by Ashley Jade
His nostrils flare and he clasps my jaw. The move is so unexpected, my breath stutters in my chest. “I’m dead fucking serious.”
My heart pounds when he leans in, his lips a centimeter from mine. “This isn’t a joke, Bishop. It’s your warning. Whether you ever cream my dick or not, consider yourself thoroughly fucked because you’re about to marry Preston Holden. It’s an honor that comes with a closet full of skeletons you’ll never uncover but will incinerate you anyway if you’re foolish enough to get too close to the fire.” His fingers tighten. “I’ve destroyed everything that’s ever been mine—do you really want to roll the dice and take that risk?” When I nod, the tip of his tongue flicks out to touch my bottom lip, intentionally provoking me. “Last chance, angry girl. Because once we do this, there’s no going back. Are you one hundred and fifty percent certain you want to be my wife?”
There’s no doubt in my mind Preston’s being intimidating because he likes eliciting a reaction out of me, but it won’t work. I’m not backing down. I can’t. “Yes.”
He tugs on my necklace, luring the poker chip out of my shirt as we pull up to the window. “You put a hole in my chip.”
“I had to, it was the only way I could put it on my chain.”
His fingertip traces the long line of my collarbone and I fight back a shiver from the contact. “Objects are no longer lucky if you alter them, Bishop.” The pads of his fingers drum over my heart, matching the chaotic beat. “Broken things never work as good as they used to.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he lowers his head, pressing a soft kiss to the crook of my neck. “Ready to do some business, wife?”
I pivot away. “Yes, husband. First order of business—time management. My nanna says we need to stay married for one year.”
Horror crosses over his face. “A year?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. “Also known as three hundred and sixty-five days, but hey, who’s counting?”
“Hi,” a man at the window interjects, his tone making it very apparent he hates his job. Before I can return his greeting, he rattles off a list of different packages.
I’m about to opt for the pink Cadillac one, because well, it’s pink, but Preston cuts him off. “Standard drive-thru is fine. Less frills the better.”
The man nods in understanding and we hand over our IDs and marriage license.
“Wait,” I say when it occurs to me. “We don’t have rings. Don’t we need rings?”
“We have rings available for purchase here, miss. You can come in and choose them yourself.”
“Standard rings are fine,” Preston grits through his teeth.
The man nods. “Okay, then.”
Preston shifts in his seat. “Anything else you neglected to tell me? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“We’re not up to that part yet,” Kevin, the driver informs him, much to Preston’s dismay.
I lick my lips nervously, trying to think of the best way to explain this so it won’t sound so bad. “Now that you mention it, there is.” I fidget, struggling with my next words.
“Spit it out,” he grunts as the man at the window starts speaking and the ceremony officially starts.
“Okay, don’t get mad, but you have to meet my nanna, or she won’t make me her beneficiary. You see, she wanted to choose the guy and plan this huge wedding, but I told her I was already dating someone who works overseas. She obviously doesn’t believe me, and as a result, she wants to meet and approve of my mystery man before she holds up her end of the deal.”
He makes a choking sound. “What?”
“I couldn’t let her choose my husband, Preston. What was I supposed to do? At least now, I have some control over my life. All you have to do is meet and charm her.” I bite my lip. “Well, that and act like we’re madly in love—this way when I tell her we got hitched on our own, I’ll be able to convince her to make me her beneficiary and give me a million-dollar advance.” I clap my hands. “It can be her wedding present to us.”
I hold out my fist for a pound, but he leaves me hanging.
“Everything will be fine as long as we stick to the script.”
The bulging vein in Preston’s forehead makes an appearance again, and I know he’s liable to snap any second. Then, as if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, a man dressed as Elvis languidly waltzes over to our car, belting out a rendition of the King’s, “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
“Let me get this straight,” Preston barks above Elvis’s singing. “You want me to go to Connecticut and attempt to win over that evil prune you call your grandmother?”
“Oh, come on,” I argue. “You clearly have a thing for older women and have no problem using or sleeping with them. Just pretend she’s one of your clients. Cast your little voodoo magic and dazzle her, Holden.”
“For fuck’s sake, I’m not a goddamn sorcerer. And there’s no way in hell I’m sticking my dick in your decrepit nanna, not even if you offered me five million dollars,” he roars, causing Elvis to botch his verse and the clergyman—or whatever he is, to pause the ceremony.
“Is everything okay? Should I stop?”
“No,” we shout. “Keep going.”
Both the man and Elvis pick up where they left off and I focus back on my groom. “I’m not asking you to fuck her. I’m just asking you not to piss her off. As long as she thinks we’re in love, and she likes you, we’re golden.”
Elvis holds out two small jewelry boxes and Preston snatches one. “You realize this is a terrible plan, right?”
“Do you have a better one?” I pluck the remaining velvet box. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t, because some mob guys are getting ready to chop up your body with a chainsaw and feed you your brain for breakfast.”
“Which wouldn’t be happening if you had minded your own business,” he bellows.
“Well excuse me for giving a shit, asshole. And for the record, I didn’t make you give him the duffle bag.”
“So, I was supposed to let that Russian bastard shoot you? Jesus, you’re a real—”
“Do you Preston Spencer Holden, take Kit Jameson Bishop as your lawfully wedded wife, to love and cherish from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do you part?” the officiant says, cutting him off.
“Your middle name is Jameson?” Preston snaps, his lip curling more than Elvis’s.
Irritation swells in my chest. “Really? My middle name pisses you off? Good gravy, it’s not like I had any say—”
“I do," Preston snarls, no doubt to make me shut up.
“Ring,” Kevin whisper-shouts. “You have to put the ring on her finger.”
Preston tosses the jewelry box. “Catch.”
The officiant sighs. “Do you Kit Jameson Bishop, take Preston Spen—”
“She does.” Preston bangs on the side of the car. “Now will you speed this shit up? We chose drive-thru for a reason.”
The poor guy’s eyes dart between us skittishly. “As your lawfully wedded husband, to love and cherish from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do you part?” he rattles without stopping for air.
“I do.”
Preston gestures to our simple white gold bands. “Are we done here?”
The man gives us an unsure smile. “Okay, by the authority vested in me by the State of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I hold up a hand. “Nope. That won’t be necessary.”
“The least you can do is lay one on me, Bish—” He grins menacingly. “Mrs. Holden.”
Every ounce of blood drains from my face and my stomach lurches.
I’m no longer a Bishop. I lost another part of my parents.
“Hey,” Preston says, his tone surprisingly soft. “I was joking.”
Elvis begins to sing again, but Preston sticks his head out the window an
d roars, “Put a sock in it,” before concentrating on me. “What’s going on?”
“My last name.” My head whirls with anguish and on instinct, I fumble around for the poker chip, but Preston’s large hand engulfs mine, keeping me steady.
“Please don’t make fun of me,” I whisper, embarrassed at my inability to keep it together in front of him.
His expression becomes intent, his focus never wavering from me. “You don’t have to change your name. Plenty of people hyphenate or choose not to take their husband’s name at all.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in a small smile. “I’ve never been a big fan of Holden myself. Makes it too easy for my opponents to make fun of me during a poker game.”
When I give him a questioning look, he starts singing the chorus to “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers. Only he changes hold em’ to hold en’.
A laugh bubbles in my throat, not only because he’s serenading me off key to make me feel better, but because we got hitched in a freaking taxicab a mere few seconds ago. “I can’t believe I married you.”
He places his other hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Regretting that decision already? My singing must be worse than I thought if it’s grounds for divorce.”
“God, yes.” He looks genuinely offended now and it only makes me laugh harder. “I meant your singing. I don’t want a divorce.”
Instantly my laughter dies, and the air around us pulls tight, the full magnitude of our actions seeming to hit us both at the same time.
Nerves bunch in my belly as the realization of how much this will change everything crashes down on me like the world’s largest hammer.
Preston shifts in his seat and my hand slides to the back of his neck, clinging. Seeking comfort and reassurance from the only person who can give it to me. “What if this doesn’t work and I lose everything?”
He drops his forehead to mine and I see the resolve on his face, despite the wild thumping of his heart. “We’ve got this, angry girl.”
Memories slash through me and I nod, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “You make it sound like we're some kind of dynamic duo.”
His thumb strokes the edge of my jaw. “That’s because we are.”
I bury my face in his neck and his arms wrap around me, enclosing me. Like his limbs alone can shield me from all the bad things in the world.
“You make it so hard to hate you sometimes,” I whisper into his skin.
“I know.” His voice comes out gruff, defeated.
We’re so attuned in this moment, heartbeat to heartbeat, breathing the same air. I’ve never been so fundamentally attached to another person like I am with him. There’s a pull between us, one that’s much deeper than attraction. Something more profound. A phenomenon that can’t be explained. A tangible illusion.
And even though our feelings for one another can flip on a dime, our connection never will. It’s secure, solid, stable. An inherent bond that’s unbreakable.
I’m his exception, and he’s my anomaly.
“This is nice and all,” he murmurs in my hair. “But unless becoming a widow in the next thirteen hours is part of your big plan, we should probably get a move on.”
His words are like a jumpstart and I spring into action. “We need to get to the airport.”
“No worries,” Kevin says, dabbing his eyes. “I will take the happy couple to the airport for their honeymoon.”
“Thanks.” I pull out my phone so I can book our flight. “There’s a red-eye that leaves in a few hours. As long as we have no major delays, we should land in Connecticut around five a.m.” When Preston balks I say, “I know it’s cutting it close, but there’s also a three-hour time difference that works in our favor. If everything goes according to plan, we’ll be back in Vegas by late morning.” I type in my credit card information and confirm our first-class reservation. “Booked. Now all I have to do is call my nanna’s assistant and inform him we’ll be there for a very early breakfast.”
“I have to see Max before we leave.”
I lean against the seat. “Checking in with your keeper, are you?”
His expression sours. “He’s not my keeper.”
Something crosses over his face then, but he tries to hide it.
My stomach dips and I’m about to interrogate him, but then he says, “I need to make sure he knows I’m not leaving town and setting him up to be killed.”
“Oh,” I whisper, feeling like an idiot. Here he is doing the right thing and I was preparing to rake him over the coals for it. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Expecting the worst from you.” I give him an earnest smile. “I know you’re not the same person you were three years ago.”
I know he won’t hurt me…because there’s no danger of falling in love with him.
Chapter 6
I cross my arms and stare her down, curious what’s going on in my wife’s head.
My. Wife.
Kit Bishop…is my wife.
I’m her husband.
Spin it however you want, it won’t make it any less true.
Just like trying to ignore the possessive feeling that blazes like a hellfire whenever I look at her now, doesn’t make it any less real.
Because it’s there, and it’s potent. And every time those sad hazel eyes peer up at me…it grows.
We’ve only been married twenty minutes and already I have a deep-seated urge to pummel anyone who dares to look at her the wrong way. A cardinal need to tuck her to my side and protect her from all the assholes in the world. Myself included.
A scoff pushes through my lips. Who am I kidding? I’ve felt the same way about her since the night on the bridge. A fake marriage doesn’t change that.
It just gives those pesky fuckers called feelings a valid claim.
My blood quickens as I contemplate taping a neon sign to her ass that reads: Property of Preston Holden. Don’t Touch. Violators will get bitch slapped with my dick.
Fuck, this girl drives me insane.
Not that I regret marrying her…I don’t. Or rather, I don’t regret not letting anyone else marry her. Especially some over-excited cabdriver she’s never met before today. For all she knows, the bastard would have married her, taken all her money, and then killed her.
But Kit doesn’t think about those things; she chooses to see the best in everyone. Even the people she shouldn’t…like her new husband.
Three years later and the girl still wears her ethereal heart on her sleeve.
Chalk it up to another one of her annoying traits that equally entices and pisses me the fuck off.
Kit squirms in her seat and it’s all I can do not to grin. Long periods of silence make her uneasy. Particularly when I’m staring her down, quietly scrutinizing. She thinks I do it to get a rise out of her. I do it because I find her utterly fascinating.
I’m also quite fond of getting under that delicate skin of hers.
She fidgets, a tell-tale sign she’s going to start babbling. As if on cue, she opens her mouth. “That came out wrong. What I meant was…I think we both misjudged one another. We were both hurt by Becca and I think we inadvertently put some of the blame on each other instead of where it belonged. But now that she’s not around and can’t come between us, maybe we can start over and be friends.” She gives me a smile that’s so damn hopeful and sweet it makes my teeth ache. “For real this time.”
I sharpen my gaze. “No.”
Her smile crumbles like an avalanche and I hate myself for causing such an abomination.
“Right.” She turns her body away from me, looking out the window. “Should have seen that coming.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something to ease the sting, but her phone rings.
It’s just as well.
I don’t want her to make excuses or delude herself into thinking that I turned into some kind of saint all because I stepped up to the plate and agreed to help her out of a tight spot.
My reasons for marrying he
r aren’t as noble or as selfish as she thinks they are.
Life’s full of tough choices…but you don’t always get to make the choice. Sometimes life makes it for you.
“You gonna answer that thing?” I grunt when it rings for the second time.
My impatience quickly turns to concern when I see the uncertainty on her face.
“It’s Breslin.” She looks down at her phone. “I don’t know how she’s going to react to hearing the news that her best friend got married in Vegas—”
Thinking quick, I snatch the phone from her and throw it out the window of the taxi.
“What the actual fuck, dude?” Kit yells, diving for it a second too late.
I place one hand on her back and the other around her arm, holding her in place over my lap. “You shouldn’t be worrying about her reaction, you should be worrying about mine. You gave me your word, remember?”
Turmoil lines her face. “I said I wouldn’t tell Asher where you were, but Breslin’s my best friend. I can’t not tell her what’s going on.” Her eyes turn hard. “I don’t want to lie to her or screw up our friendship again. I don’t want to lose her.”
I can feel myself cave, because even though I’m not fond of my brother’s girlfriend, I know how important Kit and Breslin are to each other.
That said—there’s no way Breslin won’t tell Asher…and there’s no way my brother won’t bulldoze his way into my life. The fucker is as relentless as I am when it comes to getting what he wants.
Unfortunately for Asher, what I want is to not see or talk to him. I don’t need his judgments. I don’t need him to clean up my messes and then tell me how disappointed he is.
I don’t need him to stir up those old feelings of how my ultimate achievement in life will be living in the shadow of him and our father’s greatness. And I most certainly don’t need the reminder of everything I’m fighting like hell to forget.
I’d rather remember my brother the way he used to be—someone I cared about and had respect for—than watch him resurrect our father’s ghost and let his legacy live on.
Seeing him now will undoubtedly stir things, and if he makes the mistake of pushing me too far…he’ll end up getting caught in the crossfire of my wrath.