Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Olive
"How did that noise come out of someone so tiny?" Jenna asks from somewhere behind me.
I have no idea what sound she’s talking about.
So, I ignore her. I’m good at tuning things out, especially when they make my brain hurt.
"I shared a womb with her," Lizzie adds, "and to this day, I’ll never understand it."
Their voices blur together, just background noise I can’t seem to process.
I’m too busy trying to blink away the blur in my vision, the way the lights tilt every time I move. My whole body is buzzing. Numb in some places, oversensitive in others.
My legs feel like jelly.
Heavy.
Useless.
I try to stand, but it’s like my brain's short-circuiting before the message even gets through.
Is this just the alcohol? Or is this a new symptom? I can’t tell.
"If Cass could see her right now, she’d lose it. Her baby sister, drunk on a curb outside a club, about to marry some guy she barely knows." Jenna snickers as she and Lizzie drop down on either side of me.
"I'm living my life," I mutter with a shrug. Barely audible, but they get the gist. I think.
I shift on the concrete, and wince. My heels feel like medieval torture devices.
"And I’m sitting because my feet hurt," I add, gesturing down at the shoes like they personally betrayed me. "Why do women think these are a good idea? They’re literally the worst thing ever invented. They hurt. They don’t make my legs look longer. And they make my toes stick out funny."
I shudder, resisting the urge to rip them off and let my feet rest on the nasty Vegas sidewalk.
"And you know what else?" I go on, voice climbing. "I’m not boring. I’m actually really fun. But apparently it’s frowned upon to keep things to yourself and be a private person.
" I scrunch up my nose and close my eyes.
The lights are too much. Everything is. "Well, sorry that I don’t like to share my entire soul with the general public.
" I wave a hand in the air, the words coming out half-defensive, half-pathetic.
Aimed at them.
At everyone.
"Olive…"
"And now, because of that, I have to marry a man, who by the way, is literally the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, just to keep my record label happy.
But seriously, have you seen Avery Jones?
Like, seen him properly? Because I have, and that man…
" I fan my face with my phone, which died hours ago and is now serving as a prop in my drunken ramblings.
"It should be illegal to be that good-looking. "
"Good thing he’s coming to get you soon, then." Lizzie nudges me.
"And I’m glad Cassandra isn’t here. She would worry. She has a new baby to focus on. She doesn’t need to stress about me. I can handle myself. Besides, you guys don’t even know half of what I’m dealing with. And you know why?" My eyes flick between them.
They both swallow laughter, patiently waiting for the punchline.
Unfortunately for them, I am the butt of the joke.
"What could you possibly be hiding from me, Olive? I know you better than I know myself," Lizzie says, and Jenna snickers over her shoulder.
I make a game show buzzer sound. "Wrong. There are things about me that I’m not ready to share.
And I don’t know when I will be ready, if ever.
All you guys need to know is that I’m fine, I’m living my life, and going to be married and divorced long before I’m thirty. " I sigh. "What a time to be me."
"It could be worse," Jenna says, clearing her throat loudly—clearly fishing. None of us bite.
I can’t focus anyway. I’m too busy hoping the four vodka cranberries I had don’t make an appearance all over the sidewalk.
Then it hits me: I’ve only had four drinks, and I feel like my world is ending.
Such a lightweight.
"Gross," I mutter. Or at least thought I did, until I caught the confused looks on my sisters’ faces.
Apparently, I said it loud enough for all of Vegas to hear.
"Sorry. How, exactly, could it be worse?
" I shake my head and blink hard, trying to force my eyes to focus on Jenna, my brows pulling tight in protest.
"I mean, literally anything would be worse. The man is currently getting out of the car across the road, dodging paparazzi and crazed fans, just to come collect his intoxicated faux fiancée." She wiggles her brows.
My gaze follows hers.
There he is.
Avery Jones. NBA’s reigning bad boy, with hands that do wicked things to a basketball and better things to my body.
Drool-worthy abs.
Eyes that could rip my soul into shreds.
He bends to my level, eyes locked on mine. "You ready to go?"
I swallow, hard, nibbling on my bottom lip.
His hands trail down my smooth calves, his thumb grazing my ankle, and I wince.
He tilts his head. "You okay?" he asks, a flicker of concern crossing his face.
"Heels. I regret wearing them whenever I do." I sigh, holding my hands out for him to pull me to stand, but he doesn’t.
"I remember," he tells me with a smile.
Slowly, he unclasps the buckle on one black heel, sliding the strap free, then rests my bare—now blistered—foot on his knee. After easing off the second shoe, he hands them to me. "Can you walk, or are your feet too sore?"
I shake my head before my feet can even make contact with the ground.
"Alright," he murmurs, sliding his arms under my legs and behind my back. "Up you go."
In one smooth motion, he lifts me off the ground like I weigh nothing.
If our wedding wasn’t scheduled for tomorrow, I’d assume I were being carried across the honeymoon suite threshold.
"You girls coming?" he asks, glancing at Jenna and Lizzie. They nod in unison, ignoring the flashing lights as we head toward the car.
He opens the back door and places me gently down onto the seat, before reaching over to do up my seatbelt. Jenna and Lizzie climb in after, buckling in beside me without a word.
Then he slides into the passenger seat.
"Avery?" I ask, watching the casinos, bars, clubs, and hotels blur past—still packed with people, colorful lights splashing across the city like it’s just now time for the first round of drinks.
"Mmm?"
It’s not really a word. Or maybe it is, and I just can’t tell. Either way, I say what I’ve been thinking all night, audience be damned.
"I hope you know the spot next to you in your bed is reserved for me."
Lizzie snorts beside me, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jenna swatting her thigh to shut her up. Her hand flies up to cover the grin she can’t hold back.
"Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to spend the night with his bride before the wedding?" he asks, playfully.
I shake my head.
"We’re in Vegas, baby. I’m feeling lucky."
And naughty.