by Valerie Mann
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First Comes Marriage
Copyright © 2012 by Valerie Mann
ISBN: 978-1-61333-418-8
Cover art by Mina Carter
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
Look for us online at:
www.decadentpublishing.com
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~Dedication~
To Jackson and Leah. Thanks for the memories.
First Comes Marriage
A 1Night Stand Story
By
Valerie Mann
Chapter One
“Honey, you piece of crap!”
The ancient car lurched and coughed. Just as the sage mechanic Beth had left behind in Los Angeles warned: Honey’s got two wheels on the pavement and two in the junkyard. Don’t drive her too far, Ms. Malone. You’re gonna regret it.
As usual, he’d been right on the money about Honey’s temperamental nature and ill health. Beth had certainly paid him enough over the years to get an honest prognosis.
Of all the days for Honey to slide her other two wheels into the junkyard, today had to be the worst. Beth gripped the steering wheel. “Fuckity fuck.”
A backfire jerked the car, punctuating her curse.
Even before the Triumph TR7 wheezed one final wheeze on the gravel shoulder and ground to a halt, Beth punched in the familiar number of roadside assistance. On the advice of the know-it-all mechanic Bernie, she’d put it on speed dial before leaving L.A.
Twenty minutes later, she sagged against Honey’s front left quarter panel and tried to ignore the metal burning her ass through the seat of her jeans. She cursed herself every which way to Sunday for not remembering to pick up a bottle or two of water and trail mix at the last rest stop. Both could do wonders for a girl stranded on the side of the road.
In the desert.
While buzzards with wingspans the size of commercial airliners circled overhead, looking for human trail mix.
She glanced down the long expanse of highway and frowned. A station wagon, circa The Brady Bunch, approached and stopped.
A man with a predatory, snaggle-toothed grin cranked the passenger window down. Stale cigarette smoke and tinny Dwight Yoakum drifted ahead of the words. “Hey, sweet thing. Need some help?”
His sparse comb-over couldn’t hide a freckled, shiny scalp, though he had the option of replacing it with some of the hair sprouting out of his ears and nose. The guy took cliché to the next level.
Fortunately a level Beth never ventured near.
I could be lying like a flattened lizard frying on that godforsaken pavement right in front of your Bradymobile, and there still wouldn’t be a damned thing I’d let you help me with. “I’m good. I called for a tow.”
“Have it your way,” he grunted, ground the transmission, and pulled away.
She crossed her arms and waited for real help, ignoring the greedy vultures overhead and the way the desert heat continued to suck her life essence.
When a large vehicle barreled over the shimmering asphalt toward her, she straightened hopefully, before it formed into a disappointing silver Hummer. Rolling to a stop, it cast welcome shade in front of her. The passenger side window slid down on a whisper and blessed cold air caressed her for a brief moment along with the spicy scent of expensive leather.
Out of the dim recesses of the driver’s side, a man leaned over and waved down at her from his lofty height. “Car trouble?” The sensual voice matched the sexy vehicle. She’d always been a sucker for big, bad road machines. And the big, bad men who drove them.
This particular big bad driver happened to be a handsome devil with black hair slicked back, dark eyes, and smooth, tanned skin. “Do you need a lift?”
She shook her head with a twinge of regret. “I’m fine. Just waiting for a tow.”
He grinned, his teeth a flash of white against brown skin. “You sure?”
A tempting offer she hated to refuse, especially when another arctic chill filtered down. “No, thanks.”
“I can take a look at the engine if you want.”
Common sense warred with appreciation for a good-looking man. Where are all the knights in shining armor when I’m not stranded on the side of the road?
He bent down out of sight then reappeared next to the passenger window. She jumped back, her heartbeat drumming in her ears.
“Here.” He gestured her to come closer.
Like she was stupid enough to fall for that old trick…though she eyed the bottle of water he held, watching the cold sweat beading on the plastic. She wanted it, her cotton mouth urging her to do something desperate. The kind of desperate that always got the too-stupid-to-live homecoming queens murdered in horror movies. The man may be gorgeous, but she wasn’t stupid, though cotton mouth begged her to reconsider the offer.
“Really, I’m fine.”
He squinted up at the burning sun. “It’s one hundred and five degrees.”
As if the magma searing the soles of her feet wasn’t a clue. “I’m aware, but thank you anyway.”
He grinned again and wiggled the bottle. A drop of water dripped and plopped on the gravel near her foot. The thirsty desert sucked it up. She licked her dry lips and swallowed more regret.
When she didn’t reply, he tossed the icy bottle in her direction. “Here, catch.”
She caught it and murmured a quick thanks before twisting the cap and taking a long, grateful pull.
A growl in the distance caught her attention, and she wanted to clap as an enormous green Jerr-Dan wrecker with Froggie’s Towing and Service painted along the side swung around the Hummer and pulled over on the shoulder in front of Honey. With a shrill beep, it reversed and stopped within a few feet of her bumper.
Water Boy nodded. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”
The door of the truck cab swung open and
a red-faced, beefy man slid down to the ground with a grunt and a scowl. Water Boy frowned. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around?”
The too-stupid-and-desperate-to-live part of her wanted to take him up on the offer, even though for all she knew, it wasn’t the cavalry she needed to be wary of, but him. She shrugged. Wasn’t much choice after all and she had to get to Las Vegas.
“I’ll be fine.” Gazing up at his handsome face, she wished they’d met under more opportune circumstances instead of while she stood damsel-distressing on the shoulder of Interstate 15. He truly looked like a god, perched up high on his throne, smiling down so benevolently.
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She fiddled with the bottle cap, wishing again that their paths had crossed at another time. “Thank you again.”
With a sexy wink and salute, he slipped back behind the steering wheel and drove off. She sighed again.
Dusty, scuffed work boots scraped nearby. “Well now, little lady,” the tow operator said on a long drawl. “Looks like you’re havin’ some veehickle trouble.”
Her gaze traveled up his stout body, noting the grease-smudged T-shirt with Frog embroidered over the pocket. Red suspenders strained over a large belly and gripped the waistband of his jeans for dear life. Friendly brown eyes twinkled in his pudgy face. He had to be the inspiration for Tow Mater from Cars.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, I am.”
Handing her a clipboard, he said, “Well, let’s tow her down to the shop.” He tapped the paperwork on the board. “Sign here, initial here and I’ll git ’er hooked up and we can be on our way.”
Beth scrawled her name on the dotted line, hating the idea of her beloved, geriatric Honey being hauled away, if all she needed was a cable jiggled or a hose reconnected. “Can you take a look and see if you can tell what’s wrong?”
She swore she heard the mechanic laughing all the way from L.A.
“Not me, no, ma’am.” Frog set the paperwork on the flatbed of the wrecker and unhooked a cable. “I don’t work on cars. I just tow ’em.” With another grunt but surprising grace, he lay on the ground and snapped the cable to Honey’s undercarriage.
“But your truck says Froggie’s Towing and Service.” She gestured at the silver letters. “If you don’t service cars, who does?”
He wiggled out from under the car, stood, and rubbed his gravel-covered palms on his jeans. “Froggie’s my brother. I’m just Frog.” Pulling a red bandanna from his back pocket, he mopped sweat off his forehead. “Froggie does the mechanical stuff. I do the towin’. It’s a common mistake. People make it all the time.”
Just-Frog had his hand on a lever and an expectant expression on his face. “You have anything in the car you want, you’d better git it now.”
“Oh, sure.” Beth reached through the open window for her purse, then unlocked the trunk and unloaded her luggage and a garment bag.
He tipped his head toward the front of the truck. “Go ahead and git in. It’s cool in there and I’m gonna be a minute.”
Cool sounded stupendous. With the rolling luggage bouncing along behind her, she headed for the cab. Tossing everything in ahead of her on the passenger side, she gripped the handle next to the door and heaved herself up.
She paused mid-haul. Oh, my. Frog had an apparent addiction to drive-thrus and Mountain Dew. Burrito wrappers and cans littered the floor, seat, and dashboard. Using her purse as a shovel, she gingerly pushed the trash on the seat to the floor, inspected the cushion for stray condiment packets, then sat down. A French fry box caught the toe of her sandal, and she kicked it away.
Grinding thumps sounded from behind, and one deep thud later, she looked out the rear window to find Honey resting comfortably on the flatbed, with a happy smile on her dusty grille at the unexpected ride.
Beth frowned back. “Freeloader.”
Frog stepped up into the cab and threw the clipboard on the dash. A stray can flipped over and landed in her purse.
“Sorry ’bout the mess. The wife says it looks like I live in my truck.”
“Maybe just a little.”
“Once in awhile, she threatens to take a shovel to it.” Chuckling, he pulled onto the highway. “That woman’s a saint. Been puttin’ up with me for forty-five years.” He tapped a faded snapshot taped to the dash. A woman in a brown plaid pantsuit and shag haircut grinned. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”
The sincere words touched Beth. “That’s a long time to be together. Congratulations.” How desperately she wished for a relationship like that.
“You headed to Vegas?” When she nodded, Frog glanced down at the garment bag draped with care over her lap. White silk shimmered through the clear plastic. “Looks like you got more than gambling in mind.”
She cleared her throat. “I’m getting married.”
He pointed a stubby finger toward the floor and the one bag she’d packed. “And that’s all you brought with you?”
“I pack light.” Because I’ve sold everything I own. Other than the dress on her lap, every worldly possession was tucked in her suitcase.
He grunted in disbelief. “My wife? She can’t even go visit her sister down in Henderson without dragging along all kinds of shi…stuff.” He honked at a passing truck and waved. “But there’ll be plenty of stuff to buy in this town. You let your man spoil you while you’re here. Buy some souvenirs to take back home.”
“That would be nice.” Beth stared out at the scrubby landscape. She had no clue what her man was like, let alone if he planned on buying her stuff.
For the millionth time, she questioned her sanity. Nobody in their right mind let a matchmaking service arrange a marriage in this day and age. But she had. And so had the man on the other end of the deal. According to Madame Evangeline, owner of the 1Night Stand service, the faceless man she had to meet in two hours at the Clark County Marriage Bureau downtown evidently wanted the same thing she did: a legal, binding relationship.
But first comes love, then comes marriage wasn’t figuring into their matrimonial equation.
“Been engaged long?”
Not long enough. She shook her head. “A couple of months.”
“How’d you meet?”
Tears, unwelcome and unsurprising, clogged her throat. It took two tries before she cleared away the familiar lump. “We haven’t. Yet.”
How humiliating to have to admit it. Not that it should matter what a tow truck operator thought. But saying the words out loud, even to him, seemed so foolish and irresponsible, no matter how many times she’d convinced herself it was nobody’s business but hers and her intended’s.
“I know that sounds silly.” Her face burned. It sounded more than stupid. Reckless and dangerous, more like it. Panic gripped her belly.
“I’ve lived in this town all my life. Seen a lot of folks get married in Vegas for different reasons. No point in judgin’ other people, y’know? We all got our own reasons for doin’ what we do.”
She sniffed. He was absolutely right. “Thank you, Frog.”
Flipping on his turn signal, he drove off the interstate onto a pitted street in an industrial area. “You do what you think is right. The rest’ll sort itself out.”
He pulled into a busy service station. A neon frog with a toothless grin and a wrench clutched in an amphibian fist flashed on and off over the door. Welcome to Froggie’s flickered below.
Frog tore part of the paperwork from the stack on the clipboard and handed it to her. “I got another call. I’ll get one of my boys to drive you over to your hotel. Where’re you stayin’?”
“The Castillo.”
He whistled. “First class all the way.” After a moment, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Got a good feeling about this marriage, Miss Malone.” He placed a hand on his chest. “Sometimes you gotta trust your heart, rather than your head, y’know?”
Before she could reply, the passenger door creaked open and a younger, thinner version of Frog grinned up at he
r. “Need a ride?” He grabbed her luggage from the floorboard and pointed toward the corner of the gravel lot. “My truck is over there.”
Chapter Two
Mortified. That had to be the closest word in the English language to describe her as the doorman of the elegant Castillo Hotel extended an immaculate, white-gloved hand and helped her down from the cab of the rusty, 1965 Chevy C60 tow truck.
“Welcome to The Castillo.”
She met his gaze. “Not one word,” she warned.
“No, ma’am.” Straight-faced, he loaded her meager belongings on a rolling luggage rack and escorted her into the hotel.
Humiliation was forgotten when she stepped into the grand lobby. Marble columns soared upward, huge bouquets of fresh flowers covered every free surface, and the floors were covered in elegant mosaic patterns, in an Old World Spanish style. A tiled fountain splashed and echoed in the center of the cavernous space. The costly hotel had not been her choice, but Madame Eve insisted, stating in one of her many emails that The Castillo was the groom’s preferred accommodation while in Las Vegas. Beth wondered how often he visited the city.
Something else I don’t know about him.
After she checked in, another helpful employee escorted her to her room, opened the drapes, then made a swift departure after she tipped him. Setting her purse on the secretary near the door, she glanced around. Although smaller than she expected, the luxurious room consisted of a tall bed covered with a pristine, white down duvet, an antique desk, and a small table and chairs near the window, along with a bathroom to the side. A bouquet of colorful gerbera daisies sat on the desk, next to an envelope. With shaky fingers, she pulled out the card.
My dear Beth,
Today is the first step on your remarkable journey. As we have discussed, I am not in the business of arranging marriages. However, I am confident this match will be what you both choose to make of it.