by Eve Langlais
Smoking drugs obviously, but not the skunky weed. She whiffed something else. Something with a sweetly acrid aftertaste. It tickled her nose, and she meant to hold her breath, but someone from behind brushed past her, and she opened her mouth with an inhaled gasp. She immediately coughed and sucked in more. Then coughed again.
“Fuck me, smoking that shit in the casino. Get out of here,” Rory snapped, his voice firm and welcome given her world spun.
He wrapped an arm around her, and she leaned into his strength while she waited for everything to stop spinning.
A strange lethargy imbued her.
“They were doing drugs,” she remarked, her tongue thick in her mouth.
“Yes. But we only got it second hand. It shouldn’t be too bad.”
For some reason, she smiled. “I actually feel good. Really good.” He peeked down at her as the door closed and the last of the smokers fled. The two of them stood in the cloud left behind.
“We should probably move, too.”
“In a minute.” She turned into him, facing him, and stared. “Why did you follow me?”
“Just wanted to make sure you got where you were going safely.”
“Acting as my bodyguard?”
“I was thinking more like a gentleman.”
“I don’t think you’re a gentleman,” she stated. Not with that big body of his. Only a few inches taller maybe, but definitely thicker. And all man.
She brushed against him, the jolt of awareness making him suck a deep breath.
“Your eyes are gorgeous.” She couldn’t help her fascination. They were a blue-gray, and almost lit from within.
“You shouldn’t stare at me like that,” he replied in a low rumble.
“Why not?”
“Because it stirs the beast.”
A laugh escaped her. What was it with men that they gave their penises names? Then again, he did seem kind of primal at the moment. His lower body leaned into her, his hips pinning her. Definite erection, then again, her wet panties were a lady-boner equivalent. His free hand cupped the back of her head.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking of kissing you.”
“Only thinking?” she taunted. She played with fire, she knew it the moment his mouth slanted over hers, but she didn’t care. Not anymore.
Everything inside her glowed. She felt so damned good. She laughed with ease. Exactly why was this wrong?
It certainly didn’t feel wrong when he kissed and ground against her, rousing her passion so expertly she had a mini orgasm right there on the wall.
A part of her understood they were drunk, and something more. Something in that leftover smoke that made them both lower their inhibitions. Perhaps that explained how Rory didn’t notice someone exiting the casino right as he stuck his hand down her pants, cupping her bare ass.
“We need to find another spot,” she mumbled. Not, “Let’s stop.” No “Hey, what are you thinking?” She wanted this as much as he did.
“Anything my mate desires.” Rory’s arm around her waist guided her. They returned to the casino, were offered shots of tequila—three of them—as they were on the way to somewhere, she couldn’t quite recall. The last thing she clearly remembered him saying was, “I’ve got an idea.”
After that things were fuzzy. Okay, truthfully, she didn’t recall anything, which was why her very hungover head remained lying face down on the pillow, a pillow she didn’t remember hitting. Her gritty eyes opened, and she saw a head. Shortish blond hair. Big body. And she was curled around it.
Naked.
What did I do?
Waking next to a stranger with a pasty taste in her mouth wasn’t exactly her idea of making good choices. Then again, she’d not made any brilliant ones from the moment she’d kissed Rory. Which made her wonder, was he the one in bed with her?
God, I hope so. She didn’t remember anyone else. Given she did recollect some necking, it seemed likely he’d managed to get her into bed. A pity she couldn’t remember it, but he was obviously good. Her body held a splendid languor. Her lips were full and obviously well kissed. And she had an arm tossed over his body and her lower area curved around his.
Waking to find herself spooning a man. There was a first.
She moved slowly, slipping away her arm. For a moment, he stopped breathing. So did she.
She waited, not wanting to wake him. Because then he’d want to talk. Or do other things. She didn’t have time for other things. She’d already lingered too long.
He resumed snoring softly, and she couldn’t help but stare at him, the daylight filtering through the curtains showing it wasn’t just the booze making him as handsome as she recalled. The smooth skin of his back tempted her to touch.
She tucked her hand away and resisted. No more dallying. She had the money, no reason to stick around.
Time to find her stuff and get going. Especially her bra with the check!
She slid from the bed, her naked body protesting the chill air conditioning of the room. It proved easy to spot their path from the night before. The trail of clothes began at the door. She found the casino check inches from her bra on the floor.
Alongside some blinking antennas.
What the hell did we do?
Naked things, obviously. She wore not a stitch. Her bag had made it to the room, which meant she had a fresh change of clothes. The yoga pants more for comfort than appearance. The bra plain cotton. She dug a new pair of underpants from her bag. Wincing as the plastic packaging they were still in crinkled.
He didn’t move.
The breath she held eased out. She hit the bathroom for a quick visit. Washing her hands at the sink, she glanced in the mirror. Disheveled hair? To be expected. Full lips from kissing. Obviously a sign she’d had a good time. The bite mark on her neck? Definitely more than a hickey.
What did he do? She leaned forward to see it better, the perfect crescent mark of his teeth in her skin colored in blood. “Son of a bitch,” she breathed.
She was totally tempted to give him a piece of her mind, but then that would mean talking to him, and in the light of day, she couldn’t believe what she’d done.
Exiting the bathroom, she noted him still sprawled asleep. She gathered her dirty apparel and stuffed it into the bag while the check went back into her bra. Finished dressing, she had her bag in hand about to tiptoe out of his room when she saw them tossed carelessly alongside a wallet. Car keys.
Don’t do it.
She needed wheels.
She cast a peek over her shoulder to where he snored. She really shouldn’t. He’d been nothing but nice to her.
Only so he could get what he wanted.
In all fairness, I wanted it too.
Surely, he wouldn’t begrudge helping her.
He owed her even for biting her. It might leave a scar.
Sorry.
She snatched the keys and ran.
Chapter 4
It had been over a week since his car was stolen in Vegas. A perfect way to cap off a perfectly shitty month. It didn’t help that his ego took a bruising when he awoke alone, the woman whose name he couldn’t recall, but whose face haunted his dreams, gone.
He should have been happy she didn’t stick around to make a scene. Many of the women he’d met in his life, impressed by his status and wealth, tended to cling. Some even resorted to blackmail when guilt tripping didn’t work. Not the woman with the captivating scent and no name. She fled without a goodbye, leaving not a single trace, and in his fucking car!
After the week he’d had, he hit rock bottom.
Which meant there was only one direction to go. Back up. Rory needed to find the positive, starting with the bet he’d lost. As part of his stupid plan to make his bio daddy pay, he’d agreed to marry and impregnate a woman in order to inherit. In his defense, the payout was huge. As in billions huge.
Still, though, a ball and chain at his delicate age? He was on the cusp of thirty. Still a pup with so m
any doggy fucking years left.
What if I don’t want to get tied down? Rory wasn’t the type to ever want to settle with just one lady, which meant he silently cheered when he lost the bet. Although he’d made a good show of it. The charade had gone on for ridiculously long. A fake engagement that created a sticky situation with Chanice, a woman who seemed to think their bogus engagement was real. She called. Texted. Showed up uninvited to his room. It got embarrassing how much she tried to trap him.
He hated clingy.
He also hated the fact the woman, who’d left the most amazing scent on his hotel sheets and stolen his fucking car, had disappeared and didn’t return. He knew because he waited for her.
Spent a few extra days playing, switching to roulette when he tired of the slots. Won tons of money he didn’t need. Drank his face off, too. During that time he kept an eye open for the woman. Kept hoping he’d catch her scent. At the same time, he couldn’t muster any interest in anyone else of the opposite sex. The only thing that penetrated his partying fog was that his car was recovered in some Texas border town, stripped of everything but the frame. With the tires gone, they’d left the sad carcass sitting on milk crates. It was a slapping reminder his car thief wasn’t coming back.
For some reason, that bothered him. It bothered him still several days after his return home, the one he’d gotten on the Texas coast. A home that seemed too big and quiet.
Lonely.
He’d not told anyone he was here yet. Not even his mother. He wasn’t done with the whole wallowing thing yet. But at least he’d stopped drinking. Booze never solved anything. And his recycling bins were full.
He lived in a neighborhood that still received door-to-door mail, a dying service in a digitally advancing age.
It was shoved through the slot in the door, hitting the floor. Mostly junk—flyers with big banners declaring sales. But amongst the pile was a large, purple envelope sprinkled in stars. What the hell was that?
He wandered over, coffee mug in hand, and crouched to grab it.
The return address was a PO Box in Vegas. And it was clearly addressed to him. It took only a moment to tear the end open and pull out a booklet on some kind of alien cult religion that involved people dressed in googly eyes around a giant blob. A welcome letter. And finally, an invoice for a quickie marriage done at the Chapel of Latter Day Aliens.
Blink.
It must be a mistake. He checked the name and address. His. The information on the groom. His. The bride? Some random chick named Danita DuMoines.
What. The. Fuck.
He might not remember much from that night—though assumed some flesh-pounding fun that left him sticky—and had only a vague recollection of yelling, “I fucking do.”
Oh shit, what did I do?
According to this bill for services, he’d gotten married. No way. Not with his phobia. This had to be some sick joke, or mistake.
There was a number on the form. It invited a person to log onto their website and check out the wedding pictures.
Moving with robotic-like jerkiness, Rory sat in a chair and flipped open his laptop. He punched in the address for the website. A bright image appeared of a huge saucer, porthole windows dotting it, floating over an Earth city. A light beamed down, and a happy couple in a gown and suit were being beamed up to it.
Mouth dry, he clicked the link on the top right, the one saying: View the Star Logs.
Enter your code.
He tapped it. Hit Enter.
Let out a relived sigh when it said: Invalid Code. Check your receipt and try again.
He almost shut it down, but thought, maybe I should check the code. A frown creased his brow as he realized he’d typed H instead of B. He changed it. Hit Enter.
Squeaked.
Like a mouse.
Not a man.
Or a wolf.
He wasn’t even a dog in that moment.
Say hello to the lumpy meatball in the chair staring at the blurry yet recognizable image of himself on screen, dressed in a suit, buttoned lopsided, a stupid grin plastered to his face. At his side, an altar glowing with neon lights and a person dressed in a Star Lord costume, hands folded.
Means nothing.
He clicked for the next image.
A blurry shot of a woman, at least it seemed like a woman, with an hourglass shape in pants and a shirt, holding…what the fuck was she holding? And what about her face? The blurry blob told him nothing.
Click.
She came into stark relief, a brunette with hair scraped back in a ponytail, her expression out of focus, her lips pink. She wore a T-shirt, a simple blue one, tucked into jeans. She clutched a bouquet of bobbing antennas with blinking eyeballs on the tips.
Next.
They stood together, both of them smiling widely. Obviously happy in that moment.
Because she smelled so good. His wolf was the one to remind him. He wouldn’t have married a woman because of her scent.
I married a nice-smelling car thief.
Next.
They faced each other at the altar, hands clasped, staring intently.
Her eyes are chocolate pools I could drown in.
She’s obviously some kind of scammer who takes advantage of men.
Next.
Their lips brushed.
It was like electricity. Every time they touched, it jolted him.
How much of that was because of the booze and drugs? He recalled the copious amounts of alcohol and the sugary sweet scent of opium in the stairwell, one of the few drugs that could get even a shapeshifter high.
Were drugs to blame for his intense recollection of the woman? He certainly held it to blame for him spilling his sad story of two daddies, which she giggled about and declared false. Then tried to one-up him with a tale of being kidnapped and escaping some freak who was holding her hostage because her daddy owed him something.
Obviously untrue. More likely she was a prostitute looking for some extra cash. She had, after all, stolen his car—yet she left my wallet full of cash. Probably after a bigger prize. Well, if she thought this fake wedding was going to net her dollars, she was sadly mistaken.
The tart wouldn’t get a damned thing from him. Not one single penny.
Rory rang his lawyer. “I need you to annul a wedding for me,” he stated without preamble when Connor answered. His best friend since high school, Connor, along with their Johnny and Freddy, were a squad who knew they could count on each other no matter what.
“Ever think of trying this thing called, ‘Hello. How’s it going? Long time no talk.’?”
“This is an emergency. Some gold digger fooled me into getting hitched. I need you to reverse it.”
A snicker came through the ear piece of his phone. “You got married. Mr. Never-In-A-Million-Years? That’s fucking priceless.”
“I was drunk.”
“Apparently. Which will help when I file. I assume you were too wasted to consummate.”
“I—” He sank into her, and she dug her nails into his back, urging him on. “We might have screwed. Once. No more.” That he recalled, but once or three times, it didn’t matter.
“Then you are shit out of luck on the annulment, my friend. You’ll have to go the divorce route.”
“For a woman I barely remember?”
“Don’t yell at me. I don’t make the laws.”
“I thought there was a law against letting people get married drunk.”
“Where did you get married?”
“Vegas.”
Snicker.
Rory growled. “That’s not helping.”
“Don’t get pissy with me. I’m not the moron who got wasted and married.”
“You have to fix this.”
“I’ll do what I can. Send the info you have on this broad and I’ll get the paperwork started on the divorce.”
Except that wasn’t straightforward either. The address she’d filled out on the form proved to be false, and a search of her name in da
tabases—even ones he shouldn’t have access to—didn’t show anything.
For all intents and purposes, his supposed wife didn’t exist.
It should have relieved him. A woman this hard to find probably wanted nothing to do with him. Had probably forgotten, or wanted to forget, what they’d done. He certainly did.
Then why did he keep having dreams of her?
Why did his wolf whine and urge him to find her? She needs me. He couldn’t shake the feeling, yet could do nothing about it.
But that didn’t stop him from searching.
Chapter 5
What am I doing? Dani’s plan involved getting through customs to Mexico and then farther south still. That was her plan, except once she neared the border, she’d gotten nervous. What would she do down there? She didn’t speak Spanish. She had barely any money. Nothing to her name but a knapsack of clothes and a marriage certificate found stuffed in the bottom days after she fled Las Vegas.
How could I have done that?
She was on the lam. She had to keep moving lest Kelso find her, and yet, she couldn’t help but look at that piece of paper, the one declaring her Mrs. Beauchamp. A legal and binding tie. Was it fair to Rory that she skip out and leave him tied?
Because, as far as she knew, the law wouldn’t grant a divorce without her signature, and the sex they’d had made annulment out of the question.
Unless he lies. A man like him probably would have no problem telling a court that nothing happened.
She had nothing to worry about. Yet…what if she were wrong? What if the marriage was binding? One day he might want to get married for real. Or maybe she would. Then what?
It meant that, instead of heading to Mexico as planned, she tracked him down in his hometown. The address on the car ownership papers in the glovebox something she’d partially memorized. Who could forget an exotic address like Seawall Boulevard in Galveston, Texas? And the number, of course, one sixty-nine.
He lived out of her flight path, and yet she found herself here with no real plan. She’d never watched a movie that could give her a tip on this. Exactly what should a woman do? Show up on his doorstep and demand a divorce? He’d probably readily agree. But what if…what if he didn’t? What if he wanted a real marriage? Or he was angry? Men could take offense at many things. Especially one who felt he might have been wronged.