Chapter 8
RILEY
The first thing I feel is the pain.
Not the headache, though that’s definitely there—a dull, rhythmic thumping behind my temples, like someone’s tapping inside my skull with a rubber mallet. No, the pain I register first is deeper. Between my legs. A dull ache that reminds me last night wasn't a dream.
The second thing I feel is sunlight.
It falls through the floor-to-ceiling windows directly onto my face, as if the sun has a personal vendetta against me. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head. The pillow smells like aftershave, which immediately drags last night back into my mind.
I open one eye. Then the other. The penthouse suite materializes around me like a movie set where I’ve accidentally landed the lead role. Marble. Windows. A bed with the square footage of a studio apartment.
But the other half of the bed is empty.
I stare at the rumpled pillow beside me. Only a shallow indent betrays that a head was resting there not long ago. My hand brushes over the sheet, searching for the lingering warmth of a man who clearly got up a while ago.
Then my gaze falls on my hand.
The ring.
It sits on my finger as if it’s always belonged there.
The silver glints in the sunlight, and as I stare at it, the memories of last night roll over me like an avalanche of tequila and madness: The rooftop bar.
The Ferris wheel. The feather boa. An Elvis impersonator marrying me.
Signatures on papers I didn't read. An elevator.
A bed. A man who kissed me like he wanted to take me apart, and then introduced me to the joys of the flesh.
Vaughn. Not Jack. Vaughn Mercer.
I’m married.
Oh god.
I sit up, which immediately proves to be a horrific mistake, as my stomach flips like a pancake turned too enthusiastically. I press my hand over my mouth and swing my legs out of bed. I’m completely naked; my dress lies on the floor, a green pile of fabric looking like an exhausted mermaid.
I need a bathroom. Now.
I stumble forward, but the suite is a maze.
I turn a corner and find myself in a walk-in closet larger than my server room.
Wrong door. I double back, pad down a hallway, and end up in a living room with a seating area that could comfortably fit ten people.
Also wrong. Who on earth needs this much space? Do entire families live here?
Third try. A door that actually hides a bathroom. Marble, rainfall shower, freestanding tub. I make it to the toilet just in time before my stomach decides to return last night’s tequila in reverse order.
I kneel on the cool marble, bracing myself against the rim. The feather boa was a lie. The champagne was a lie. The whole night was one glorious act of self-destruction, and now the bill is due.
Once my stomach settles, I rinse my mouth and wash my face. The woman staring back from the mirror is someone I barely recognize. Smudged lipstick. Mascara tracks. Red hair that looks like a tornado hit a copper wire warehouse. A hickey on the left side of my neck the size of a coin.
Riley Blackstone. Twenty-seven years old. Head of IT Security. Virgin. Correction: Former virgin. Current wife of a man whose last name she’s known for less than twelve hours.
My father is going to kill me.
I wrap a towel around my body and go looking for Vaughn. The suite turns out to be even more sprawling than my nightly trek suggested. A second bedroom. A gym. A room that looks like an office. I cross the living room, turn another corner, and finally find the kitchen.
Vaughn is sitting at a large kitchen island.
He’s wearing dark trousers and a white T-shirt.
In front of him is a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, a cup of black coffee, and a glass of orange juice.
He’s reading something on his phone. As I enter, he looks up.
His hair is damp from the shower. He looks like he’s slept eight hours, drunk three liters of water, and finished a meditation session.
I hate him a little for it.
“Good morning,” he says. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Coffee?”
“Coffee.” I sink onto the barstool opposite him and prop my head in both hands. “And a time machine.”
He slides a cup toward me, and I take a sip. The bitter warmth spreads through my stomach, pushing the nausea aside a little.
“How do you feel?” he asks. His voice is casual, almost amused.
“Like a truck hit me and then backed up to make sure.” I point to the ring on my finger. “And like I made the worst decision of my life last night.”
“The worst?” He leans back. “Last night you called me the mistake you’ve been waiting for.”
“That was the tequila.”
“The tequila didn't drag you to the altar. You went willingly. And you said 'I do' quite loudly.”
I feel my cheeks heat up. Not just because of the altar. But because of everything that came after. His mouth on my body. My nails in his back. Things I said that I’d never have uttered sober.
I take another sip of coffee and force myself to be professional. The voice I use in the server room when a system crashes.
“Listen, Vaughn.” I start. “Last night was... nice.” The word feels inadequate, but anything else would be too much.
“It was crazy and spontaneous and exactly what I needed.
But we both know this isn't real. We got married in a chapel that can't even light the ‘L’ in ‘Love’ correctly. The license is probably as valid as a lottery ticket from a vending machine.”
Vaughn sips his coffee but stays silent.
Encouraged by his silence, I continue. “I have to call my father. My phone’s been on airplane mode since last night.
He’s probably losing his mind. Once I tell him I’m okay, he’ll calm down.
” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“And after that... I mean, we can exchange numbers. In case you’re ever in town again. ”
Exchange numbers. I hear myself and want to bite my tongue. I sound like a woman trying to find the fire exit after a one-night stand without being too rude.
Which, to be honest, is exactly what I’m doing.
Vaughn sets his cup down and folds his hands on the marble. The smile is gone.
“Riley.” His voice has lost its playful edge.
“The marriage is valid. You signed a marriage license issued by Clark County.
The chapel is licensed. Elvis—whose legal name is Gerald Patterson—is a registered officiant.
I don't care if the ‘L’ on the chapel is dead—in the eyes of the law, you are my wife.”
The word wife hits me like a bucket of cold water.
“That... that can't be,” I stammer. “I was drunk.”
“Being drunk isn't grounds for annulment in Nevada. As long as you were able to give verbal consent and sign the documents, the marriage is legally binding.”
I stare at him.
“How do you know that?” I ask slowly.
He meets my gaze without blinking. “I’m a thorough man. I told you that yesterday.”
The air in the kitchen suddenly feels thinner. A sensation creeps up my spine like the first lines of an error code in a system being hacked. Something is wrong here.
“Okay.” I stand up. The towel slips, and I hastily pull it back up. “Okay. We’ll fix this. I’m going to get dressed, call my father, and then—”
“Your phone.” He shakes his head. “I don't know where it is. It’s probably in your bag, but I haven't seen it.”
My bag. Where is my bag? I don't remember bringing it from the bedroom. Honestly, I remember very little between Vaughn carrying me over the threshold and waking up this morning.
“Get dressed,” Vaughn says. He stands up too. He’s at least a head taller than me, and without my heels, I suddenly feel very small. “I’ll take you home. We’ll figure the rest out on the way.”
Something in me resists. A warning signal, quiet but persistent, like a beep in a server room indicating a problem you can't see yet. But his tone is calm. His body language is open. He’s offering to take me home. That’s reasonable.
“Fine,” I say. “Give me ten minutes.”
I go back to the bedroom and gather my things. The green dress. The black underwear. The heels. My bag is actually lying next to the bed. I search for my phone, but it’s not there. I lie flat on the floor to look under the bed—nothing.
“Can you call me real quick?” I ask Vaughn. “I can't find my phone.”
“Sure, just type in your number,” he replies, handing me his phone.
Right, my husband, who took my virginity, doesn't even have my cell number. I type it in and hit the green icon. It goes straight to voicemail. Still on airplane mode.
“Fuck, did I lose it on the way to the hotel?”
“No idea. We can ask at the front desk downstairs.”
“Whatever, I can track it from my PC at home. Let’s go.”
I slip into the dress. In the daylight, it looks like the costume of a woman who’s had a very long night. The fabric is wrinkled; a strip of sequins hangs loose. I force my feet into the heels and check the mirror.
Walk of shame. In its purest form.
I smooth my hair, wipe the mascara residue from under my eyes, and head back to Vaughn.
He’s standing by the door, fully dressed. The tailored suit from last night, looking as if he’d had it pressed overnight. Maybe he did.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod and walk over to him.
He opens the door and lets me go first. The hallway smells of fresh flowers and that signature Vegas hotel scent. The elevator is just a few steps away.
We step inside. Vaughn presses the button for the ground floor. The doors shut.
I stand next to him, watching our reflections in the polished metal doors. A man in a perfect suit. A woman in a crumpled evening gown with a hickey on her neck. We look like two characters from different movies who accidentally ended up in the same elevator.
The elevator starts to move.
“Vaughn,” I say softly.
“Yeah?”
“Where exactly are you taking me?”
He looks straight ahead. His reflection reveals nothing.
“Home,” he says.
The doors open.