by Jana Aston
“Listen, Vince,” I ask, “is it better to have loved and lost or to never have loved at all?”
“What in the hell does that even mean?” He knocks back a shot, setting the empty glass onto the coffee table with a thud before settling into his chair again. “I have no idea what expression you’re fucking up this time.”
“You know, I’m not sure either. I thought I was going somewhere with that but you’re right, it doesn’t make sense.” I shrug because they can’t all be winners. “The point is, we’re gonna have a real good time tonight.”
“Is that so?”
“Pretty sure. Or we’re all getting arrested and someone will have to hold my hair while I vomit. It could go either way. It’s the unknown that makes it fun, don’t you think?”
Fuck it. I send the waitress back for a tray of shots. This single round bullshit isn’t going to get this circus out of the bigtop. Besides, it’s on Vince.
“We can skinny-dip in the fountain at the Bellagio.” I start by holding up my index finger and tapping it with the opposite index finger to keep count of all the fantastic ideas I have for tonight. Which is impressive since what I had planned for tonight was having sex with Vince. Good thing I’m both adaptable and a quick thinker.
“Eh, that’s not actually something we can do.” This is from Canon, which hurts because I thought he was going to be my fun side piece. Wait, that’s not right. I thought he was going to be my fun sidekick. Like a wingman. “Security is top-notch over there. We’d be arrested before we had a chance to get completely naked.”
That’s valid feedback.
“You, sir”—I point at him—“have just been promoted. Have another shot.”
Shots all around.
“Okay, number one,” I start over, tapping one index finger with the other again. “There’s a place where we can rent fancy sports cars and drive them as fast as we want around a track. Like race car drivers!”
“They closed hours ago. And we’re already tipsy so they wouldn’t let us drive,” Lawson points out.
God, these guys.
“Well, that’s just great,” I gripe. “I suppose this means that place where you can operate a bulldozer is out too.”
“Probably so,” Lawson agrees. “TopGolf is open.”
“Oh, come on!” I toss my hands up in frustration. “I’m wearing fuck-me heels. We are not going to hit golf balls. You”—I point at Lawson—“take another shot.” I scowl at all three of them. “If one of you suggests a five dollar buffet, so help me…”
Vince smiles at that. His smile is more of a smirk though, a sexy little smirk that hits me right in the gut and makes me forget that I’m over him. I stare at his lips a moment longer, remembering how they felt pressed against my own. The firmness of his chest, the soft pressure of his hand on my jaw. My heart speeds up and I lick my lips as I relive that freaking perfect kiss. So I’m not totally over him then. But really, who am I to question fate? I’m not the fate police. Plus it’s been like twenty minutes. I’m not made of stone.
“Number one,” I repeat for the third time, then stop myself. I need to treat this trio like I treat bridezillas: limit their choices. “Forget the numbers. We’re moving to a lettered system. Your choices are A or B. Got it?”
Canon and Lawson nod. Vince winks.
“You.” This time I point at Vince. “Why are you all winky and flirty and pretty and kissy? I tried to fast-pass you and you turned me down! Yet you keep looking at me, sitting there all broody and mysterious like every woman’s bad boy dream come to life. Looking at me with your perfect face and your kissable lips and your panty-melting brown eyes. Doing that thing with your eyes. Like you’re undressing me and liking what you see. You’re driving me crazy! Just”—I wave my hand around in a gesture similar to the one I use to dry my nails—“look somewhere else.”
“A fast pass?” Vince is laughing now, and he’s not even attempting to honor my request to stop looking at me. Nope. Instead he’s looking directly at me, his grin fading into a lazy smirk before he drags his eyes over me from head to toe and back again. Slowly. Deliberately. Infuriatingly.
“Stop looking at me!”
He won’t. He’s looking at me like I’m fascinating, which is my kryptonite. Wait, did I ever figure out if I was using that word correctly? I don’t think I did. In any case, I like it, the way he looks at me. I don’t think the way he looks at me is going to cause me a slow and painful death. Definitely not.
Maybe.
Okay, it might.
“Everyone focus,” I announce. “Back to your choices. Option A: we can skydive off the side of the Stratosphere, or Option B: ride the roller coaster at New York, New York.”
“What’s option C?” Canon asks, brows drawn together. I think he’s unimpressed with my idea.
“There is no option C.” I glare at Canon. “A or B. Firm and final.”
Chapter Ten
Option C, as it turns out, is Fremont Street. “Old-school Vegas,” Canon called it.
Whatever, it’ll still be fun. Thrill rides and alcohol don’t really mix anyway. We take a town car from the club. Apparently they’ve got them on standby because providing customers with a free ride is a thing. I told Vince if his customers didn’t have the money for a cab they surely didn’t have the money to pay for lap dances. He didn’t think that was funny. He’s wrong, but it’s okay because I’m not a grudge-holder.
It’s not far to Fremont, but it’s Saturday night in Vegas so it takes twenty minutes to go three miles. Twenty minutes in which I’m pressed against Vince in the back seat of the town car. Twenty long, hard minutes.
For me. Who the hell knows what Vince is feeling.
I love being pressed against him. There’s more than enough room in the back seat of this car for me not to be near sitting on Vince’s lap, but seize the day, am I right? He’s warm and soft and hard and delicious. I know that’s an oxymoron, soft and hard. But he’s so perfectly male. Big and firm, yet his shoulder makes such a nice place for me to rest my head.
“Are you comfortable?”
So my cuddling hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“Not as comfortable as I would have been on your desk,” I reply.
Beside me he snorts in response. I wonder if he’s on a sex cleanse, like when people give up sugar or gluten, but a hundred times worse.
On the other side of me Canon is thumbing through his phone, ignoring us. Lawson is in the front, embroiled in a conversation about hockey with the driver. At least I think it’s hockey. Irrelevant to me, that’s all I know.
We stop in front of the Golden Nugget and pile out of the car. The curb is on Canon’s side of the car, so I take my time, knowing Vince will have to look at my ass as I bend just so to exit. Then I pause on the pavement, smug in my seduction techniques, and give my behind a little shake as I smooth my hair over my shoulders before moving out of the way.
Except.
Except he got out on the other side and walked around and missed my entire performance. I sigh audibly as Canon turns to face me.
“Relax,” he tells me. “This is better than SkyJumping, trust me.”
“It’s great.” I force a smile because he’s right. I didn’t even want to SkyJump, not really. I don’t want to beat a dead horse about my hair, but pretty sure jumping off the side of a building would have rendered my blowout useless.
We go inside and Canon turns to me with a grin. “A or B,” he says and I smile. Then he winks and I laugh. “A, we play craps. B, we play baccarat.”
“I don’t know what either of those games are so let’s go with A.” I shrug.
It turns out that I’m pretty good at craps. Technically I understand that you can’t be good at something that involves nothing but random luck, but I like to take my wins where I can and it turns out I’ve got a real flair for throwing sevens.
I’ve got a flair for having a good time too.
* * *
One tequila…
“To
tigers!” I raise my glass to toast. “Bottoms up!”
Fucking tigers.
I blame the tigers for everything that happens next.
Blaming tequila would be more logical, but nothing that happens next is logical, so tigers might as well take the responsibility.
* * *
Two tequila…
“What is it you want, Payton?”
“Fun. I want to have fun.”
“Maybe I’m not interested in fun.” He’s standing so close to me, his eyes steady on mine and his expression hard to read.
“You legiterally run a strip club. Fun is your middle name.”
“Legiterally?” The corner of Vince’s mouth pulls upwards and his eyes flash in amusement. Dark chocolatey brown eyes with specks of amber and honey and lust. Lust is a color, trust me.
“Yeah, it’s when something is too legit to quit.”
“It’s not.” Vince shakes his head in response, the smirk transformed into a wide smile now.
“I’m pretty sure it is,” I argue, but I’m cut off because his lips are on mine. He tastes like expensive alcohol and great ideas.
* * *
Three tequila…
“We are such a good idea,” I tell Vince.
“Are we?”
“The best idea ever.”
“Hmm,” he hums against my neck because he’s sucking my earlobe into his mouth. Praise Jesus.
“You know what we could do?” I ask.
“What’s that?”
“We could make out behind that pinball machine.” We’re in an arcade because, well, because it’s here and who doesn’t love an arcade? Also because option A was ziplining and none of the guys wanted to zipline.
Confession: I knew they wouldn’t want to, which is why I paired it with the arcade. I have a real weakness for Skee-Ball.
“I don’t think that would work.”
“Why not?”
“Because the pinball machine is not an invisibility cloak and public fornication is illegal in Las Vegas.”
“Oh, my God. You’re a dirty talker! This is so much more than I deserve. Say fornication again.”
* * *
Four…
“A or B,” I announce for at least the tenth time tonight, flinging my arm wide. The foot-tall slushy I’m holding would likely slosh over the side if I hadn’t already drunk half of it. Slosh, such a good word. “We still haven’t found a tiger.” I look up and down Fremont Street with sadness. Not a tiger in sight.
“I don’t think a tiger was a reasonable goal for the night, sweets,” Vince comments from beside me.
“No one gets to tell me how big my dreams can be, Vince.” I heard that advice during my life coaching session. Now seems like the perfect time to implement it.
“Fair enough,” he agrees.
“I’ll get one tattooed on my ass. That’ll count.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“I knew you liked my ass. I knew it! Just so you know, I’m not opposed to butt stuff.”
“You mentioned that an hour ago.”
“I did? Oh.”
“What’s the B, Payton?” Vince smirks like he’s so smart. Like a simple A or B option is going to lure me away from my tiger goal. “If A is you getting a tiger tattooed on your ass, what’s option B?”
“Getting married.” God, he thinks he’s so smart—well, take that, Mr. Smarty Pants.
“Seems like a clear choice then, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” I think I’ll get something tasteful, like a tiger holding a shot glass. Something to remember the night by.
“B it is.”
You know what they say about Vegas, right? Don’t ask, don’t tell?
Just kidding.
I’m going to tell you everything.
Just give me a moment. And an aspirin.
Chapter Eleven
Oh, God.
Okay, give me a second. I’ve got this—of course I do. I’m not an amateur for crying out loud, I can hold my liquor. By which I mean I wasn’t that drunk. By which I mean I didn’t black out. By which I mean I remember enough to know exactly how I ended up in the honeymoon suite of the Windsor hotel.
The details might be a little fuzzy, sure. But fuzzy doesn’t mean you don’t remember, it just means the details made more sense as they were happening than they make the next day, that’s all.
I’m married. To Vince. That part would be crystal clear even if there wasn’t a shiny gold band on my finger to remind me. I remember most of it, in a fuzzy way. I’m positive it made more sense last night, but tequila will do that to you.
Canon was my maid of honor. That part is a bit hazy, but I do remember him yelling “Shotgun, maid of honor!” as if he was calling dibs on sitting in the front seat of a car. Then he put himself in charge of the photos and insisted on comping us a stay in this honeymoon suite. And he was really into that something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue bullshit, but I can’t quite remember the details.
Wait, it’s the suite. He said it was new because no one had actually stayed in it yet. And borrowed because he was comping it. He said the something old was Vince. What in the hell was the something blue though? Wait—it’s the shower. All the suites in this hotel have blue tile in the bathrooms. I groan as softly as possible in order not to wake Vince as I slap a hand over my eyes.
That freaking shower. I don’t think I’ll be able to shower again without being turned on. Ever. I’ll probably have to allocate time to rubbing one out every time I take a shower for the rest of my life, as I’ve now been conditioned to equating showering with seeing Vince naked. Naked and wet and sudsy and generous with his tongue.
By generous I mean talented and possibly in possession of magical abilities.
Scientists will tell you that it takes twenty-one days to form a habit, but no scientist has ever had Vince’s tongue on their clit so I don’t think they have a clue about how fast habits can form, because oh, sweet holy Jesus, trust me when I tell you that you’d only need one night with Vince’s tongue to want it habitually. Though now that I think about it I learned that twenty-one days thing from a Facebook post so it’s likely not even true. Vince’s tongue is verified true, I can promise you that.
It was a really great night.
A perfect night.
Best night ever.
I need to hold onto those memories because when he wakes up he’s going to kill me. And honestly? I can’t face it. Not yet. Not after the way he looked at me last night, like marrying me was the best decision of his life. Last night he made me believe in love at first sight and fairy tales and happily ever afters and forever. Though it could have been the tequila making me believe, if I’m being fair. In any case, I don’t think he’s going to wake up today and ask me to meet his mother. On a scale of one to ten I’d say the likelihood of that happening is a one.
He’s going to wake up and look at me like I’m a drunken mistake. And then demand that we get this dissolved as quickly as possible.
Which I get, I do. I’ve known him a day, it’s not like we’re in love or anything. That would be silly. Not totally unheard of, it does happen. In movies mostly, but sometimes it happens to your friend’s cousin’s next-door neighbor. So it could. But it hasn’t happened here, because only one of us is crazy.
Unless.
Unless he was so blown away with what a good time I am that he decided he best put a ring on it? Doubtful, but possible. I am a real good catch. I have a college degree, and a job. A job with benefits! I wonder if he needs health insurance? I could add him to my health plan at work now that we’re married. Then I’d be a wife with benefits, which is way better than a friend with benefits because he’d get affordable healthcare and sex.
But that’s likely not a selling point, mostly because I’m betting he has health insurance already. He seems like he has his act together, aside from marrying me last night, obviously.
In any case, I can’t face him th
is morning. I can’t do it. I know I’ll have to do it eventually, but today is not that day. Don’t I deserve just one day? One day to revel in the memories of the best night of my life? One day to pretend whirlwind romances exist?
One day to believe in love.
One day to pretend it exists.
That sounds fair.
Fair-ish.
Fair if we’re grading on a bell curve where one of us gets what they want and the other doesn’t. Wait, is that a bell curve? No, I don’t think I’m using that correctly at all.
I take one last look at him before I get out of bed. He’s on his back, one hand resting on his stomach and the other on my shoulder, because I’m snuggled into the side of him like a needy kitten. He’s wearing a gold band on the third finger of his left hand, the hand resting on his stomach. His perfectly chiseled six-pack of a stomach. He’s got that V thing too—you know those abdominal muscles that make women stupid? He’s got ’em. And they lead directly to the holy grail of penises. My vagina throbs just glancing at it. Literally. Throbbing in denial because all I got penetrated with last night was his tongue and a finger, so I need to get out of this bed right now before I do something stupider than marrying him. Something like waking him up with a demand to ride his cock only to have the moment ruined when he remembers he lost his ever-loving mind last night by marrying a crazy girl.
One more moment of lustful staring will have to do. It’s just, is there anything hotter than a wedding band on the finger of a very sexy man? Like, look at that sexy motherfucker committed to fucking only one woman for the rest of his life. Rawr. Is it just me? It can’t be just me.
And seeing a ring on a man that belongs to you?
Whole new level of hot.
Even if it’s temporary.
Maybe I’ll take a quick picture of it. The sheet is covering his junk so it’s not totally invasive taking his picture while he’s asleep, right? Not more invasive than marrying him while he was drunk.
Or did he marry me while I was drunk?