Chapter 9 - Finn
FINN
WHERE THE HELL IS MY WIFE?
Drop Pass Gone Wrong - Hesitation, or making the drop too obvious or poorly timed. Indecision
Hotel Room, Vegas
I wake up slowly. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and the sheets are half off the bed.
The sunlight's pouring in like a personal attack. I reach out instinctively. The bed’s empty. I roll over and sniff the sheets. It smells of her. I roll onto my back.
God, my upper back hurts, but it’s not my muscles—although those hurt, too. I’m sore everywhere.
I reach a hand around, touch my back, and feel claw marks.
ON MY BACK.
What the fuck? I blink. I sit up and look around the room. My clothes are still scattered like Skittles. The room smells like perfume and leftover tequila. My shirt’s on a lamp.
And her unique cowboy boots are mysteriously gone.
So is she.
I scrub a hand down my face, still half in a dream. Last night was a blur of music and skin and laughter and—
Her.
She wasn’t just a hookup. She was it—the whole damn package. She was the perfect combination of sassy and snarky. She wasn’t pretentious. She was down-to-earth.
She was beautiful. Her smoky eyes looked at me like I was the only man in the world. And she gave herself to me. It was raw lust and sin, and I can’t wait to experience it again.
Because it was a passion I’d never known. She met each caress, and she even moaned my name. I roared when I came.
And it went on all night long.
I swing my legs over the bed and plant them firmly on the floor, and my head swims.
Yes, tequila made our clothes come off. I feel like a country song. I don’t know how much I drank, except it was too much.
I’m sure many bad decisions have transpired while under the influence of the deadly clear liquid. The only thing I remember clearly is the look in her eyes when she said her name.
Kate.
Except…That might not even be her real name. She said she was a singer, but I’ve never heard of her. I’m not into country music, either, so perhaps that explains it.
I try to piece together clues like I’m in some dumb rom-com with a missing girl with too much heart, minus the tiny dog.
A new sequel to The Hangover. And it seems like it’s complete, as I’m alone in the honeymoon suite.
I glance at the nightstand. And there is my first clue.
A receipt.
Harry Winston’s Jewelry, Las Vegas.
One engagement ring. Paid in full.
My name. No hers.
The second clue next to it is a folded piece of paper, still slightly sticky with champagne.
“You Light Up My Life Wedding Chapel” — Official Marriage Certificate.
Witnessed by Elvis #4 and someone named Tina with a pink wig.
Bride: Heavenleigh.
What the fuck? I was with Kate last night.
She said she was a singer, maybe that’s her stage name.
Jesus Christ. I married a woman named Heavenleigh—one name.
Except she’s not her, it can’t be. It must be the name she uses when she’s on stage — or at least that’s what I hope, because if I were legally married to someone named Heavenleigh, I’m going to have to fight God and the state of Nevada.
There’s a Polaroid tucked underneath.
It’s us.
I’m holding her — literally off the ground, with a full lift — laughing like I just won the Cup again. She’s kissing my cheek, her ring is flashing, her veil is crooked, and her eyes are closed like she’s replaying an epic orgasm.
We look stupid. And so goddamn happy.
I smile. Then panic.
Where the hell is she?
She didn’t leave a note. No number. No social. No forwarding address.
Just a name I’m pretty sure isn’t real, and a ring that definitely is.
I grab my phone and start searching for Heavenleigh: Vegas, including stage names, showgirl rosters, and cabaret casts.
It takes two minutes to find Kate, and there are a fuckton of Kate’s.
It takes five to find an article that says “Heavenleigh Kate Riggs,” an up-and-coming country singer. I assume it’s her, but that first name makes no sense.
Perfect. Just perrrfect.
I stare at the empty room, the black ring box, and the bed. The memory of her in my lap, calling me trouble with that cute little smile.
Then I grab the receipt on the desk, the photo, and the marriage certificate, and stuff them in my bag.
Because I don’t know how— yet.
And I don’t know where…But I’m gonna find her.
Meanwhile, my phone buzzes nonstop.
Agent (Call #3): “Pick up, Finn. We need to talk—before TMZ does.”
TMZ (Voicemail): “Finn Callahan, did you really tie the knot in a surprise Vegas Wedding? Fans are losing it. Call us back or we’ll run with what we’ve got.”
PR Buddy:
Bro. Tell me this is fake. If not, CALL ME NOW.
She’s hot. So at least there’s that.
I toss the phone onto the hotel nightstand like it’s a contagious disease, running a hand over my face. I don’t feel married.
But there is a titanium ring on my finger.
Son of a bitch.
I’m so… screwed.
Should I stay? Maybe I should lie low until I know more.
Or, get this annulled before it turns out to be a bad decision.
I look at my watch. The team’s jet leaves in less than an hour. And the guys are already buzzing about parade routes and late-night interviews back home.
I can’t disappear. Not today.
I dress in my wrinkled suit, throw on sunglasses, grab my bag, and head quietly into a hallway full of echoes and the aftereffects of tequila.
My head hurts. My mind is racing, and I have the strangest déjà vu.
It’s like I’m living someone else’s life. Only it’s mine—current time.
If only I remembered more of last night. My head is thrumming, like I ran too many miles. I need oxygen—like a tank of it.
The noise on the plane is deafening. Fuck, even my ears hurt. In fact, everything on me hurts.
And my cock is sore as fuck.
Damn. She was amazing.
It’s like I went around the world a few times, on her, in her, over her…I still remember how soft her skin was, and how she moaned my name.
She liked it when I talked dirty to her.
And now? I’m on a plane, flying at high altitude, when what I really need is an IV.
And her.
I hear champagne pop and bottles are passed around.
What the hell? I grab one. I’m helpless until I obtain cell phone reception, so until then, I have a few hours to kill.
We’re in the air, where every minute moves at a glacial pace. Fuck me, I still have hours to go until we land in Maine.
The guys are still riding high on having the Stanley Cup in their presence and the wave of euphoria that comes with being written into history.
Hell, it’s still sinking in. It’s our childhood dreams coming true.
Then, the plane’s vibe changes because all of a sudden, it’s quiet—too quiet. The kind of calm before one is iced in the locker room.
Kal’s standing in the aisle. He grins at me like he has a secret.
His face is of mischief.
“Morning, …husband?”
The rest of the guys erupt in laughter.
“You dog!” Alexandre adds, slapping my shoulder.
“Did you seriously get married? Who was she—Britney Vegas? Celine Dion’s evil twin?”
“Bro, tell me she’s hot,” Blake says.
“Please tell me there was debauchery involved,” Kal says, holding out his phone with a paused video titled Finn's Wedding Night?!?
I slump into my seat. “I don’t even know her name.”
That earns me another round of howling.
Kal lifts my hand, inspecting the ring. “Well, well, Finn Callahan. You didn’t just hook up, you went full rom-com blackout. This is next-level hangover-level shit.”
I groan and run my hand over my face. “She said she sings. That’s all I remember. Her name is Kate. That’s all I know.”
Dead silence.
Then Kal bursts out laughing again. “Heavenleigh was on the wedding certificate. Oh, my god. You married a Vegas stripper!”
“No, she’s not a stripper,” I spat at him.
Then, I’m filled with dread. Oh, my God, I hope she’s not a stripper. She can’t be a stripper, can she? She’s too sweet, and she’s genuine.
“According to the media, she’s a country singer, Heavenleigh Kate Riggs,” Luc says.
Fuck me.
My legs are numb. I think my vision is blurred. I can’t feel my hands.
I think they’re clenched on my lap, but they don’t feel real. The air on this plane is thin, too recycled. Every breath tastes like plastic and bad decisions. My shirt’s clinging to me, damp from sweat, even though the air conditioner is blasting straight down my face.
She didn’t leave a note. She just vanished. Who does that?
And I’m supposed to believe it’s okay? That she’s bailed on me already?
And why not? All my girlfriends leave. I’m a dating disaster.
And in hindsight, maybe marrying after a first meeting is the way to go.
I close my eyes and try to picture her face, and that look she gives me when she’s amused but pretending not to be—except it’s flickering now, like a glitch in a memory file. All I can see is the back of her walking away. And my chest pulls so tight I have to cough.
No. No. It doesn’t make sense. This has to be wedding remorse—cold feet after the fact. People panic. People get overwhelmed. Right? That’s normal. She’s probably just hiding out somewhere, rethinking the gravity of forever. That’s all.
It’s not me.
Is it?
I mean—I’ve done everything right. I showed up. I can be committed. I put the damn ring on her finger, and I meant every word when I said it. I was in. I am in. Maybe too in, and perhaps she saw that. Maybe it scared her.
Shit.
Panic sets in. What if she wants out?
My heart pounds louder at that with a wild beat that’s unsteady. What if she’s sitting somewhere, or she’s already lawyered up? She could be drafting an annulment right now.
Maybe she’s telling herself it’s better to cut loose now than later.
What if she regrets all of it?
No. That’s unacceptable. We were good together. So good. And the sex? Well, hell, I remember all of that!
I won't let her back out. That’s all there is to it. I mean, I didn’t run. I’m still here—on this goddamn plane, sweating through my vows and trying not to unravel like a lunatic in seat 11C.
She married me. That has to mean something.
And I swear, if I have to crawl through every city she might’ve escaped to, I will because she can’t just disappear on me. She can’t un-choose me.
I won’t let her.
Besides, she’s mine.