Chapter Nine
Hale
Everything is fucked.
The call comes about twenty minutes after we finish our coffee and sketch out a vague, half-assed timeline of the night before. It’s the same monotone woman from the first day, her voice as lifeless as ever.
“Hale. This is Nadine. Mr. Andreas would like to speak with you and your husband. Please come downstairs to the convention center, and I will escort you to his office.”
And then she hangs up.
Just click. Gone. No room for questions. No mercy.
Who does that?
No one moves.
I’m pretty sure Aksel stops breathing entirely. Eric, meanwhile, is physically incapable of staying quiet.
“Oh shit,” he says grimly. “Mr. Andreas? Like the
Mr. Andreas? Creator of the show? One of the richest beings
in the world? That Mr. Andreas?” He frowns at us, far too doom spirally for my taste. “Yeah. You guys are fucked.”
“Thanks for the support, bestie,” I mutter.
But he’s not wrong. If the creator of Tattooed Spectacle wants to see us personally, there’s no universe where this ends well.
“You know I’ve always got your back, babes.” Eric slaps me hard on the shoulder, jolting me forward so abruptly I nearly tip out of my chair.
“Maybe it’s about something else?” Aksel offers, tentative as hell.
I fix him with an exaggerated, wide-eyed stare.
“Yeah. Totally. The creator of the reality show that’s about to hand one of us a million dollars definitely wants a private chat with the two idiots who got spontaneously married last night for reasons completely unrelated to said marriage. Very realistic. Extremely rational.”
Eric makes a sharp hissing noise and pantomimes a dramatic catfight.
“Okay, calm down, Bitchy McBitcherson. This is Vegas. You two aren’t the first morons to get drunk-married, and you sure as hell won’t be the last.” He slurps obnoxiously at the dregs of his drink, dragging the sound out.
“He probably just wants to tell you to keep it on the DL until filming’s over. ”
As goofy as he is, Eric makes a solid point, and my childish outburst has heat creeping up my neck. I’m blushing now. Fantastic. Have I mentioned how mature I am? Because I am incredibly mature. The most mature person to ever mature in the history of maturity.
I mumble a quiet “sorry” to Aksel. He meets my eyes and nods, accepting it without comment.
A loud, pointed throat-clearing snaps the entire table back into silence. Apparently, we took too long, because Nadine is here and she looks pissed. Her face is scrunched tight with irritation, clearly offended by the fact that we made her wait.
Aksel and I scramble up from our chairs at the same time, practically tripping over each other as we bolt out of the tiny café.
“Have fun, you two!” Eric calls after us, entirely too cheerful for the situation.
Nadine may be small, but she’s fast. We make it to the convention area in record time, lungs burning, sweat slicking our skin. We barely get a second to catch our breath before she lets out an irritated huff, her hair glowing brighter by the second, the longer we stand there panting.
“Come on,” she drawls, her breathing calm and even, looking completely unfazed by the sprint through the hotel and casino.
She leads us through a back hallway that twists and turns like a maze. My pulse skyrockets to a rate that feels medically irresponsible, my nerves fried beyond repair. One glance at Aksel tells me he’s in the same boat.
She stops abruptly at an unremarkable door, knocks twice, and then opens it before anyone has a chance to answer.
The man behind the desk, whom I assume is Mr.
Andreas, looks up with clear irritation as we step inside.
“I’ve told you a million times, Nadine,” he says, rubbing tiredly at his temples, “the whole point of having my door closed is so people will knock. And the point of knocking is to wait for someone to let you inside. Knocking and walking in at the same time is pointless.”
He exhales heavily.
Maybe he also went a little too hard on the booze last night.
“Oops,” she says, apologizing with zero remorse as
she shrugs carelessly. The door slams shut behind her when she leaves, and I swear my heart flatlines. I’m dead.
Someone call a coroner and drag my body the fuck out of this office.
The large centaur behind the desk releases a heavy sigh before finally turning his attention to Aksel and me.
“Have a seat, gentlemen. We have a lot to discuss.” He gestures toward two stiff-looking plastic chairs positioned across from his desk.
He laces his fingers over his hefty stomach and studies us in silence for an uncomfortably long time. No one speaks. Aksel and I shift restlessly in our straight-backed chairs as his scrutiny continues, unbroken and merciless.
Mr. Andreas has beady eyes and a tragic combover desperately attempting to disguise a very obvious bald spot atop his gargantuan head.
He smells like greasy, day-old Chinese food aggressively masked with Axe body spray.
A mustard stain on his shirt keeps dragging my attention back to it, over and over, as I slowly suffocate under the weight of his stare.
He’s obviously an alpha. Assertive. Controlling. I clock it immediately from his brief interaction with Nadine. His pheromones don’t agree with me at all, and I’m uncomfortable in a way that sinks straight into my bones. Everything about his slimy presence sets my teeth on edge.
I want to leave. Unfortunately, we’re at his mercy. Hopefully, he has some.
After what feels like several hours of unbearable silence, but is only a minute or two, he speaks.
“I hear congratulations are in order, boys.” Fuck.
I knew this meeting was about our impromptu wedding, but somehow the word congratulations still catches me off guard. My brain scrambles, unsure whether we’re supposed to thank him or defend ourselves. Before either of us can manage either, he continues talking.
“What in the actual fuck were you two thinking?” he snaps. “I can’t have two competitors who are married. This is a disaster. People tune in for competition, not a love story. Do you have any idea what your little shenanigans are going to do to my ratings?”
He pauses, pressing a finger to his pimpled chin, eyes unfocusing as he thinks.
“Hmmm.” A slow smile creeps across his face. “That’s… not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.”
My stomach drops.
“Two competitors. In love. Equally talented. Forced to compete for the grand prize. Against each other.” His grin widens, manic now. “Will the pressure tear the lovebirds apart, or will they stay strong through the heat of competition? Tune in next week to find out.”
He lets out a pleased hum. “It’s brilliant, boys.
Brilliant.”
I don’t feel brilliant. I feel hunted.
“I do wish we’d gotten footage of the wedding,” he adds, waving a hand dismissively, “but we can spin it without that.”
“Nadine!” he barks.
The door opens, and Nadine glares at him like she’d love nothing more than to shove him off a cliff.
“I need photos of the wedding ceremony by the end of the day. We’ll also need to schedule an interview for tomorrow.”
He leans back in his chair, clearly done with us. “Any questions, boys? No? Excellent. Have a fantastic day.”
His wide smile is almost as horrifying as the chunk of broccoli lodged between his crooked, yellow teeth.
In the hallway, Nadine gives us her number so we can send her the photos she needs for the interview.
Aksel scrolls through Eric’s phone and selects the least incriminating option.
It’s the one where we’re standing in front of Minotaur Elvis, me in a ridiculous veil, Aksel wearing a hot pink clip-on bow tie.
We’re kissing while Eric pelts us with rice like it’s the happiest day of his damn life.
For the millionth time today, I ask past me what the fuck he was thinking marrying this man.
The walk back through the twisting hallways and out of the convention area is silent, the weight of everything pressing down on us.
I’m on autopilot as we step into and out of the world’s fastest elevator.
My brain doesn’t catch up until we’re standing between our rooms, facing each other, the carpet patterned with loud swirls that make my head hurt.
I don’t speak. I’m afraid of what might come out if I do. I don’t know how I feel yet, and I don’t want Aksel figuring it out before I can.
He’s the one who finally breaks the silence. “We should probably go over the interview questions for tomorrow.”
Nadine said she’d email us a list so we wouldn’t be blindsided by anything too serious.
“Okay. Yeah. That’s… that’s a smart idea,” I mumble, fumbling with my key as I try to unlock my door.
“Here,” Aksel says quietly. “Let me.”
He gently nudges me aside and opens the door with ease.
“Show off,” I mutter under my breath. Why is it a turn-on when he does that? It’s a fucking door. Anyone can open it. Except me, apparently.
He flashes that signature cheeky smirk as he swings the door wide open, and all at once, I remember exactly what I was doing the last time I was in my hotel room.
Fuck me.
We’ve been gone for hours, but that doesn’t mean the scent of my slick will have completely dissipated. I should’ve brought blocking spray to cover my tracks, but I wasn’t expecting anyone in my room except Eric.
What’s blocking spray, you ask? Oh, it's like Febreze but for pheromones. It's what you use when your body insists on broadcasting your emotional state like it’s running a 24-hour radio station called “Hormones FM”.
I consider reaching out, pulling the door shut, pretending I suddenly forgot something, anything, but Aksel is already stepping inside.
Gods. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.
“Let’s order room service and talk,” he says easily. When I don’t move or respond, he turns back, takes my hand, and gently tugs me forward, pulling me into my room before I can talk him out of it.