by TC Matson
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT © 2019 TC MATSON
DEDICATION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
BOOKS BY TC MATSON
TO MY READERS
CONNECT WITH TC MATSON
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Copyright © 2019 TC Matson
Slip Up © 2019 TC Matson
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permissions of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people, whether living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.
Editing: Amanda Brown
Cover Design: Juliana Cabrera with Jersey Girl Design
Dedication
For anyone scared to stretch out of your comfort zone, this one is for you.
ONE
A light purring snore pulls me from a terrific sleep and I titter under my breath. Kirsten only snores when she gets trashed, and God were we trashed last night. Thinking of it only causes my head to throb harder and my stomach roil. My phone chimes on the nightstand beside the bed and quietly, so I don’t wake her, I grab it knowing it has to be my mother.
Kirsten: Good morning, you sexy bitch, you. Are you awake or still sleeping from an all-night screw fest with Mr. Hottie?
My breath catches in my throat and I jerk my head over my shoulder to the very handsome man beside me.
Declan…
In his slumber, his face is relaxed. A dark stubble covers his strong jaw that I swear must’ve been carved from granite. His lips are full and succulent. His left arm is tossed over his head as his right rests across his stomach. On it, stretched across the entirety of his forearm, is a tattoo. The only thing I’m able to really make out is a skull in the background and a magnifying glass blowing up a checkered flag.
The sheet drapes across his flat stomach, leaving me a muscular chest to ogle. I peek under the covers to see my naked body and the beginning of his… and slam my eyes closed, gripping the thin fabric against my chest.
Memories begin to waltz in—incredible sex, the sounds he made, the way he made me feel—then the quiet ache between my legs begins to pulse. He filled me with complete satisfaction. Biting my lip, I fight the smile the thoughts stir in me.
He shifts, and my heart leaps into my throat. I’ve never had a one-night stand. What am I supposed to do? Act casual? Like the best sex in the universe didn’t just happen to me? Own it? That would probably be the more sensible thing, but instead, I panic and close my eyes pretending to be asleep.
The bed shuffles slightly as I hear him stretch and exhale. There’s a faint scraping noise like he’s dragged something across the nightstand and then… “What the fuck?”
Great. He doesn’t remember me. I should have figured this part out with Kirsten before going through with my bucket list. Yes. A one-night stand is—was—on it. I wanted to feel the excitement, no strings attached, no pressures, no fears, and no insecurities. I wanted to put it all out there for just one night. Call me wild…
Gently, he grabs my left hand, sliding his fingers under mine to spread them out. “Shit. Amelia?”
He remembers my name. My heart does a flutter and I’m scared he can hear it. Pretending to stir for the first time, I stretch out.
“Hmmm?” My eyes open to a set of piercing pale mink brown eyes immersed in concern.
“Do you remember last night?”
Do I remember? Hell yes I do and my body feels the reminders. Even from the depths of our drunken night, I remember eating fruit, dancing, entering the hotel room and screwing like newlyweds. “Parts,” I say, trying not to sound overzealous about our night together.
Calm and collected… I’ve got this.
“Which parts?” he asks.
He’s going to make me say sex. Isn’t he? There goes calm and collected out the window and in waltzes the awkwardness.
He lets out a breath and grabs my hand, lifting it to my face. “What’re the chances of you remembering us getting married?”
I shoot straight up. “Do what?” I shriek, glancing to the platinum diamond-studded wedding band on my finger.
He holds his hand up and wiggles his fingers before handing me a frame. Our wedding license. We framed our fricking wedding license? How drunk were we?
“Oh, hell,” I mutter.
He pushes off the bed, not worried at all about covering up his naked body, and heads to the bathroom. His body is toned and tanned, his back sculpted, his ass taut and then it disappears.
When he shuts the door, I slide out of the bed, wrapping the sheet around myself and hurrying to find my clothes. My shorts and shirt are tossed on opposite ends of the couch, and my bra hangs from a cabinet in the kitchenette. But I can’t find my panties anywhere. Screw it… My dignity will just have to deal.
I’m dressed, putting the final piece on, when he reappears from the bathroom shirtless in a pair of basketball shorts with my blue boy-short panties dangling from his fingers.
His lips are pulled into a seductive smirk and his brow is arched. “Found these hanging from the shower head.”
Fabulous…
Unable to look at him, I snatch them and shove them into my pocket.
“Are you hungry? I need breakfast.” As he pulls a black t-shirt over his head, I watch the muscles in his stomach flex.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask the floor. So much for the wild, confident, calm, and cool Amelia. I might as well just throw a welcome party for the awkwardness.
“No. I just need fuel for my brain so we can figure out what the hell happened and what we’re going to do.”
Fidgeting with my fingernails, I nod.
“I’m just running downstairs. I’ll be back in few minutes.”
I watch as the door shuts behind him before grabbing our framed marriage license. I trail my fingers over the edges and then slide across our names, trying hard to remember something from it, willing the memories back, but they don’t come. Shit. Did Elvis marry us? Was Kirsten there?
Me: I’m awake.
Kirsten: Soooo how was the sex? Don’t tell me. Save it for the flight!
Me: I don’t think I did this one-night stand thing right.
Kirsten: Ohhh, did you put it on him so good he’s in love with you now?
Kirsten: DON’T TELL ME! I want all the deets for the flight. What time will you be here?
Me: Give me an hour.
Kirsten: See your lucky ass then.
If she w
ere there, I don’t think her texts would be so fun. Maybe she doesn’t remember it?
What the hell were we thinking?
My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. I drop the frame face first back to the nightstand like I’ve been busted snooping and jump up. Walking to the door, I can’t help but smile at the thought of him forgetting his key.
However, the man on the other side of the door definitely is not Declan. This man is older and although his face is clean shaven, his skin looks tough with hard lines. His brown eyes flare and then narrow on me.
“Can I help you?” I push trepidation from my voice.
He walks in, bumping my shoulder as he passes and looks around. “Is Declan here?”
“Um. No.” I shake my head slightly. “He went downstairs to get breakfast.”
The man pulls out his wallet and withdraws two one-hundred-dollar bills. “This enough to keep you quiet?”
“Do what?” I sputter, looking at the money in horror.
He pulls out another hundred and shoves all three out to me. “This should be enough to keep your mouth shut.”
“I don’t want your money.”
Aggravation laces his sigh. “You’re going to be one of them, huh?”
“One of who?”
“We have fearsome lawyers on standby. If you think you can sleep with him and sell the story for money, you’ll be slapped in the face with a lawsuit. Our lawyers don’t handle pit lizards well.”
Pit lizards? What the hell?
“Now, grab your things and get out,” he continues.
Hurt stings the bottom of my throat. “Did he send you here?”
He looks bored as hell dealing with me. “Declan always sends me to clean up his messes.”
My body feels heavy under a ton of bricks as my heart crumbles into a million pieces. Although I’ve never walked down the golden path of shame, I’m certain it shouldn’t feel this futile. With the little morsel of dignity I have left, I grab my purse off the table, slip into my strappy sandals, and leave without taking the money the asshole is trying to pay me off with.
* * *
After I got back to mine and Kirsten’s hotel across the street, I took a shower, alternating between crying from the embarrassment and raging mad from the hurt. I slipped off my beautiful wedding band, stowed it away into the little pocket in my purse, and packed up to head home.
This Vegas trip was supposed to stress free, a way to unravel and have some spontaneous change. Instead, it seems I’m going home with more baggage then what I arrived with.
Kirsten is dying to interrogate me, her eyes are begging for the details, but I remain mute on the subject, even after we find our seats. I shove my earbuds in, turn on some music, rest back and close my eyes. This is where I can think about whatever I want, and right now, I need to get out of my head and think of nothing.
Kirsten on the other hand has different ideas. Pulling on the cord, she pops out an earbud, leaning in close. “How long are you going to make me die a slow death of curiosity?”
“You know what they say about the cat, right?”
“Which is why you should spill the beans before I die.”
I sigh.
“Was he bad in the sack?” she asks, her tone despairing right along with the sad eyes she’s giving me.
“No. It was phenomenal. No way anyone could top it.”
She beams, nudging me with her shoulder. “Mark a one-night stand off your bucket list. You earned that check mark.”
“Yeah.” My soul feels defeated, my pride slaughtered.
“You’re not telling me something,” she whispers.
Her statement instantly brings tears to my eyes. Quickly, I slam them shut so she won’t see them, but unfortunately, I was too late.
“Mel. Talk to me.” Her tone is soft and concerned, edgy with murder.
I know without a doubt, one day, I’ll have to bail her out of jail for clawing out the eyes of someone who hurts me. She’s protective like a momma wolf.
Swallowing and wiping the tears from under my eyes, I blink to her. “We had more than a one-night stand. Apparently we got married, but neither of us can remember. And instead of trying to figure out what the hell we’re going to do, he left this morning to grab breakfast and sent a friend to get rid of me.”
Her mouth hangs open, questions splattering her expression.
“Rings and a wedding license,” I say and watch her eyes drop to my hand. I shake my head. “I took it off.”
She doesn’t say a word, twisting back into her seat and staring at the back chair in front of her. Stunned. Yeah. Me too.
A second later she begins laughing. “You married a race car driver. Damn, Mel. You must’ve put it on him damn good for him to want to marry a stranger. What a twenty-first birthday.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure annulment papers are already in the mail with enough money attached to make sure this never sees the light of day.”
She lolls her head toward me and grabs my hand. “Our secret. Everything will be okay, Mel.”
My goal for Vegas was to walk on the wild side—throw caution to the wind and get it all out of the way before I get a job that demands classiness twenty-four seven. I wanted to sleep with a complete stranger, not marry one. I’ve only been with one guy—the guy I lost my virginity to on my seventeenth birthday. A year later, we grew apart and broke up. Okay, truthfully, his penis grew into Vanessa Lee’s vagina, but I knew we were falling apart before it did. Just sucks he wasn’t man enough to call things off beforehand.
I wanted change and for once I was brave enough to do it. Now I’m married to a man I don’t really know and whose sex will haunt me forever. I’ve never been so ready to go back home to my normal life—school and work.
TWO
I sit on my front porch swing, listening to the sounds of nature with my thoughts all over the damn place. I flew home yesterday to get some peace and quiet. Away from the team. Away from Norman. Away from everything. Damn if Vegas wasn’t a whirlwind. In a drunken stupor, I married a stranger, only for her to leave me the next day. I chuckle to myself. I can’t even be married for twenty-four hours before they leave.
My past relationships have been shit. Either they’re too demanding of my attention and a class A clinger, or they want two things—money and what fame they assumed I have. Some women believe race car drivers are like rock stars, but I’m far from winning that popularity contest. The fans I do have are loyal to fault, which at times, make me seem bigger than what I truly am.
Something about Amelia made me ditch everything I believe—or lack thereof—about marriage. Somehow, the stunning blonde with big, round, beautiful blue eyes, made me crumple up everything I’ve ever thought about marriage and toss it right out of the window.
I don’t believe in marriage, haven’t since I was a teenager. I’m not anti-marriage and won’t protest in front of the capital to have it abolished. That’s not me. Just because I don’t care for it doesn’t mean it’s not right for someone else. My beliefs stem from looking around and watching relationships fall apart left and right for every reason known to man—the biggest being infidelity. So much for death do us part, huh?
Getting married for love is one of the stupidest decisions a person can make. It’s just a title, a piece of paper. For me, having someone in my life and waking up with them daily, coming home to them every day, and being with only them is a shared gift that’s renewed day in and day out—not something carried out by obligation. I don’t need someone to tell me who I can love lawfully. It’s my damn choice. Not anyone else’s.
Also, I’ve never loved someone so deeply that making her my wife has ever crossed my mind.
Yet…here I am. Married. Joined together in holy matrimony, and I neither know and love my wife nor can I tell you where the hell she lives. Go ahead and laugh because I am.
My phone rings.
“D!” Milo, my best friend calls out. “Winning in Vegas is becoming your t
hing, huh?”
I grin, nodding my head although he can’t see me. “Soon, winning everywhere will be my thing.”
“You’ll be in Martinsville soon, right? We need to catch up.”
I lived in Virginia all my life until the owner of my team moved the facility to Dallas, Texas. It made more sense to move right along with it. I had nothing holding me there other than a group of good friends. My parents divorced—shocker—when I was thirteen and I moved in with Dad. He and I stayed close. My mom and I? We’ve always had a strained relationship. She hates racing and the thought of me doing it even more. And to her, no matter my age, she should be able to tell me how to live my life.
“That sounds like a plan. I’ll see about getting us a hotel room.”
Once I’m at the track, I’m not allowed to leave. This is one of the most ridiculous rules the NRA put into place and it’s also the one I break the most. You can’t keep a man caged in without him losing his mind. But had I followed the rules in Vegas, I wouldn’t be in this situation now.
“You alright, man? You sound off.”
Milo has been a friend since the first day of middle school. He was the new guy and for some reason we gravitated toward each other and never drifted apart. We graduated high school together and he’s also my biggest fan, always pushing me to become bigger and better since deciding to get into the racing scene. He’ll understand.
“Man, some things happened in Vegas.”
“Things?” His voice stoops low with accusations. “What kind of things? Are you in trouble?”
“I met this chick and hit it off with her. We had a damn good time, but somewhere in the middle of our drunken blur, we ran off and got married. I remember everything, except the wedding.”
“Wait. The man who doesn’t believe in marriage is married?”
“She left.”
“You’re newly married and freshly divorced in less than a week?”
“Try a day, and we’re not divorced yet.”
“Did you two have a heated argument or some shit? Is she mad that you didn’t remember the wedding?”