“That nice lady bartender gave it to me.” She holds the business card out of me. “It’s Liam Black’s business card—with his phone number.” She grins from ear to ear. “You can thank me later.”
Horrified, I stare at the card Dan gave me and compare it to the one Mysti May is shoving in my face.
Bingo. Jackpot. You’re a winner.
It’s the same fucking number.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp. The two move behind me to get a look.
“Oh, fuck,” Percy and Mysti May echo.
At the bar, I can hear Sammi throwing up into one of the strippers’ banana hammocks.
Liam Black.
Liam Black.
Both cards bear the same phone number.
They’re both marked with the same fucking name.
Man, when fate punches you in the mouth, it sure does like to break teeth.
The man I fucked here last night and married afterward is Dan’s asshole stepbrother.
Liam fucking Black.
Chapter 23
Liam
3:14 PM THURSDAY
The breeze is ruffling my hair as I maneuver out of the car park and along the main road to the Royale. The soft top of my new toy, a red Tesla Roadster, is down. The state-of-the-art, brand-spanking-new technology of this beast means the leather seat molds to my body like it was made for me.
Pity I don’t have a long stretch of highway ahead of me so I can find out what this baby is really made of. Instead, I keep things legal and enjoy the smoothness of my ride while the radio pulses out classic rock―Def Leppard wailing for someone to pour some sugar on them.
I’m feeling good. I just gave my wife a lap dance, and I think the next time she sees me, she might even remember who I am.
All things considered, yeah, right now, life is pretty fucking good.
The morning might have started on a sour note, but it’s improved considerably over the last few hours.
Actually, nicely is a bit of a fucking understatement at this point.
Becky Brooks. Becky Black. Her red fucking hair and her hot little mouth.
I hadn’t expected a visit from Becky so soon, not that I minded. My wife is a clever woman. She’s figuring things out faster than I expected—which suits me just fine.
Seeing her again was fucking fantastic. According to my calculations, she wasn’t due to contact me for a few more hours, at least.
You’re a clever girl, Becky Black. One of the many, many reasons I married you.
As is my style, I grabbed the opportunity the second it presented itself. There I was, trying to work out how to get in touch with her, when she arrived hand-delivered on a silver fucking platter.
Of course, no follow up date has been arranged yet. I think I’ll wait it out and see what other hands fate deals.
But I’ll give it time. All good things come to those who wait.
I speak from experience. Being married to Becky is a lot like counting cards in this regard. Sometimes you know exactly what’s coming next. Sometimes you just have a good feeling about it.
And I can feel it in my bones it won’t be long before I get to see my wife again.
For a while, I roll the word wife around my mouth, as if tasting it for the first time. It feels strange, exciting, and fucking fantastic.
Wife. I’d never fancied myself the marrying type before I met her, but in hindsight, it seemed inevitable. There I was, feeling sorry for whatever poor girl Dan the Man had manipulated into marrying him…
And there Becky was, swearing like a sailor and threatening Dan the Man with a fire poker.
Ah, Christ. Makes me wistful, that. From the first moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she was the one.
Sailor talk, fire poker and all.
My phone rings, drawing me out of my daydreams and memories.
“Liam Black,” I answer smoothly. I don’t recognize the number, and my business requires a certain amount of suave. “How can I help you?”
Clients should always be treated with respect. I don’t have to like my customers, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t treat them nicely or like they’re not important. Let’s face it―we all like to be treated as if we’re important.
And of course, often, you get a lot further in life if you treat people well. I mean, the other day one of the women who came to the Post Office had steam coming out of her ears, that’s how fucking mad she was. I think she was demanding to fuck my bartender or something, I don’t know.
All I know is I kept my fucking cool. Empathy. I showed her fucking empathy and instantly doused her flames of anger.
Not for one second did I think she was right had a point or any substance to her complaint, but I knew there was no fucking point in saying this to her.
Once I empathized with her, she was putty in my hand.
What can I say? Women love me. It’s just part of my natural charm.
“You lying, cheating son of a bitch,” a woman’s voice yells at me from the phone.
Ah. I’d recognize her voice anywhere.
No woman loves me quite in the same way as my wife does.
“Good afternoon to you too, love,” I chuckle back. “How was your lap dance? Enjoy it?”
“How fucking dare you do this to me! You had no fucking right…”
Lucky I’m not on FaceTime because I’m grinning from ear to fucking ear. I have a feeling that would only piss her off more.
Come to think, it’s a shame we’re not video calling. Becky’s a real beauty when she’s angry. I’d fall in love with her all over again.
“Fuck you, Liam. You know what you did, you sack of shit.”
Her words are music to my soul. She cares enough about me to have found me again. If she didn’t, she would never have fucking called me now.
Even if she does sound…well. A tad bit miffed.
She catches her breath, and I’m about to ask her another question—but before I can, she gets her second wind.
“You are such a low life, Liam! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?! You were there this morning—you could have at least—”
“Tried? Tried to tell you who I was and what your pert little arse got up to last night?” I chuckle again. God, hearing Becky furious like this gets me going. She’s a beauty when she’s enraged. “Believe you me, love—I did. Unfortunately, you were very convincing when you kicked me out earlier. I was obviously deeply hurt.”
“Not yet, you aren’t,” Becky snarls at me through the phone. “But when I get my hands on you…”
I can tell she’s fucking wound up. It will probably take her a while to get rid of all that steam burning up inside of her.
“Mmm,” I purr back. “Go on then—tell me what you’ll do. I have so many fond memories of your hands on me, darling. I’d love to add to the collection.”
“Fuck you, Liam.”
I chuckle again. She’s incredible.
“I’m game if you are, kitten,” I finally say calmly into the phone and am pleased when she does not return another volley of insults. “How are you after our glorious wedding?”
No point beating around the bush. I’m sure by now she fucking knows we’re married. From what I hear, she’s been doing a bit of detective work all day.
“We are not married,” she starts but stops again.
“I think you’ll find that we are, in fact. Aren’t the photos amazing? You look simply stunning. We’ll need to have a talk, though, about which of the pictures we’re getting framed. There’s one in particular I know is going on my desk in the office.”
Now all I can hear is heavy breathing. This could be another good sign. Either she was coming to terms with what has happened or she has simply run out of energy. I put money on my first guess.
“Now darling…I think we really should meet and have a proper date, what do you think?”
“Grmbf.”
I’m not quite sure if I understood her cor
rectly. Either we just experienced static in the line or she’s reluctant to keep the conversation going on a civil basis.
“Come on, love. You must want to meet and talk about this?” I try again and the response is about as unclear as the first one. “Have you eaten today?”
“Wha—well, no,” she says, and I think I’m making progress. “But—”
“Ah, of course you haven’t. You’re so temperamental when you’re hungry, love. Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight? At the Royale. My treat. Consider it the beginning of our honeymoon.”
I can hear the hesitation in her breathing. My job means I’m fucking brilliant at reading people. Hardly anyone realizes what an open fucking book they are.
Not only are the eyes the window to the soul—there are also hand gestures, body movements, even changes in breath that all speak volumes about a person’s personality and demeanor.
Bruce, my head barman, is another expert in this area, and he’s taught me a lot on the subject.
He can tell a mile off if a woman in the strip club is married and looking to fuck a bloke for revenge, or if we have a virgin attending, ready to do it for the first time so she doesn’t have to confess to her boyfriend she’s never done it before, or if the woman is really gay and just giving it a go to see if she might be mistaken about her own sexual identity.
The breathing I can hear from Becky confirms there’s inner turmoil. At least she hasn’t hung up on me. I think I might be onto a winner.
“Come on,” I coax. “You’ve got to eat dinner anyway.”
She’s relaxing a little.
“It’ll be worth it, I promise. A feast shall await you. After all, no wife of mine shall go hungry.”
“I’m not your fucking wife,” Becky hisses into the phone, and now I do laugh.
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Well, I think you better check your marriage certificate, love. You’ll find that we’re quite married, ergo…”
Now she’s angry, and I may just have hooked her into an agreement.
“Okay,” I hear her say, and I punch the air like a tennis player does when he gets the winning shot. “I’ll meet you for dinner.”
I name the time, and we’re golden.
I’m rather looking forward to this, honestly.
Who wouldn’t?
It’s my first proper dinner with my wife…the first of many, I think, if I play my cards right.
Chapter 24
Becky
4:36 PM THURSDAY
The hot water assaults my skin like millions of tiny needles. It’s extra hot, and I use soap extra liberally, and I take my sweet goddamn time trying to wash off the afternoon from my skin.
If the water can flush away that shame off of me, I might feel better. There’s no fucking doubt about it, I don’t fucking feel proud about last night.
Wouldn’t it be fucking fantastic if I could time travel? I could go back in time, where my life went off the fucking rails and fix it. Fix everything. My marriage to Liam, whatever happened between me and Dan, Mysti May’s tryst with the showgirls—if I was really clever about it, I bet I could even save Percy’s pubic hair before she managed to catch it on fire this morning.
I put my head under the showerhead and close my eyes.
Thoughts race randomly through my head.
Liam. Wedding. Strippers.
Something about liberating the sharks from SeaWorld. Presumably, at some point, way too much alcohol.
This is one fucked up mess.
Usually I get my greatest thoughts and ideas during a shower, but not this afternoon.
Isn’t water meant to be soothing? Isn’t it supposed to help you think?
I recall some study on water and people. Something about how immersing in water calms brain activity.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little calmer. It’s hard to say if that’s because of the water or because now I have most of the pieces of the fucking puzzle. Emphasis on most—not all.
Over and over, I try and go back to the one critical moment I still can’t work out or recall. I must have dialed Liam’s number at some point last night. But why had I called him in the first place? What fucking emergency had led to me calling the man I was only supposed to call in an emergency?
Had Dan done something to upset me? Something so bad, it had reverberated all the way to Las Vegas from San Fran-fucking-cisco?
Questions and more questions, with no fucking answers in sight.
It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but I have this strange feeling, the one that’s like This guy is definitely going to try and roofie my beer when I turn around or In exactly 12 minutes, my period is going to hit me like Mike Tyson’s boxing glove.
It’s the feeling you have just before you eat something that you know will make you feel sick. You don’t listen to it because you’re convinced that there’s something novel about gas station sushi, but you always regret it in the end.
I wish I would have had that feeling at literally any point last night.
I’m a big girl now and quite able to accept responsibility for stupid decisions and things I do. But is it so much to ask that every once in a while, my intuition kicks in and handcuffs Drunk Becky to something that isn’t a stripper pole while totally naked?
The entire episode is troubling, because the whole thing is out of character for me. Maybe not for Ballin’ Becky so much—but I was so sure that I’d finally put that part of myself to bed.
I planned this bridal celebration with the best of intentions. Sure, I cringed when Dan told me to make good choices, but I didn’t set out to make sure I broke all the fucking rules.
On the contrary, I do what Dan asks me because, well, because he was the man I was going to marry.
I turn around, let the water cascade over my back, and bend my head forward. I keep my eyes closed.
Liam.
The thought of Liam pushes Dan out of my mind.
This man is the fucking key to everything, isn’t he? He knows what happened. Or at least he should know.
I called him last night. Obviously I did.
But when Dan the Man left me Liam’s number, he told me Liam was an asshole to avoid at all costs if I could. I know I wouldn’t have called him if there had not been some kind of emergency.
So. At some point, there was a fucking reason to call. It is not as if I would have called the man because we couldn’t connect to the Wi-Fi or something. I’m not that kind of girl.
More often than not, I stand on my own two feet. I manage to get into and out of any mess by myself.
Ergo, the only conclusion I can draw is that something pretty fucking huge must have happened for me to call a man that Dan described as his asshole stepbrother.
Absentmindedly, I lather my body in soap.
It’s bad—I know it’s bad—but I can’t help but think how much fun it would be if Liam were in the shower with me. He could use the soap and make sure I covered every last bit of my skin.
After all, last night we got up to some pretty awesome fucking fun.
The memories, scant as they are…they make me smile.
Liam was right. Some of those wedding photos are total keepers. But where would I keep them? I doubt Dan the Man will come to see the humor in all this…if he even wants me anymore.
That raises a different question, though: do I even still want him?
It’s definitely not Dan the Man I’m imagining giving me a once over with this loofa.
As my hand cups water between my legs, fantasies of my husband using his fucking amazing tongue to turn me into fucking jelly push any other useless thought out of my head.
My husband, Liam Black.
I recall his smile and the way he treated me like a queen the entire time he was with me. I’m pretty fucking sure I told him I love him at one point during the night. No, wait, maybe I told him more than once…
Of course
, champagne―well, too much champagne― can be blamed for this faux pas. Girls who are drunk often say and believe silly things.
Sammi was once convinced she was in love with the taxi driver who took us from nightclub to nightclub on one of our wild nights back in college. We all teased her mercilessly the next day, even told her the cabdriver was coming over for a date later that day.
Of course, Sammi had no memory of the guy or her offerings of love to the poor man.
But we were all able to laugh about it later, since Sammi didn’t end up getting hitched to the guy.
Good job, Becky. You created a problem while shitfaced and then you proceeded to marry it.
Percy once cried over an ice cream sundae she fell in love with after too much champagne. We didn’t even blame her—we were on some health food cleanse at the time. We would have killed to be the ones making out with a spoon covered in soft serve and hot fudge sauce.
And never mind the dozens of drunk girls in fraternity house bathrooms that Mysti May had fallen in love with. When Mysti May was drunk, she didn’t even realize that half of those women had vomit on their dresses and lipstick on their teeth.
Alcohol. That’s what got me into this mess.
Alcohol brought Ballin’ Becky back from the dead, and she was so pissed at me for snuffing her out that she did everything in her power to ruin Good Responsible Becky’s life.
But part of my own logic still doesn’t stack up.
In every flashback I’ve had today, I felt stone cold sober. Or, if anything, I was drunk on love.
When the fuck did I even have time to drink?
And if alcohol was the culprit, why the fuck did I just agree to have dinner with this man?
Because you fucking like him, a tiny little voice whispers deep within.
But that’s fucking ridiculous, because of course I don’t.
If anything, I like the memory of him. Maybe.
Which doesn’t make him any less of an asshole or an arrogant prick.
No, I know. I’m meeting Liam for dinner to ask him those critical missing questions. And once that’s done and over with, so are we. I’ll have Percy’s lawyer sugar daddy send over the divorce papers right away.
The Other Brother_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 14