less naked. And as for Evie…
Her dress is a mess. Her skirt is pushed up around her waist, and her underwear is missing. Or maybe she never wore any. That makes my dry mouth even drier, but I’m in no condition to do anything except pray I don’t die. And I really have no business admiring the stunning curve of her ass when she probably doesn’t mean for me to see it.
Although it is a really nice ass…
I gently tug the hem lower, covering her. There’s no reason to add embarrassment to the raging hangover she’s going to have. Then I roll her on her side, putting a pillow under her head. Shouldn’t be able to choke now, even if she does vomit.
One of her shoes is still on, and I take it off and toss it on the side. That should make her more comfortable.
Moving carefully to avoid falling and breaking my neck, I lurch toward the bathroom. I need a shower. And lots and lots of aspirin.
Aspirin.
The minibar.
I change directions and stagger out to the main room. Ah, yes. A small bottle of aspirin. Oh, how I love thee. I could kiss the guy who invented aspirin, even though he’s on the wrong team and likely long dead.
I down four pills, then leave the rest for Evie. The cold water from the fridge couldn’t taste better.
That done, I teeter to the bathroom and turn on just the LED light on the magnifying mirror attached to the wall, so my eyeballs don’t explode. I step into the shower and turn the knob. Hot water comes out instantly, thank God. I stand under the spray and pray to begin feeling half human. Or even a quarter human. I’m willing to go that low right now.
As more and more water sluices down, I start to think… What the hell did I drink last night? I don’t remember anything after the champagne, which is weird as hell, because I normally don’t black out like that. The last time I binged—well, I was trying to be a supportive friend to Court, who was depressed over being dumped, so that doesn’t count.
And I can’t imagine having much last night. Evie’s fanatical about my “limit” and would never let me have more than three…maybe four if I give her a puppy-dog look. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent certain she didn’t leave my side at the casino. She knew the whole point was to be seen…
Ugh. Annoyed, I start washing myself. Evie’s going to want the bathroom when she wakes up.
When I step out of the shower, dry myself and put a fresh towel around my waist, something flashes, reflecting the dim light from the mirror. Something on my left hand…
All the blood drains from my head. Or at least it feels that way.
Holy fucking mother of God! What the hell is this?
A golden band sits on my ring finger. Not just sits, is shining. I try to flick it off, like a
n unwanted spider, but it stays. Shit.
Where the hell did it come from? And how the fuck did it get on my finger?
And if I have this…
Oh, shit. Who the hell did I marry? Was Evie there too? Why didn’t she stop me? It’s her damn job to stop me from doing stupid shit! She’s my assistant, isn’t she?
I rush out fast. Well, as fast as I can without killing myself. Evie’s still on the bed, her face on the pillow. I reach out to shake her until I see something glinting on her finger.
A golden band. Just like the one on my finger. I reel back, a giant, invisible ice pick spearing into my head.
No fucking way. Did I…? Did we…?
I shove my hands into my hair. I don’t remember anything, but there’s no way this wedding is valid. We didn’t even consummate it. If we had, I would remember that for sure. I wouldn’t have sex with a woman I’ve been lusting after for months and forget all about it the next day—what would be the point?
And I’m certain there weren’t any proper witnesses. Who the hell can find witnesses that fast? And even if you could find them, how would you know they were sober, legally binding witnesses?
I fish my phone from the bedside table. At least I had enough brain cells left not to lose it. I pull up a browser and start Googling: Is a wedding legit without proper witnesses?
Results pop up. They’re all over the place, though. Some say yes, some say no, some say it depends.
Fuck you, Google. If I wanted a yes—no—maybe, I would’ve asked myself.
Who can I ask then? Not Ken. He’s the family lawyer, and this would go straight into Barron’s ear. Not Vanessa. She has no secrets from Justin, and I do not need my brother ragging on me.
Court! He probably knows. Or he can ask his lawyer.
I step out of the bedroom, close the door behind me and call.
“Hey, man,” Court says. “How’s the date?”
It’s so like him to ask. Normally I’d be more social, but it’s awkward to have to lie about it, so I try to keep it short without sounding too weird. “It’s…good. Great. Nothing goes wrong in Vegas.” I clear my throat. “Hey, listen, is a wedding ceremony valid without proper witnesses?”
A moment of silence is the answer. I hope he isn’t wasting his time trying to Google.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Don’t you have lawyers on retainer for that sort of question?”
“I’m not asking them.” Does he not know who they really answer to? “Google didn’t help, but I thought you might know.”
“Uh… Nate? Are you okay?”
No! Would I be asking you this crazy question if I were okay? But I can’t talk about it right now because I still have no freakin’ clue what the hell happened. “Yeah, I told you that already. Hey, can you ask your lawyer?”
“I don’t have a lawyer. Percy is Dad’s lawyer.”
It’s like Court to get technical. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to owe anything to his dad, so there’s no way he’s going to ask Percy. “All right. Never mind.”
I hang up, my brain working overtime. Or at least trying to, because it’s damn hard for a brain to function while floating in alcohol.
I have another bottle of water, then call down for two more pitchers, plus a thermos full of strong coffee and six dry pieces of toast. I need to fortify myself, get rid of this hangover and figure out just what the hell happened.
While I’m waiting for room service, I get a call from Justin. Probably checking up on me per Barron’s orders. Sighing, I answer it.
“What’s up?” I say with extra cheeriness. He doesn’t need to know that Evie and I are wearing wedding bands. Or that I have partial amnesia about yesterday.
He doesn’t waste time with a greeting. “Are you really married?”
I almost swallow my tongue. Shit. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
It would probably be good enough for someone else. But not my brother. “Oh, hell. What they’re saying is true, then.”
“Who is they and what are they saying?” Most importantly, what the fuck does he know in L.A. that I don’t in Vegas?
“The tabloids. They’re saying you eloped with your assistant.”
I run a hand over my face, doing my best to kick the panic away. Stall. Give yourself time to regroup. “You read tabloids? Since when?”
“Ryder’s PR people keep an eye on things and happened to notice, and they let him know. He called Vanessa.”
Oh, shit. Ryder Reed is both Elizabeth’s brother and Vanessa’s cousin. Just my fucking luck. And if his people saw it, it means the article isn’t on some obscure nobody-knows-about-this-site-dot-com. “Send me the link.”
I hear some rustling in the background.
“Sent. Now… You didn’t answer the question,” Justin says.
How much should I say? On the other hand, what’s the point of lying when he’s going to find out everything soon enough anyway? “Why don’t you ask Ken if a wedding is valid if I don’t remember any of it?”
Justin swears. “How much did you drink?”
“Only three!”
“Bottles? At least tell me they were whiskeys.”
“Three normal drinks. Four, if you really want to count a port, but the glass was tiny.”
“Man… Bro.” His tone is full of pity and something else I can’t identify. “Three lousy drinks and you’re married?”
“Hold on a sec.” I need to see the damned article. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here. “Lemme check my mail.”
Pinching the phone between my shoulder and ear, I dig through my suitcase and find my tablet. Email from Justin, email from Justin…
There.
I click on the link. It takes me to The Hollywood News, which has pictures of me and Evie at the restaurant. Going to the casino, laughing. So far, so good. The plan was to get those out there.
But then there’s more. Shocking pictures of us going into the chapel across the street from the hotel. Then coming out. There are flowers in Evie’s hair and a bouquet in my hand.
I stare, absolutely dumbfounded. No fucking way these are real. They’ve gotta be fake. Photoshopped. Motherfuckers. I’m going to sue their ass until there’s no ass left, because this is an injustice! I’m a nice guy, but not that nice.
So who the hell put the ring on your finger, then? And on Evie’s?
Shut up, logic.
“Barron doesn’t read The Hollywood News, does he? It’s not really his thing.” He’s more like the Wall Street Journal type. Or used to be, while he led Sterling & Wilson.
“He might. Stella likes celebrity gossip.”
Crap. Why, Stella, why? Why can’t you be a New York Times-reading lady who likes to lunch?
“You think Mom knows, too?” I say, a sinking feeling in my gut.
“Oh, yeah.”
Chapter Seventeen
Evie
My head feels like it’s about to split in half. Or maybe it’s already split in half, based on the pain radiating from my skull. My brain seems mushier than instant oatmeal.
But my bladder seems to be working perfectly, and is signaling that it’s full and I’d better empty it unless I want to embarrass myself.
I get up—very slowly—and move toward the bathroom, praying my head doesn’t explode or really, honest to God, split like a watermelon. All the while, I’m trying to think.
What the heck happened last night?
I was at the table, playing blackjack. And then…
…then…
…what?
Crap. Did I lose so much that I erased it from my mind?
But then how come my head feels so terrible? And why is my mouth so dry? And I’m sore all over, like I was brutalized by a treadmill.
I put my hand on the hem of my dress. At least I’m in the same one from last night, so that means I made it back okay. Nate probably helped.
Then I realize I’m missing my underwear. Sudden shock and dread knock in my chest. Where
did it go?
But I need to take care of a most urgent bodily function before I can think about anything else. I make it to the toilet, manage to seat myself and then bury my face in my palms and groan as nature takes over. What happened to my underwear? Wait, I’m also barefoot. Did I take off my panties for some reason?
But why? And why in the world would I keep my bra on if I was trying to get comfortable last night?
I flush the toilet and wash my hands. Then…
Oh. My. God!
What is that thing on my finger? I bring it closer to my eyes just to make sure I’m not imagining it. Nope. It’s a plain golden band. Like the ones you see at weddings.
The thing is, it isn’t mine, even though it fits my finger perfectly.
Panic erupts. Did I marry somebody? Who? How? Where? What was I thinking?
Why didn’t Nate try to stop me?
Actually, never mind. He can’t hold his liquor at all. He probably passed out somewhere in the casino and wasn’t even aware I vanished with some stranger to get married.
Moaning with intense self-loathing and recrimination, I cover my face with my hands, praying this is some nightmare. Come on, wake up! Wake up!
I slap my cheeks a few times. A couple of loud knocks at the door pull me out of my utter state of panic.
“Are you all right?”
Nate. He doesn’t sound like he just came in from the casino. I open the door and see him standing in nothing but a towel. I take in the gorgeous lines of his broad shoulders, strong chest and defined, lean abs. There’s a trail of hair that leads you down to… I’m not even going to look. I force my gaze up to his face.
This is so surreal. I feel like we’re back in L.A., at his Malibu home. But it’s definitely not Monday, and this is most definitely not his mansion.
“Where were you?” My voice is raspy from my throat being so parched.
“On a call with Justin in the living room. We just hung up.” He hands me a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. “Here.”