He nods, but before I can move away he runs his hand down my arm and touches the ring on my finger. He doesn’t say a word; it’s just that tiny touch that asks me not to leave this city without talking to him.
Lola guides me down the hall to the lobby, where there’s a cluster of enormous chairs in a quiet corner. We each collapse into the plush suede, lost in our own miserable hangovers for several long beats.
“So,” I say.
“So,” they reply in unison.
“What the hell happened last night?” I ask. “How did no one say, ‘Wow, we probably shouldn’t all get married’?”
“Ugh,” Harlow says. “I knew we should have been classier.”
“I’m going to blame the seven hundred shots we had,” Lola says.
“I’m going to blame Finn’s impressive cock.” Harlow takes a sip from a bottle of water as Lola and I groan. “No, I’m serious,” Harlow says. “And son is into some stuff, let me tell you. He’s a bossy little shit.”
“Annulment,” Lola reminds her. “You can still bang him when you’re single.”
Harlow rubs her face. “Right.”
“What happened with Ansel?” Lola asks.
“Apparently a lot.” Instinctively, I rub my finger over my bottom lip. “I’m not sure we actually slept. I’m disappointed I don’t remember it all, but I’m pretty sure we did everything.”
“Anal?” Harlow asks in a reverent whisper.
“No! God. Put ten dollars in the Whore Jar,” I tell her. “You’re such a troll.”
“I bet the French guy could get it,” Harlow says. “You look like you were pounded.”
Memories rise like smoke in front of me, just tiny wisps in the air.
His shoulders moving over me, fists curled around the pillowcase beside my head.
The sharp snap of his teeth when I licked across the head of his cock.
My hand splayed across the giant mirror, feeling the heat of his breath on the back of my neck just before he pushed inside.
His voice whispering, Laisse-toi aller, pour moi. Come for me.
I press the heel of my hands to my eyes, trying to pull myself back into the present. “What happened with you and Oliver?” I ask Lola, redirecting.
She shrugs. “Honestly, by the time we were leaving the chapel, we both started to sober up. Harlow was in their suite making all kinds of noises. You and Ansel were in ours.”
“Erp, sorry,” I mumble.
“We just walked around the Strip the entire night, talking.”
“Really?” Harlow asks, surprised. “But he’s so hot. And he has that whole Aussie thing going on. I’d love to hear him say, ‘Lick my cock.’”
“Five more in the Whore Jar,” Lola says.
“How did you understand a word he said?” I ask, laughing.
“Yeah, he got worse when he was hammered,” she admits, and then leans her head back against her enormous chair. “He’s pretty great. It’s weird, you guys. Did you know he’s opening a comic book store? Out of the three of us, I’m the one who should be hitting that with the fist of God. I mean, he’s hot and tall and ridiculously derpy, which you know is totally my kryptonite. But we were already coordinating the annulment while we waited for the limo to pick us up after the ceremony.”
This all feels a little surreal. I was expecting a weekend of sunbathing, drinks, dancing, and best friend bonding. I was not expecting to have the best sex of my life and wake up married. I twist the ring on my finger and then look around, realizing I’m the only one actually wearing one.
Harlow notices it, too. “We’re meeting the guys at one to head to the chapel for the annulments.” Her voice has weight, bite, as if she already knows my situation has the added layer of feelings in the mix.
“Okay,” I say.
I catch Lola watching me. “That doesn’t sound like ‘okay,’” she says.
“What was Ansel saying to you in the hall?” Harlow asks. Her judgment is like another person sitting in the circle of chairs with us, glaring darkly at me with arms crossed over its chest. “He kissed you. He’s not supposed to kiss you today. We’re all supposed to be mildly horrified and then start constructing the funny details about that-one-time-we-all-got-married-in-Vegas that we’ll share for the next thirty years. There’s no sweetness or kissing, Mia. Only hangovers and regret.”
“Um . . . ?” I say, scratching my temple. I know Harlow will put her foot down at the mention of feelings in a situation like this, but I have them. I like him.
I also like the way he looks at me, and having my mouth full of his. I want to remember how he sounds when he’s fucking me hard, and whether he swears in French or English when he comes. I want to sit on the couches in the bar again and let him talk this time.
In a weird way, I think if we hadn’t gotten married last night, we’d have a better chance of being able to explore this, just a little.