Chapter 5
RILEY
We stagger across the Strip like two people who’ve decided that gravity is merely a suggestion, not a law. Vaughn—the man I’ve known as Jack all night—has his arm around my shoulder, and the tequila bottle swings in his free hand like a baton, conducting the chaotic rhythm of our evening.
I’m drunk. Not just buzzed, not slightly tipsy, but properly, tangibly, gloriously drunk. The kind of drunk where the edges of the world soften and every single thing feels like a genius idea.
For example: Getting married.
“Wait.” I stop in front of a souvenir shop with a window display that looks like Las Vegas personally threw up inside it.
Snow globes with miniature casinos, shot glasses with slogans that aren't funny in any language, and a selection of sunglasses that probably degrade your vision just by looking at them. “If I’m getting married, I need a veil.”
“A veil,” Vaughn repeats.
“Tradition.” I stumble into the store and return two minutes later with a white feather boa wrapped around my head like a turban, paired with heart-shaped sunglasses with pink lenses. They flatter my face about as much as a brick flatters a glass display case.
Vaughn looks at me and grins.
“You look like a drunken flamingo bride,” he says.
“Perfect. Exactly the look I was going for.” I pluck a feather from the boa and tuck it behind his ear. “And you’re my best man, bridesmaid, and husband all in one. Multitasking.”
He leaves the feather there. A man in a tailored suit with a white feather behind his ear. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, yet somehow, he looks better than any man I’ve ever met.
My bag vibrates again. I pull out the phone. The display glows like a warning. Dad. For the second time tonight. My stomach knots, but this time, the feeling lasts only a second. The tequila has reduced my conscience's reception to a single bar.
I hit decline. Then I hold the side button, swipe the screen, and activate airplane mode. The little plane icon appears in the corner.
I slide the phone back into my bag and feel a wave of lightness wash over me. Like I’ve just dropped sixty pounds I’ve been carrying my entire life. The phone is silent. I’m free.
“You okay?” Vaughn asks.
“Everything’s great.” I take the bottle from his hand and drink. The tequila doesn't even burn anymore. It flows down my throat like warm water. “Where’s this damn chapel?”
He points toward a side street. We turn away from the garish lights of the Strip into a quieter alley. And then I see it.
The chapel is a one-story building that looks like someone started renovating it in the eighties and lost all motivation halfway through. A neon sign over the entrance flickers Chapel of Eternal Love into the night, but the ‘L’ in Love is completely dead, so it reads Chapel of Eternal ove.
It’s fascinating. In the way a car wreck is fascinating when you aren't directly involved.
“Eternal ove,” I read aloud. “Sounds like a Swedish furniture brand.”
“Or a bad song title.” Vaughn holds the door open. “After you, Mrs…”
“I’m still a Miss.” I brush past him. “And I will be for at least another ten minutes.”
The interior of the chapel confirms every suspicion the exterior raised.
Plastic flowers in vases that saw their best days before I was born.
A red carpet the color of dried ketchup.
Four wooden pews, all empty. And at the end of the aisle stands a man in a white sequined suit with a black wig and sideburns that look like two sleeping squirrels.
Elvis. Or at least someone who once saw an Elvis movie and has considered himself qualified to imitate him ever since.
“Welcome, welcome!” he calls out in a voice that has about as much to do with Elvis as I do with sober decision-making. “We have the Eternal Love package on special tonight. Includes music, silk rose petals, and a personalized certificate.”
“We’ll take the whole package,” Vaughn says without hesitation. He pulls his credit card from his inner pocket and lays it on the counter like he’s ordering a coffee.
An older woman with bleached hair and reading glasses appears from behind a curtain. She holds a stack of papers and eyes us with the expression of a clerk who has seen everything and is still somehow stunned every time.
“Bride and groom?” she asks.
“Guilty,” I say, raising my hand.
She lays the papers on the counter. “I need your IDs and your signatures on the documents.”
Vaughn pulls out his ID and places it face down. The woman studies it, nods, and makes notes. I fumble my own ID out of my bag. The letters on the document swim a little. I blink, trying to focus, with only moderate success.
Vaughn slides the papers toward me. Several pages. I see paragraphs, clauses, and legal fine print dancing before my eyes like a procession of ants.
“What’s all this?” I ask, trying to focus on a single line.
“Standard,” Vaughn says beside me. His voice is casual. “The marriage license and the usual formalities. Vegas bureaucracy.”
Normally, I read everything. Every contract. Every line of code. Every piece of fine print on the back of a parking ticket. But tonight, I’m not an analyst. Tonight, I’m a woman in a feather boa marrying a stranger because it feels like the first free breath of her life.
I take the pen and sign.
On the first page. On the second. And on a third, whose heading I don't read because Vaughn’s hand is on my back and my brain has decided it can only process one thing at a time.
“Wonderful,” Elvis coos, clapping his hands. “Let’s get to it. If the happy couple would please step forward.”
Vaughn takes my hand and leads me down the ketchup-colored carpet. Can't Help Falling in Love begins to play over a hidden speaker, but it’s a MIDI version that sounds like someone playing the song on a calculator.
We stand before each other. The plastic flowers cast artificial shadows. Elvis clears his throat, puts on his glasses, and opens a small book that looks like a laminated hymnal.
“Beloved guests,” he begins. Guests. We’re the only people here. “We are gathered here tonight to seal the union of two hearts. Marriage is a sacred bond. A promise that—”
“Can we maybe hit fast-forward a little?” I ask. The tequila has completely eliminated my filter.
Elvis blinks, startled. Then he grins.
“No problem, darling.” He flips three pages ahead. “Vaughn Mercer, do you take Riley Blackstone, present here, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
I turn my head toward him.
Vaughn Mercer.
Not Jack.
Vaughn. Mercer.
The name rings in my ears like a bell in an empty room. My fogged-up mind tries to grasp the information, but it’s like trying to catch a soap bubble with oven mitts.
He gave me a fake name. Of course he did. I suspected all evening that Jack wasn't his real name. He drank tequila when I asked him about it because that was the rule. Lie by silence.
Vaughn. Somehow, the name fits him better than Jack. Harder. Edger. Like the man himself.
“I do,” he says. His voice is steady. No hesitation. No uncertainty.
Elvis turns to me. “Riley Blackstone, do you take Vaughn Mercer, present here, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I look into the eyes of the man who gave me a false name all night. The man whose last name I’ve known for five seconds. The man who dragged me onto a Ferris wheel and kissed me in an elevator.
I could say no right now. I could laugh, throw off the feather boa, call a taxi, and go back to the Onyx Grand. To the server room. To the hoodies. To the life my father designed for me.
My mouth opens.
“I do.”
The words pop out like a cork from a champagne bottle. Loud and final.
Elvis beams. “Then I hereby pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
Vaughn—not Jack—places a hand on my face.
His thumb brushes my cheek, and he kisses me slowly.
The calculator version of Elvis's love song dorks along in the background. Plastic rose petals rain down from a device on the ceiling that looks suspiciously like a repurposed fan. It’s the cheesiest, most absurd, and yet most wonderful moment of my life so far.
As we pull apart, Vaughn reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring. Not from a vending machine, but a simple silver band. It fits my ring finger perfectly, and the cool metal against my skin feels like an anchor.
He had a ring with him.
The thought flashes through my muddled mind, but before it can take root, Vaughn pulls me close, his lips finding my neck, and my brain finally capitulates.
We stumble out of the chapel into the night. The warm air greets us. I’m married. I, Riley Blackstone, the woman who’s never had a boyfriend, who lives in a windowless server room and wears oversized hoodies, have just married a man whose real name she’s only known for ten minutes.
I laugh. I can't stop. My eyes water. The feather boa slips from my head and lands on the sidewalk. I leave it there.
“Mrs. Mercer,” Vaughn says, testing the name. His expression is inscrutable, but the hint of a smile appears at the corners of his mouth.
“Say that again and I’m filing for divorce,” I threaten, reaching for the tequila bottle he’s somehow still holding. I drink the last drop until the bottle is empty. Just like my mind.
“My hotel is around the corner,” he says.
The word hotel sends a jolt through my body that has nothing to do with alcohol. I look at him. His eyes, where something dark and magnetic is burning.
I’m not a naive girl. I know exactly what happens if we go to that hotel. And for the first time in my life, I’m making a choice that belongs entirely to me.
“Then let’s go,” I say, hooking my arm in his. “Mrs. Mercer doesn’t want to keep her husband waiting.”
The luxury hotel, The Meridian, is indeed only two blocks away. The lobby is a cathedral of marble and soft lighting. The man at the front desk doesn't bat an eye as we walk past. He’s probably seen worse couples tonight.
In the elevator, Vaughn presses the button for the penthouse. Of course. I lean against him and close my eyes. His heartbeat under my cheek.
“Vaughn,” I say softly. The name feels both foreign and familiar on my tongue.
“Yeah?”
“What exactly are we doing here?”
His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh. He doesn't answer.
The doors open, and he carries me over the threshold.