6. Derek
If you had told me five months ago that I’d be walking the streets of Vegas wearing mismatched clothes with Georgia Adams at six a.m., I’d have thought you lost your damn mind.
Glancing down at her, I sigh. Her pale skin is red from the cool December air and lack of proper clothing.
I’m glad the dog had a small crate left with her; she’d be cold as hell if she were out here with us.
I shrug off my hoodie and stop walking to put it on Georgia.
When her head pokes from the hole of the hoodie, her green eyes are bright and amused.
“It’s not that cold…” She rolls her eyes, a small smile tugging at her plump lips.
Raising a brow, I continue silently helping her into the oversized clothing.
My hoodie drowns her. She looks like a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz with her tattered dress and oversized hoodie.
Georgia’s a fairly tall woman, standing at about five-foot-ten, but that’s nothing considering I’m edging closer to six-foot-six.
I chuckle lightly as she walks in front of me, the ponytail on the top of her head causing her to look like Patrick Star.
“Laugh all you want, Mama Bear, but now I’m warm, and you’re not,” she sassily teases, turning back to stick her tongue out at me.
The smile that breaks on my face is easy and light.
Had I been in this predicament with anyone else, I promise I would have had about twenty panic attacks and drunk my way into a coma by now.
Wait, no—Drinking is what got me into this mess.
Fuck…
What if the club isn’t even open? Most bars in Summerfield close at two a.m. What’s to say the ones in Vegas are any different?
Running a hand over my face, I groan. The only thing that I seemed to do right last night was take out my contacts, but now I’m blind as a fucking bat following my “wife” to a bar at six in the morning.
I’m the first person in my bloodline to ever utter those words… You’re probably the first in your bloodline to read them.
Sucks to suck, doesn’t it?
“Would you pick up the pace? My eighty-four-year-old MeeMaw walks faster than you—aren’t you supposed to be a D1 athlete? I walk faster in stilettos than you do…” Georgia huffs, a hint of humor in her tone as she turns to face me a few paces behind her.
Tilting my head at her, I shake it and sigh.
“Sorry, Your Highness. I’ll be sure to hurry my pace for you.”
She grins. “Good, peasant. Now kneel to me.”
Smirking, I take three steps toward her because let’s be real—I shortened my strides to keep up with her. I lean down slightly to her ear level and smirk. “I’ll do that later…”
Her cheeks redden as she waves me off.
“Hush, you heathen.”
The rest of our walk to the bar is silent as the sun begins to rise over the horizon, and I let my shoulders drop. We’re only five minutes away, and the weight of our actions from last night is fully settling in.
I got fucking married.
The first time I let loose and got drunk since Delilah was born—I got married.
I’m probably the unluckiest guy in the universe.
Losing my virginity ended with me becoming a single father at seventeen. Getting drunk at twenty-one with friends led to me becoming a married man. What’s next? Buying a house will cause me to go bald?
Reaching a hand up to my thick head of hair, I grimace.
Crap.
I do not need this right now. I came here to let loose and get my mind off of everything with my mom—not tie myself down to a woman for life. Relationships never fucking last—someone’s always leaving or compromising their own happiness for the sake of their “significant” other.
It’s bullshit.
Right now, I’m supposed to be getting on my mother’s good side, showing her that I can be a responsible man and father—bring home a decent woman, not my wild-card friend, who I spent the night giving lap dances to and taking body shots off of.
As we step up to the front doors of the club where Georgia left her things, my phone pings with a new message.
Máma
What time will you be back home? Deli misses her papá. I’ll have sopes de pollo ready for you! Love you, mijo
Heaving a deep sigh, I throw my head back to the sky and pray that this day won’t get any worse.
What’s worse than waking up married in a different state without any recollection of the night before?
I’ll wait…
Opening the door to the nightclub, I hold it open as Georgia walks in. The smell of her perfume mixed with my own scent calms me as she passes by.
There are a few stragglers still in the club, most of them either passed out, dragging their friends out, or chatting up the staff.
Georgia seems to remember more than me because she walks confidently past the dance floor in the center of the room and straight to the bar in the back of the club. I watch as she mumbles to herself before speed walking to an older black woman behind the bar.
The woman looks exhausted from her night shift, with some of her locs falling from her bun, but when her eyes lock on Georgia, she brightens.
“Look who it is! My favorite freaks!” the woman chants, a bright white smile lighting up her face as she takes us in.
I scrunch my nose.
“Favorite freaks?”
The bartender whose tag read “Constance” guffaws.
“Boy, you know y’all we’re going crazy last night. It was getting reaaaalllll nasty between the two of you. I’m talking about kissing, rubbing—grinding.” She exaggerates each word with a deep nod of her head as if to say, “Yup… You nasty little freaks were damn near fucking on the dance floor.”
Georgia groans as she takes a seat in front of the bartender. “Are you sure that was us? I mean, it could’ve been a different blonde girl and a brunette guy…”
The bartender raises a brow, a knowing smirk on her face as she shakes her head.
“Nah. I know what I saw…” She looks me up and down slowly.
I take a step closer to Georgia’s back, holding a small piece of the back of her hoodie.
“What exactly happened last night?” I ask, my cheeks heating as the bartender chuckles.
“What didn’t happen is what you should be asking me…
You two went from doing body shots on the bar to dancing on the tables—you, sir, stood on that table right there and gave the crowd a striptease.
Somewhere along the way, the two of you did everything but have sex on the dancefloor—it was… steamy.”
Georgia’s jaw drops, her eyes widening as she takes in everything the bartender has to say.
Tension builds in my head, and the remnants of my hangover hit me like a truck as I try to process her words. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh.
What the hell did we drink last night?
Or should I say what didn’t we drink because it seems like we were so far gone, we couldn’t think straight the entire night.
“Do you have any idea what we did after we left here? Did we say anything to you?” Georgia questions, her voice haggard as she leans forward in her chair, her hands neatly folded on the bar.
“You said something about Elvis—that’s all I know, shortcake. We’re closing up, but I’m working tonight's shift if you two are partying later—you should swing by.”
We each nod and bid the nice bartender our goodbyes.
Taking a step onto the curb outside the bar, my brain is wired with all of the possibilities of what could’ve gone down a few hours ago.
“I remember when we all parted ways last night—Denver and Ryan were hanging out with the F1 drivers and you said something to that female racer…”
Georgia’s head snaps up to face me. “Oh my goodness… I made a complete fool of myself in front of Eren Marlowe and Ri Ri Highwater last night—I definitely remember that.”
She pulls her hair from her ponytail, allowing her tresses to fall onto her shoulders. I watch as she tugs her bottom lip with her teeth and furrows her eyebrows.
“After embarrassing myself in front of them, we saw Zola and the members of Twisted Vipers—they were all with Cleo and Blake; then CJ said she wasn’t feeling good, and they left. Zola and the band stayed.” Georgia fills in that missing piece that I couldn’t place, and then another memory hits me.
“And that’s how they ended up as our witnesses… Why didn’t they stop us? Don’t you know that Zola chick?” I question, my temple throbbing as my headache intensifies.
Georgia lets out a loud and sharp gasp, clutching her chest like a set of pearls.
“How do you not know who Zola is?! She was the lead singer for COSMIC for almost a decade!” She gapes at me, her eyes round as she takes a step closer to me.
I watch in silent amusement as she places a hand to my forehead and smirks when she pulls away and tuts.
“Just as I suspected—you’ve lost your damn mind already,” She shakes her head. “Besides, Zola isn’t the type to intervene unless she believes that we’re a danger to ourselves—she must’ve seen something in you last night, considering…”
“She let you marry me.” I finish the sentence, throwing my head back.
I don’t know if I should be offended or happy that the singer doesn’t deem me as a threat…
“Today may not be a total bust, though. We know we partied with our friends and then ended up married. The bartender mentioned Elvis, and our Polaroid has an impersonator in it. We could go to the chapel and ask if they’ve mailed out the certificate already—how far away could it be?
I doubt we took Ubers to get married…” Georgia says after a few minutes of us walking in complete silence, her head down as she talks.
“That sounds good… I mean, what place is mailing a marriage license in the middle of the night?”
“This place looks like it’s where serial killers go to hide the bodies…” Georgia mumbles, side-stepping closer to me as we look up at the large, outdated pink and white chapel.
It’s a small wooden building about a five-minute walk from the club with a huge light-up sign in its lot that says “It’s Now or Never” in bold font, with the words “Get Married!” directly underneath.
Blowing out a breath of air, I hold out a hand to the woman next to me. “It’s now or never… Let’s see what fate has in store for us.”
Georgia lets out a deep breath, nodding her head as her face morphs from nervous to game-ready. She clenches her jaw and looks up at me. “It’s game time.”
Or so we thought it was “game time” because as soon as we walk up the stairs of the chapel, the front doors swing open.
A man in his late forties steps out of the establishment as all of the lights around the building go out. I tilt my head, watching as he whistles while locking the front door.
“What the hell…” Georgia mumbles, eyeing the man up and down as he turns to face us.
He’s dressed from head to toe in the tackiest vacation clothes I’ve ever seen. The man wears a blue Hawaiian-print shirt with pink flowers, open and exposing his beer belly, a pair of salmon shorts, and yellow aviators.
My eyebrows raise as he jumps, startled by our presence, and his hair flies up with his body.
Is that a toupee?
I tilt my head, craning to get a better look at his hair as he clears his throat, smoothening it down.
“Remy sees no one today—today is Remy’s vacation,” the man says, his voice in a matter-of-fact tone as he nods his head.
“Are… Are you Remy?” Georgia muses, a small smile creeping across her face as the man pops his gum.
“Who’s asking? Are you a witness? Canvasser? Or widow—I’m sorry, but there’s nothing Remy can do to bring them back. I do not perform—”
What the hell…
“What?! No! You married us yesterday, and we want to cancel whatever it is that you did… We’re cancelling the marriage. I don’t even know this man!” the blonde beside me exclaims, her voice shaky as she keeps her focus trained on the toupee ahead.
Pursing my lips, I tilt my head at her.
This man?
I gave her the best goddamn lap dance of her life last night!
Remy guffaws, “Cancel?”
“Yes, cancel. Why are you laughing?” Georgia pouts, folding her arms over her chest as Remy continues laughing in our faces.
“Why is this so funny to you? We don’t want to be married to one another…” I say, my voice taking a bit of an edge as Remy continues to laugh at us.
“Sweetie, you can’t cancel a marriage. It’s not a subscription—besides, I’m on vacation now… come back in two weeks.” He shrugs, pushing past the two of us.
“Two weeks?!” Georgia shrieks, turning to follow the man as I curse.
This is not what I needed today… I was supposed to chill at the indoor pool and spa, not follow around a toupee-wearing Elvis impersonator with my “wife.”
“Look, girl, Remy has a round-trip flight to Fiji in less than two hours. The certificate has been mailed. If you have an issue, get an annulment,” Remy growls, taking a step toward us before pausing, looking me over as I pull Georgia into my side.
“But with a face like that and his build, I’d be riding him from sun up to sundown… not worrying about ending things.”