The Owner by Xavier Neal

Harlow

This is how normal people mourn the death of their favorite person on the planet, right?

They hop on their private plane with their anal-retentive assistant best friend less than four hours after the funeral of their father—the only real parent to give a fuck about them—send one of their best friends since childhood money for a plane ticket—since he couldn’t make it for the funeral because of a tight cash situation—and tell him to meet them in Vegas where they’ve rented the penthouse suite of The Frost Luxury Hotel for their get royally fucked up adventures.

All of that is…totally…run of the mill…ordinary.

Just like having a Wilcox and coke—or six—during the aforementioned jet setting from Texas to Nevada prior to pounding back shot after shot after shot the instant their best friend and his hot tagalong walk through the door is quite reasonable.

And it’s probably safe to assume that the average grieving individual would also throw cash around the casino like they just won The Cup versus sucking so fucking hard that they’re dead last in the league.

The. Whole. Fucking. League.

Our team sucks so much fucking ass that it gave my dad a stroke.

Okay.

That’s a lie.

The preference for high dollar steaks, fried cheese curds, and refusal to even look at salad contributed to the attack as well as the excessive drinking, smoking, and inconsistency in bringing down his high blood pressure.

But like…owning and having a hand in operating the worst team in the league was probably a factor too.

And while all the shit that I’ve previously listed is obviously acceptable bereavement behavior for a rational, reasonable, emotionally balanced person, I know without a doubt blacking out and waking up with a goddamn mood ring on their left hand is not.

I slowly rotate my warm, honey brown skinned palm from one side to other, glaring at the piece of tacky jewelry.

Black probably isn’t the best sign.

Maybe it means I’m dehydrated?

That I’m malnourished?

Fuck, maybe that I need to take a shit?

Both hands promptly fly over my face on a heavy sigh.

Forfuckssake, it’s not the latest Fitbit. Its job probably isn’t to help regulate my life or remind me how unregulated my life is. Clearly, its sole purpose is to…well, to be honest, I don’t know what the fuck the point of these things are or why on Earth I fucking have one.

And whose idea was it to get one?!

And why would I agree to wear it?

What part of me—skates with the boys, drinks with boys, titty bar hops with the boys—suddenly screams trashy middle school accessories?!

I didn’t even wear those things in middle school!

I would’ve been the laughingstock of the whole fucking barn.

It was hard enough getting them to take me seriously as the only girl on the whole fucking team; however, that shit did change when they realized I was a sniper.

In and out of the uniform.

Audible grumbles suddenly appear next to me not only fanning the dull throbbing I was hoping would be gone by now but drawing my burning gaze over to the stirring movement beside me.

Please let that be a person.

Please let that be a person.

Please let that be a person and not some random baby farm animals Geoffrey Winslow—my childhood best friend from my mother’s home country, Doctenn—convinced me to adopt again.

Ugh.

I can’t believe I have to say the word again.

Although, I’ll admit it.

Life wouldn’t be the same without Cookies and Cream, my Nigerian dwarf goats. Getting those two cuddle bugs not only made turning thirty-five a lot more fun, but they also gave Dad a reason to finally get me out of my downtown condo and into a huge house he had built for me right on the outskirts of Dalvegan. Of course, said house came with obnoxious conversations about me settling down. Getting away from the league—the only thing I fucking live and breathe for. And of course, starting a life with someone who—if it were up to Dad—had very little knowledge about our shared beloved sport.

Sometimes I think he wanted the same type of makeup and cocktails daughter that my socialite, money hungry, ass kissing mother did instead of the sweater—also known as a jersey—wearing and brewskies guzzling one he got stuck raising.

Other times, I know without a doubt, he was grateful for the fearless, athlete obsessed, business savvy beauty he bragged about whenever asked about his personal life.

God, it used to drive her insane to hear him gush about me or our trips around the world together. Without fail, she’d use the press coverage like a debit card to extract more cash from him that she didn’t deserve.

I don’t know why I expected her to say anything remotely kind to me at the event after the funeral. It wasn’t like the individual who had the biggest hand in raising me, guiding me, inspiring me to be the very person I’ve become had basically just fucking died. Of course, that was absolutely the most acceptable time to tell me that the Tuna Tartare on crackers—which I personally picked to be served—was a bit of a faux pas considering most of the attendees were low-class athletes and even lower-class wives.

Yeah.

Birthed by a total fucking winner.

The MVP of twat waffles.

Cautiously, I watch as a head full of messy dark brown hair emerges from beneath the stark white sheets right before a rather well sculpted face, I vaguely remember meeting, does the same. My stare stays planted on him, bracing myself for the inevitable eye-opening sequence of events that will start with showing me what color his are and end with an awkward fumbling regarding sex I can’t remember from the previous night, yet it doesn’t happen.

In fact…nothing happens.

He merely continues to heavily breathe still knocked out by whatever properly took him down.

It’s probably wrong to hope it was me and not the tequila, huh?

Shit.

Didwe have tequila?

The throbbing increases in severity causing me to release a low groan.

Yup. It was probably tequila. Tequila has this way of making sure I never remember anything.

Ugh. Fuck. Me.

Do I really want to remember anything?

My gaze sweeps the golden, sand skinned stranger once more noting first the pierced right eyebrow and next the impressively light scruff littered along his cut jawline. His lips, which are thinner than I typically like—I mean who doesn’t want a thick pair pressed between their thighs—are for some reason impossible to look away from. Almost…irresistible. Almost like my subconscious is registering or remembering sensations my conscious can’t. Temptation to gently touch the rather pale pair is unexpectedly scared away by what has to be banging on a door.

The first important question is which door.

There are like fifty in this fucking suite.

And the next—and probably more important—question is who is doing that banging?

It better not be fucking housekeeping.

They’re not supposed knock like we’re on fucking Cops.

Sliding out of the king-size bed is carefully done to prevent waking the man beside me as well as to keep from heaving all over where I was previously sleeping due to moving too fast. My new standing status, however, immediately reveals what isn’t any sort of actual shock.

I’m naked.

And the cover I’ve accidentally dragged down to right above dick level informs me that so is he.

You know what?

Sloppy, drunken, Vegas sex is probably another absolutely normal thing for a grief-stricken, thirty-seven-year-old woman to do.

Uh-huh.

That’s right.

This is the playbook I’m going to keep using until it gets me a fucking win.

My own series of head coach mantras, if you will.

Like “we’ll get ‘em next season, boys” or “you’re a good fucking team, they’re just a little better”.

That bullshit.

If everyone is always better than you then that means you fucking suck as a team.

Grow a pair, McTeer!

Tell them what useless fucks they are and make some goddamn line changes!

Forfuckssake, I can’t wait to fire him.

Pretty much had a couple shots cheering to that last night.

Okay.

I assume I did.

The knocking—if we’re really not going to call that shit bongo banging—suddenly gets more aggressive with each passing second pushing me to scramble out of the room, wrapping the comforter around my toned frame like a towel in the process.

It’s an unexpected long trek down the adjacent hallway and passing closed doors where undergarments are hanging from the doorknobs has me cringing in shame.

Okay, so, only that thong is mine.

Whose bra was that?

Did Margot finally let loose, and allow her titties to fly?!

Did my bestie finally live a little, and I wasn’t even sober enough to fucking remember it?!

Stumbling through the wrecked living room to the front door includes tripping over the long bed piece and maneuvering around oddly rearranged furniture that I feel tells a story about our adventures last night that I don’t want to hear.

Mainly because we’re much too old to be playing the Floor is Lava.

But I do fucking dominate at those games.

I’m graceful as fuck.

Being raised in the rink is definitely the reason for that shit.

Unhooking the top lock, meant to be the extra security measure to keep people out, is swiftly followed by me swinging the door open to unveil the Dave Grohl tribute drummer to be none other than the very assistant who I was hoping was the owner of the red, lacy bra I passed.

Should’ve known better.

She’s definitely more of an all undergarments are best in beige type of person.

Margot’s round, taupe colored face tilts disapprovingly to one side. “Where are your clothes?”

Unable to lie to her because I’ve never been able to lie to her, I merely answer on an innocent shrug. “No fucking clue.”

“Where’s your phone?”

Tossing my left hand in the air accompanies the uncertain response. “Probably wherever my clothes are?”

Her stoic expression—to no surprise whatsoever—remains unchanged. “Why are you wearing a mood ring?”

“Nofucking idea.”

The flicker of irritation in her hazel glare would be missed by someone who has not been as groomed as I have to read her nonverbal cues. “Who put the ‘do not disturb lock’ in place?”

I prepare to repeat myself when her pointed finger lifts to stop me.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. That shit was probably for the best. Being forced to get my own room allowed me to finally get the sleep you think I don’t need.”

Her teasing tone receives an equally playful smirk. “You don’t need sleep. You run on caffeine and Lysol.”

“You should really thank me for the amount of cold and flu seasons I’ve saved you from.”

Not to mention the amount of other bullshit she’s actually had my back for. She may be paid to do most of that shit; however, over the past five years she’s undeniably become more than just my assistant.

She’s one of my best friends.

Who…just so happens to hate one of my other best friends.

And not in the “when will they bone and get it over with” sort of way, but the “there can only be one Highlander” type.

Shit got so ugly between them three years ago that there had to be a literal clause written into her contract about professionalism in his presence. I mean she fucking ignores it, but like, it’s still there.

Margot shoves the coffee cup in her possession my direction at the same time she announces, “We’re leaving.”

One hand accepts the hot offering while the other tugs the comforter into a more secure position. “Was I that out-of-control last night?”

“Yes,” my best friend effortlessly replies as she enters the suite, door shutting behind her, “or I assume yes because anytime you’re left to your own devices with that Doctor Who could never be, you naturally end up wasted, naked, or in need of legal assistance.” Her frame spins my direction to hand me the clothes I didn’t realize she was holding. “And since you’re wearing a comforter like a prom dress, the assumption stands.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Retreating backwards a few steps allows me to put down the cup to properly receive the folded items waiting for me. “I didn’t go to prom.”

“Or homecomings. Or your winter formals. Or the sweet sixteen party your mom threw in your honor at some uppity gallery in Doctenn.” She releases custody of the sweats into my possession. “I know.” Once they’re in my hands, she adds, “But what I don’t know is exactly what you were up to last night because I declined my invitation to Drunkageddon to review the paperwork regarding player contracts and negotiations per the event of the general manager’s death. You wanted to know how much power you have and where, and you know I am more than happy to read mountains of legal documents while drinking my Tulsi peppermint chai and listening to Enya.”

“Every word of that sentence makes my stomach churn.”

“It’s a good thing I did since your first media coverage as the acting GM was moved to today at two.”

“What?!”

“There’s some dead air they’re looking to fill-”

“How fucking sweet.”

“-and with the death of your dad and The Cup on the horizon they wanna know not only who your personal predictions for the season taker will be, but how you plan to deliver differently for next season, so that maybe your team has a chance to get somewhere they haven’t been since Sid the Kid was drafted.”

“You’re fucking quoting the cunt correspondent Florence Ramirez from STN, aren’t you?”

“Verbatim.”

“I. Hate. Her.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Margot nonchalantly reminds. “And I imagine now that you’re the owner and acting GM of the Dragons, she’s going to capitalize on every opportunity given to embarrass you and/or the team whether that be about matters regarding career choices or personal ones.”

God, you Kristi Yamaguchi some twat one time in front of the fuck boy you’re both interested in and that warrants a life-long hatred both behind the camera as well as in front of it?

Seriously?

Like is it my fault I can skate better than you?

Okay, probably.

I mean I spent almost every waking moment I could underneath my dad and being “uncled” by some of the greatest players the league has ever seen—even once they were transferred to better teams.

But that was my choice.

Sort of.

And hers was to talk a bunch of shit in her cotton candy onesie to try to impress the redhead bender that I was personally only interested in because he had an amazing hockey ass.

I never thought I’d still be paying for that seemingly innocent stunt twenty. Years. Later.

I also never thought she’d still be putting the “ho” in hockey.

Yet here we are.

On both accounts.

“She will personally be leading the interview,” Margot informs and rolls her hand around, “so let’s get you dressed, on a plane, conversationally prepped and into wardrobe to give her the least amount of wins possible in this haranguing.”

An unhappy grunt is all she’s offered prior to the bedding being dropped.

“And since you’re already in a good mood…”

The glare she’s given is easily disregarded considering her main focus seems to be searching the couch cushions for something.

Most likely my phone.

“You should know that you have three player negotiation meetings tomorrow starting at seven.”

“We talkin’ pre bacon and eggs seven or post happy hour shots seven?”

“Pre.”

“Fuck. Me,” I mutter under my breath at the same time I slip on my gray sports bra.

“You also have three more who want to schedule a time.”

Perfect.

I lost my head coach in life and now I’m losing an entire chunk of the fucking team he built.

Yanking the long sleeve cropped sweatshirt occurs on a contemplative hum.

Then again, maybe ditching the players with egos twice the size of their dicks isn’t a bad thing. Maybe…maybe…starting completely fresh would be for the best.

Not in my personal life of course.

Not that I really have a personal life.

I barely even have an offseason when it comes to this sport.

The loose fitted maroon sweatpants I was brought have just finished being tied when the door to the suite opens a second time. “Morning, Hennington!”

Groaning at his volume is thoughtlessly done. “You’re so fucking loud, Winslow. Could you bring it down to a pre-warmies level?”

Chuckles are delivered around a half-eaten donut. “How are you so bloody hungover?”

“Maybe because I have an American liver?” Reaching into the box to grab a chocolate treat occurs between additional teasing. “Or maybe because I don’t literally live behind the bar of my nightclub?”

“It’s a pub, and you bloody know it,” he playfully scolds.

I do know it.

And I invested in it.

And he didn’t actually ask me to.

I…just…wrote a large check when he finalized his location and made sure to show up in Ann Arbor for their opening weekend. Luckily for me it was a road game, so I wasn’t missing a live in person loss. Being in a brand-new pub with great beer and even better deep-fried food was rather on brand for the way I deal with most away game losses. Only difference was that Winslow was by my side watching the epic failures those two days instead of my dad.

One of the best parts of my friendship with Winslow is that it was father approved.

Almost a little too approved.

We’re talking, if arranged marriages were still a thing, he would’ve given up my hand for an aged bottle of Wilcox and box of Twix—fun sized or regular.

See, the thing is…Winslow isn’t my type.

At. All.

I mean, yeah. I love and adore him as a friend. I get why chicks go ga-ga over the foreign accent, the slimmer, swimmer build, the dark hair and emo worthy pouts, but personally?

Pass.

Hard. Pass.

What I want is the one thing I’ve always wanted and the one thing I’ve always been told not to want.

The prince on skates.

Perhaps one that has both impressive dangles on and off the ice.

Or at the very least one that can keep his stick in his pants and not in every busted ass bunny that blinks his direction too long.

Dad adored Winslow because he was a “safe” choice. And a “smart” bet. And one that would’ve taken me away from the rink to live happy miserable after with my heart intact because I wouldn’t have had to worry about who he’s possibly fucking during the forty-one road games. Or wonder if he’s really with the boys working on his slapshot in the barn instead of in the strip club making it snow Benjamins. Or coddle a crying toddler who misses their daddy because for most of the fucking year they rarely see him around practice, interviews, photoshoots, endorsements, and charity events.

I absolutely get where my father was coming from.

It’s probably why I’m still single and am going to die this way.

However, the solution isn’t turning my best friend—who I’ve never wanted to fuck—into the husband I feel obligated to have.

That would not be a winning play, which is why I will never make it.

After finishing a bite of the treat, I retrieve my coffee to properly wash it down. “Appreciate you buying us donuts, Winslow. It’s a nice morning assist.”

“Oh…I did not buy these,” he swiftly insists on a confused head tilt. “The hotel did. They are complimentary for us being guests.”

“Yeah, you’re supposed to take one, James Fraud,” Margot snips from where she’s digging between the couch cushions. “Not one box.”

“It did not specify such a thing. Therefore, I took them all. There was not a bloody sign or security guard to stop me.”

“You need to come with a fucking sign.”

“And you need to come from a good bloody dicking.”

“Something no woman will ever call you for.”

“How would you know? Your android operating system doesn’t allow you to experience actual human emotions.”

“Whistle blown,” I playfully inject before having another sip of my drink. “Matching penalties on the play.”

Both gag at the hockey reference which successfully prevents their squabbling from momentarily continuing.

Which is ideal considering how hard my brain is twerking against my skull.

I can’t get this fucked up again.

Ever.

And I know I say this shit every time I party a little too hard, but I really mean it this time.

“Found it!” Margot victoriously announces upon the discovery of my cell. She tucks the device into her back pocket and motions a hand towards the door. “We can go now.”

“What about my-”

“Your wallet has been with me since we boarded the flight here. Gonna guess you used your name or your phone to pay for shit last night.”

“You guess correctly, demon from the Black Lagoon.” Winslow’s reassurance precedes his follow up interrogation my direction. “However, where exactly are you going now?”

“Home.” I unbecomingly shove the last of the treat in my mouth. “TV interview at two.”

“Surprise?”

“Ambush.”

“Channel?”

“STN.”

“Shit. Is it with Florence?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’ll make sure we watch. Do everything possible to support you from here.” Winslow mischievously grins. “Afterall, the suite is still ours for one more night, yes?”

“Yes.” Grabbing another donut enroute to exiting is done in tandem with me snickering. “And yes, you can continue to order room service and whatever else. Just charge it to the room.”

“You know,” Margot bitterly grins on her way to the door, “like the parasite you are.”

His eyes narrow to hard slits as his mouth lowers to unleash a shot back; however, I quickly intervene, not needing another verbal brawl to bruise my brain before takeoff. “Tell,” my pastry wielding hand gestures the direction of the bedroom, “him that I’m sorry I had to bail but last night was fun.”

“Was it?”

I don’t know.

Probably?

Most…likely?

Shit, I really gotta figure out what happened.

“And tell him thanks again for the mood ring. I’m assuming he bought it since I would never buy something this godawful for myself.”

“I have seen your collection of hockey themed tank tops, so I know that’s not true.”

Flashing him my middle finger receives a small chuckle.

“And just to be clear…” Winslow arrogantly smirks once more. “Who is him?”

“You know who him is.”

“Yes, I do; however, I do not think you do.”

“It’s a good thing no one cares what you think,” my assistant bites prior to pushing me out the door. “Move it, Hennington. We have a shit ton of information to review and not enough time to get through the subpoints that would make me feel more comfortable about having a microphone shoved in your face.”

“Makes sense considering you already have a microphone shoved up your-” the end of Winslow’s snide comment is cut off by the door shutting behind us.

Jamming more of the pastry into my face on our way to the elevator at the end of the hall is accompanied by what has to be one of my least favorite sounds on the entire fucking planet. The increments of my life broken down by the hour and delivered in what can only be described as a Mary Poppins tune naturally floods my veins with new rivers of irritation and increases the throbbing in my head that can fuck off whenever it’s ready. Our journey from the penthouse suite to the sidewalk where I expect to wait for a car passes in a dreadfully slow fashion yet, our arrival outside where there’s already a vehicle waiting prompts my brow to furrow in confusion.

I shoot my perplexed stare her direction. “How is there already an SUV waiting for us?”

“Same way there were clothes and coffee waiting for you when I woke you up.” Margot extends an open palm my direction to present me with two tablets to help with the pain. “I’m amazing.”

Procuring the medication is instantly followed by plunking it in my mouth. “Was that ever up for negotiation?”

She happily hums and motions her hand the direction of the man opening the backseat door. I swallow the pills with a sip of coffee, thank him for the action, and slide inside all the way over to allow room for her to sit beside me.

Once the door is shut and my beverage is wedged nicely between my legs, my cell is finally delivered back into my custody on a crooked grin. “I’ve already done a social media check from my end and discovered no incredulous photos have been shared from your accounts; however, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist or don’t need deleting.”

Seeing her point inspires a quick unlocking of my device which reveals a new background photo I don’t remember taking.

“Why are you both wearing mood rings?” Margot inquires, body thoughtlessly invading my personal space as the vehicle pulls away from the curb into traffic. “And why are they both pink? What does pink mean?” She looks over at my left hand prior to adding another question. “What does black mean? Are you sick? Does that mean you have the flu? You don’t have strep throat, do you?” Her hazel gaze transposes into a glare. “Does your throat hurt?”

Probably not from an illness.

I can get…pretty fucking loud when the sex is…well…worth a damn.

“I don’t know what the colors mean, Margot. I only woke up with the stupid thing, not the stupid thing and its stupid fucking instructions.”

“I’m Googling it,” she swiftly proclaims as she pulls out her own device.

My phone chimes from an incoming text, although the noise sounds more like an agreement with her idea.

Winslow: Is this your red bra??

Huh.

Is it?

I swore mine was black, like everything else I wore yesterday, but considering I can hardly remember anything post getting on the plane, maybe I changed and forgot?

“Margot, did I wear a red bra yesterday?”

“You only own two, and both are only worn under Letty’s constant insistence, so no.”

Gotta love having a detail oriented assistant.

Me: Nope.

Winslow: Then who…??

I send a shrug emoji and exit out of the message box.

Much like the mood ring, that is another mystery I feel the stranger I woke up next to might be able to help solve.

Being brought back to my home screen puts me face to face with the male in question and twists my uneasy stomach into tighter knots.

On one hand…he’s even more attractive awake than he is asleep. His build is a little smaller than those I typically go for but by no means unappealing. The fact I can see his biceps trying to break free from underneath his black tee is enough to get my bottom lip trapped between my teeth, yet when you add in being able to see a hint of tattoos being hidden—tattoos I probably should’ve gotten a better look at pre-sneaking out of bed this morning—I’m left with no choice but to chomp down harder to prevent from moaning.

What can I say?

Toned bod and tattoos?

That’s two ginos.

And if he plays hockey—in any shape or form—that’s a fucking hat trick.

Spotting his arm tangled around my waist so protectively spurs me to mumble my ignorance under my breath. “What in the fuck was your name?”

“Happy!”

“I fucked a dude named Happy?!” My head sharply cuts Margot’s direction. “Who the fuck am I? Snow White?”

“First off, Snow White didn’t fuck the dwarves in the Disney rendition. She basically mothered them.” A finger point to her phone happens next. “And second, pink—the color of your ring in the photo—supposedly means you were happy. Gonna guess all the booze in your system contributed to that.”

She’s probably right.

She’s almost always fucking right.

“Lastly, his name is Bricks.”

“That’s not much better than Happy, Margot.”

“No, but better is better, isn’t it? Like your favorite sports saying goes ‘nobody asks how, they just ask how many.’.”

The only thing I hate more than her being right is when she’s right and correctly uses the words I live by to reiterate it.

“Bricks,” I mutter to myself, name sounding wrong. Feeling wrong. “Bricks just…doesn’t…feel right.” Staring into his bright brown gaze calls to a part of my memory I don’t have full access to quite yet. “Maybe he…he told me something different? Like…his first name?”

“Black means you’re stressed.” my best friend states at the same time she points to her phone once more, clearly not listening to me. “Which makes sense when you take into consideration everything that’s expected to happen in the next twenty-four hours.”

Yes, because the last twenty-four hours were so kind to me?

Or…maybe they really were?

I mean…I do look happy in this photo.

Like legitimately happy.

Okay, like twenty two percent liquor happy and seventy eight percent regular people happy, which are outstanding stats for me, especially when you factor in the post funeral nightmare I fled from.

Wonder what lifted my mood. Ya know, besides the booze.

Is he really funny?

Is he overly sweet?

Is his dick just that huge?

God, I hope his dick really is just that huge.

“You find any more photos?” Margot inquires while analyzing the kindergarten style color pallet of emotions.

Clicking the camera roll unveils a series of drunken, blurry selfies I’m glad I never posted. All include Bricks and none include Winslow prompting me to make a mental note to text him about where his ass was during whatever happened between his guest and me. My swift swiping of things that need to be deleted—basically all the warmup shots to the screensaver—is unexpectedly halted by a video in the mix.

Oh…no.

This can’t be good.

Reluctantly, I hit play and silently brace myself for something horrendous.

“Woooo, this one’s for you, Margot!” drunk me, screeches.

My best friend leans over to see yesterday’s wasted version wobbling in the frame. “Why are you giving me a shout out?”

“No clue.”

“There’s no way I would let you miss me finally getting married!”

“Married?!” The two of us shriek in tandem.

“Because like we never thought this day would come.”

“That day damn sure should not have come!” I squawk to the camera version of myself.

“Is that a fucking magician?!” Margot bites back in outrage. “Did you really let a fucking Vegas magician of all people marry you?!”

“No.”

“Meet The Great Magical Mike!”

“Maybe.”

“We saw him working outside the costume shop and knew he had to perform the ceremony.”

“Likely?”

Further scoffs of disgust seep from the woman beside me. “You did not seriously get married in Vegas!” Her headshaking becomes frantic. “You couldn’t have! There are…fucking…laws in effect that prevent that type of shit from being valid.”

“Ma’am,” the magician uncomfortably sighs, “I cannot perform a ceremony if the two of you are dr-”

“I will pay you double-”

“Double,” Bricks unnecessarily echoes from beside me.

“In cash-”

“Cash.”

“To consider us sober enough to do this.”

Magical Mike doesn’t hesitate to wave his wand at us. “You two got rings?”

“And that’s how you get around that,” Margot grumbles to herself at the same time one hand flies over my heated face.

Hey, at least Bricks is a good hype man?

Through my spread digits, I nervously watch what has to be the worst decision of my life in progress with no way to stop it.

Bricks and I whip out the round accessories—that I now know really are fucking mood rings—turn towards each other—eagerly—and continue to stare adoringly into one another’s drunk gaze as though it’s impossible to look elsewhere. Horror settles deeper and deeper into my present expression during the repeating of vows. The proclamations that we’re soulmates. The exchanged agreements that we’re absolutely meant to be. Twisting and turning and gagging in my seat like I’m overdramatically acting out the injecting of poison in front of an audience that doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening doesn’t cease the terror from continuing.

Or erase the actions of our holding hands.

Our face cuppings.

Our first married kiss, which has way too much fucking tongue—even for me.

One minute I’m watching a shirtless, roided out idiot in a top hat wave a wand around our hands and the next we’re using said wand to sign paperwork that I have no idea where he was hiding before the moment arrived.

Margot pounds the screen with her recently manicured index finger and disapprovingly snarls, “Harlow. Emery. Hennington.”

The mixture of guilt and shame shifts my still shielded stare from the screen to her.

“What…in the actual…fuck…did you. Just. Do?”

Good question.

What in the actual fuck did I just do?