Waking up in Vegas

by Natasha Preston

  “I know.”

  “Fancy getting a drink?” she asks, her gaze falling on a bar across the street.

  At six thirty, it’s a little early to go drinking, but the bar is open.

  “That’s what got us into this mess, but sure.”

  “Cool. At least I don’t have to feel like a criminal for drinking here.”

  “Technically, you were a criminal out there.”

  We cross the road, and Wren rolls her eyes. I open the door for her, and she walks in first.

  She looks up and grins. “It would be so interesting to see you on a date.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you don’t ever seem that gentlemanly, yet you open doors for me.”

  “What are you having to drink?”

  She narrows her eyes, no doubt at the change of subject, and says, “Peroni. I’ll get them.”

  “No. There are plenty of tables free; go and find us one.”

  “We’ll talk about that in a minute,” she replies, spinning to go off in the opposite direction to find a seat.

  I’m rather insulted that she assumes I’m a massive dickhead who doesn’t know how to treat a woman or another human.

  I order at the bar. Taking our beers over, I sit across from Wren and wait.

  “Thanks,” she says. Her eyes are full of fucking mischief. “Have you been on many proper dates?”

  “A few. Why?”

  She shrugs. “I’ve never seen you with a woman, not for longer than two minutes at a time. You seem a natural in the boyfriend role.” Laughing, she adds, “Sometimes.”

  “Wren, I would hold a door for my mum, too.”

  “But I’m not your mum.”

  “No, you’re my wife.”

  “So, when the divorce is finalised, you’re going to let the door hit my face?”

  “I’ll let the door hit your face on the way out of here if you don’t stop.”

  She laughs again, shaking her head. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m not used to your softer side, that’s all. We’ve never been close.”

  “You think we’re close now?”

  She purses her lips. “Kind of, yeah. Or at least, more than before. Not that it’s hard since we didn’t really speak a whole lot before.”

  “We spoke.”

  “Fine, but now you speak to me like I’m an adult.”

  “It’s hard not to now that I’ve been inside you.”

  Her cheeks tint pink, but that’s the only evidence that she’s embarrassed.

  “I thought we weren’t going to discuss that?” she murmurs, picking at the Peroni label.

  “I’m sorry, Wren, I know we agreed, but I can’t help bringing that up as often as possible.”

  “Right, because now you can scratch friend’s sister off your to-fuck list,” she mutters sarcastically.

  My stomach burns. “Fuck list? Is that what you really think?”

  “Why do you want to bring it up as often as possible?”

  I take a breath, torn between telling the truth and just telling her to fuck off. Going with the former, I tell her, “You’re the best sex I’ve ever had. You know that. Did you not believe me?”

  Besides a slight squint in her eyes, she doesn’t react at all. “Oh.”

  She didn’t believe me.

  Yeah, I meant it. “Is that all you have to say? You’ve been rather outspoken until now.”

  “Brody…”

  “Cat got your tongue, Wren?”

  She swigs her beer. “I don’t know what you want or what you’re thinking half the time. You say stuff like that even though you understand that we can’t do anything.”

  “Why can’t we do anything? Because you don’t want to… or is there another reason?”

  Tearing the label off the bottle, she shrugs. “It would be so messed up if we started sleeping together.”

  “Because we’re married, getting a divorce, Luke, or our families?”

  “All of the above,” she replies.

  “Yeah, I get it.” Sighing, I admit, “I shouldn’t want you. Being Luke’s friend and having the bro code should be enough.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and my heart stops. “It’s not enough to stop you?”

  “You would be in my bed right now if I had my way.”

  As she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, the heat in her gaze intensifies.

  My eyes drop to her mouth.

  “Drink your beer, Brody. If we did this and Luke found out, he would be so mad at you. I’m not coming between your friendship.”

  She is absolutely right. I should ignore this attraction; pretend I don’t get hard every single time I lay my eyes on her. But how do I do that when she is constantly on my mind? That night, our wedding night, the part where we went back to my room, it’s on repeat. As hard as I try, I’m not going to be able to forget how she feels or how perfectly she fits around me.

  Twenty-Eight

  Wren

  Sexually frustrated.

  That’s what’s going on with me tonight. And let’s face it, every damn night.

  My stomach periodically clenches whenever he’s around.

  Brody is an idiot for telling me that he wants us to get down like the bunnies again. Not that I didn’t know, but it’s easier to ignore it when he’s not actually saying the words. It’s like I can convince myself that Vegas was a one-off and tequila was to blame, but when he tells me that’s not quite true, he takes away my ability to pretend.

  I drink the last of my second beer. Brody switched to Coke since he’s driving us home.

  He watches me as I put the bottle down on the table.

  My skin prickles with awareness. There’s heat in his eyes that would melt the ice caps, and it’s driving me a little bit insane.

  “We should get going,” I say.

  “We should.”

  I can tell he’s thinking Back to mine? but neither of us voice it.

  Grabbing my bag, I stand and wait for Brody to walk around the table. I try to keep a safe distance as we leave the bar and head towards the car park outside the lawyer’s office.

  We have to be in the same car for the next twenty minutes as he drives us out of the city. I should have told him I would meet him here and driven myself.

  “You cold?” he asks.

  The temperature has dropped drastically, but it’s still not cold. In fact, I’m burning.

  “I’m fine,” I reply.

  Are we actually resorting to talking about the weather?

  I have no drink with me, nothing to do to break the spell that Brody’s midnight-blue eyes have put on me.

  He clears his throat. “Good.”

  Why are we doing this now? We never would have even looked at each other twice if we hadn’t gotten married.

  “All right,” he says, shaking his head as if he’s trying to get the X-rated thoughts out of his mind.

  I’ve never been this physically attracted to a person before, and it came out of nowhere. Brody’s always been good-looking—that’s not changed—but my reaction to him has.

  It’s like looking at something in daylight, and you see it clearly.

  I see him, and I know there’s more than the moody Brody who always seemed kind of angry at me.

  Brody unlocks his car, powerwalking towards it like it’s going to disappear any second. I think he’s trying to put some distance between us.

  We need that.

  I get into his car and put my seat belt on. Brody peels out of the carpark and narrows his eyes at the road like it’s personally wronged him.

  As I watch out of the corner of my eye, my stomach clenches again. I long for hands that are wrapped around the steering wheel to peel me out of my clothes and take me to bed.

  “Can you drop me at Mila’s, please?” I ask as the tension builds to an unbearable level.

  He side-eyes me. “Sure.”

  She’ll know what to do. Hopefully. I also drop a text to Indie, telling her to meet at Mila’s because
I have something big to tell them. They’re my best friends in the whole world, and they’re fab in a crisis. Usually.

  “Do you think Mildred is already in some cocktail bar, laughing about the two idiots who got wasted and married each other?” I ask, trying to take the edge off the thick sexual tension with a little humour.

  He chuckles. “Absolutely.”

  “Ugh, bitch.”

  “It’s not a normal story, Wren.”

  No, it’s not. And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t hate that. Who wants a normal story anyway? Well, okay, I know I do, but I know that someday I’ll laugh about this.

  Ten quiet minutes later, Brody pulls up outside Mila’s. “Will you be able to get home?” he asks.

  “Yeah, Mila will take me. Thanks, Brody.”

  He nods as I get out of his car and close the door. Mila and Indie step outside, frowning as I make my way to them. I don’t look around, but I hear Brody’s car drive away.

  “What’s going on?” Indie asks, holding up her phone. “You can’t text that you have something big to tell us and then not reply!”

  “Can we at least go inside first? Mila, are your parents in?”

  “No, both are at work.”

  We all go inside and sit on her sofas.

  Mila throws her hands up. “Well?”

  “Something happened in Vegas.”

  “With Brody?” Indie asks.

  My cheeks burn. “Why would you assume that?”

  “He dropped you off, so you’ve obviously been out with him. Are you together?”

  I shake my head and laugh to myself. Not that there is anything to find amusing here. “We’re not together.” Only legally.

  Both of them watch me. Indie’s dark brown eyes full of anticipation. Mila’s amber eyes full of impatience.

  “We got married.”

  They blink in unison.

  “Married?” Indie asks as if she’s unsure what it means.

  “Yes. Brody and I went to a chapel in Vegas, drunk obviously, and got—”

  “Oh my God!” Mila bursts. “You got married? Like, married? He’s your husband? How did this happen? When? Why didn’t you call us?”

  Indie looks over at our friend, who appears ready to explode. “Breathe, Mila.” Then, her attention is back on me. “You married Brody? I’m assuming your parents and Luke don’t know.”

  “No, only you guys, Emma, and Felicity.”

  “How?” Mila asks. “You can’t just get married like that, right? You’re not in an episode of Friends.”

  “You can actually. All you need is a marriage licence, which didn’t take too long to get. There are so many chapels, and you can sit and wait if it’s busy.”

  Indie’s mouth drops. “And at no part during getting the licence and waiting, did you think it was a bad idea?”

  “Nope. We were drunk and having a blast. He’s actually a lot of fun.” Too much perhaps. “We met another couple out there who were getting married. We tagged along with the intention of celebrating with them but…”

  She blows out a deep breath. “But you ended up getting married.”

  “Pretty much. We’ve both gotten a divorce lawyer; that’s what I was doing with him.”

  “So, now, you’re getting divorced?” Mila asks slowly as if she’s having a hard time keeping up.

  “Well, sort of. We can file the petition for divorce now, but we can’t submit it until we’ve been married for twelve months.”

  “You have to stay married for a year?” Mila asks, her voice almost only audible to dogs.

  “According to UK law, yes. We tried for an annulment in Vegas but didn’t qualify.”

  “That can’t be right. You got married drunk,” Indie says. “My God. Married.”

  “We couldn’t admit that because I’m not twenty-one.”

  Her shoulders sag. “Damn.”

  Yeah, damn.

  “It’s okay,” I tell them. “We’re getting all of the paperwork ready, and in twelve months, our lawyers will submit it. They said it should be straightforward and finalised in six to twelve months.”

  “So, you could end up being married for eighteen months to two years?” Indie asks.

  “Let’s not focus on that. Things are moving forward.”

  “How has Brody been?” Mila asks.

  “He’s actually been amazing, taking the lead on the annulment and divorce stuff.”

  Indie frowns. “No shouting and slamming things?”

  Brody can be moody and snappy. But not recently.

  “None of that. I mean, we both freaked out when we woke up the next morning and saw the marriage certificate, but I don’t know anyone who would remain calm during that bomb.”

  “Wait, when you woke up?” Mila’s eyes bulge. “You slept with him?” Her voice is back to helium.

  “Oh my God, how was he?” Indie asks.

  “Really?”

  She shrugs.

  “You know that time when Brody smashed his whiskey and stormed out of a bar?” I don’t even know what that was over, but it had something to do with the dickhead Felicity was with at the time.

  They both nod.

  “And we said that he would be killer in bed because all of that intensity and anger has to go somewhere?”

  They nod again.

  “We were right.”

  Mila and Indie squeal.

  “That is so hot,” Mila says. “I can’t believe you have a two-year husband.”

  A two-year husband. Great.

  I’m honestly trying not to think about it in too much detail because, when I do, the hyperventilating starts.

  One day, Brody and I will be divorced, and this will all be over. One day within two years.

  Twenty-Nine

  Brody

  I can’t focus.

  The screen in front of me might as well be switched off. I’ve been looking at the same email for the last thirty minutes. The question regarding the converted church roof is a simple one, but I can’t get it to make sense.

  I’ve been shit all day. Taehyun—aka Tae, a Korean who moved to England when he was a baby and the guy I’m closest to at work—has noticed. So, I faked a dull headache I can’t shift, and he’s left me to it. Tae won’t for long. We’ve been mates since we joined the company together two years ago.

  The only thing on my screen that I see clearly is the time. Seven minutes left at work. I can’t wait to get in my car and leave the office. Thank fuck I’m not in tomorrow or I’d lose my mind. I have a site meeting at a client’s housing development.

  Tae slaps my back. “Get off, mate. There’s only a few minutes left.”

  Five now, to be exact.

  I scrub my hand over my face. “Yeah, I think I will.”

  “Feel better.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say, wincing at the lie. There is nothing wrong with me. I just can’t stop obsessing over Wren.

  Or maybe that means there is something wrong with me.

  I turn off my computer and grab my phone and keys. The office is fairly dead, as most people are out, only Lucy and Daniel on reception and Tae with me.

  I jog to my car in the rain, get in, and drive towards home.

  Pulling up to the junction, I contemplate turning left instead of right. Going to Wren’s won’t be obvious to anyone else. I’ve let myself into her house for years.

  Gripping the steering wheel, I grind my teeth.

  Don’t be a fucking dickhead.

  My gut is heavy, and I know there is so much unfinished business. There shouldn’t be. The ball is rolling with the lawyer.

  But what the hell can I do? I don’t even know if there is anything to do. All I know is, the divorce doesn’t feel right. Neither does being married to my mate’s sister. The whole thing is complicated.

  I make a right. There’s no point in turning up at her house, speechless, because I don’t know what’s going on with me.

  She feels it, too, I’m sure. This strange feeling surrou
nding the divorce that I can’t place. I mean, it’s not a positive thing. You’re supposed to marry for life and have the perfect-to-you partner, who you will never want to break from.

  Life isn’t fucking like that—I’m not naive—but everything feels so fucking wrong.

  I pull into my drive as my phone beeps a-fucking-gain.

  I’m not in the mood for anything social. I don’t want to see anyone, speak to anyone, or text anyone. So, I leave the damn phone in my pocket and get out of my car, slamming the door.

  It’s quicker to run up the stairs rather than take the lift since it’s showing on the fifth floor. I leap, taking them two at a time.

  No one is out in the hallway—thank God because I can’t do small talk. Yes, the weather is unpredictable. No, I don’t have any exciting plans for the weekend. And I don’t care what anyone else is doing in this building either. Not today.

  Shoving the key into the lock, I swing it clockwise and let myself in. On a sigh, I kick the door closed and chuck my keys on the side table by the front door.

  This place is my hideaway. It’s all mine, and I can do whatever I like.

  It won’t be all mine if Wren decides she does want some of it.

  I shake my head. That’s not going to happen. I know her, and I know she wouldn’t.

  My phone beeps again.

  I’m ordering food on my app tonight, so I don’t have to ring and talk to someone. There is no chance of me replying to whoever is messaging me. If there is an emergency, they’ll call.

  Grabbing the handle on the fridge, I tug it open and head straight for a bottle of Peroni. Good, I have five left.

  Not after tonight.

  I pop a lid and sit on the large sofa. I’ll watch mindless TV, eat pizza, and drink beer. Maybe some time out from stressing will be good. All I’ve done since the morning after is think about Wren and our little situation. There’s a heaviness that has settled in my stomach, and it shows no sign of improving.

  I take my phone out of my pocket, so I can order food. The texts are from Mase. If I open them, he will see that I’ve read them and get pissed when I don’t reply. So, I ignore the messages completely and open my favourite app. I place an order with the local pizza and kebab place.

  The food is usually delivered within twenty minutes, unless it’s the weekend, so I kick off my shoes and flick the TV on.