“Enjoy yourselves, kids,” the man's partner says.
“And let me just say, you two make an absolutely gorgeous couple. I can see that connection between you. It's electric enough to light up the Strip,” he says and turns, walking away hand-in-hand with his partner.
Brayden clears his throat and takes a long drink and I feel my stomach lurch a bit. All this talk about being a good couple, knowing that our fairy tale is going to end, makes me uncomfortable. And I know Brayden must feel the same, especially since he's not really a relationship guy to begin with. I mean, before all of this started, I would have said the same thing. I wasn't looking for a relationship and haven't been for a long time.
But, then Brayden and I connected. And ever since then, my mind has gone in a million different directions. I've never been treated this way by a man. Never felt more cherished and desired. I honestly don't know what to make of it all, primarily because I don't know what Brayden thinks about the situation.
Is this only a fling to him? Is Brayden pampering me the way he is knowing that he'll never see me again? Is this just the way he is with women he sleeps with? I don't know. I have no answers to these questions, nor the million others racing through my head.
And then there's the dark thoughts that undercut my entire line of thinking. Am I letting myself get so attached to him - allowing myself to feel these emotions - because I know what is waiting for me at home? Am I deluding myself into thinking that there might be a future between Brayden and I because I’m desperate to find a way out of the marriage my father is trying to arrange?
Although I am still repulsed by the idea, and my answer is still a firm no, there's this tiny worm of thought crawling through my brain, whispering to me. It tells me that I'm going to give in. That I'm going to say yes. That I will put the needs of my family ahead of my own wants and desires. Because that's what I’ve always done. So, why would this time be any different? Why would I not sacrifice my own happiness for the good of my family-like every time before?
That voice whispers to me that it's okay to enjoy this time with Brayden because ultimately, these memories will be good for me. They'll sustain me through the dark and oppressive times that wait ahead.
And I hate myself for thinking that there's some truth to its message.
“You okay?” Brayden asks.
I nod. “Yeah, fine.”
“Where did you go?” he asks, leaning closer to me. “You looked like you were a thousand miles away.”
A rueful grin touches my lips. “Nowhere good,” I say. “Nowhere I want to be. I'd rather stay here. With you.”
“I'd like that,” he says. “I'd like that a lot.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. There's something in his eyes, in the way he looks at me that sends nervous flutters through my stomach. When I look at him, I can almost convince myself that he feels the connection between us too - as strongly as I do. And rather than run from it, to me, it looks like he's racing toward it. Embracing it.
Or, maybe it's I’m just seeing what I want to.
“Drinks,” I say. “I think we need more drinks.”
“You sure?” he asks and laughs. “A few minutes ago, you were about to pull the plug.”
I shake my head. “Changed my mind,” I reply. “Line 'em up.”
Brayden laughs and flags down the waitress again. Over the next couple of hours and an unknown number of drinks, we talk. We share stories about our lives. We really get to know each other on a personal level. The conversation is fun, fast-moving, and free-flowing. And it has me laughing until I'm almost crying, and my ribs feel bruised.
I have no idea what time it is when we stumble out of Velvet and Leather, but we're both feeling pretty good about ourselves, leaning against the other for support as we make our way back to the car. The driver has the door open for us and we pour in, stumbling and falling all over one another. We end up in a pile of tangled limbs and clothing in the back seat, laughing hysterically.
As the car pulls away from the club, I'm staring up at the roof of the car, desperately trying to keep it from spinning.
“Hey, you know what Gabs said we should do?”
“Fuck until our hearts explode?” Brayden says and laughs.
“Well, that's a given,” I say. “She said we should go find the cheesiest, most obnoxiously over the top chapel we can find and get married.”
“If we do, Elvis has to be the one who marries us,” Brayden crows with laughter.
“Exactly,” I cry, laughing uncontrollably. “The fat Elvis.”
“The fatter the better.”
“Oh, either that,” I say. “Or a midget Elvis.”
“A fat midget Elvis?”
“I think we might get bonus points for that.”
“What if we have a Wayne Newton and Dolly Parton impersonator as our witnesses.”
“Definite bonus points,” I say. “That might get us into the cheesy wedding hall of fame.”
Brayden sits up and pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me. He kisses me, but it's the sloppy, wet kiss of a drunk. I pull away laughing and lay my head on his shoulder.
“Let's do it,” he says.
I look at him and burst out laughing again. “Yeah, let's do it.”
He nods. “Okay,” he says. “I'm all in. Are you?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Of course,” I howl. “As long as we can get our Elvis minister.”
“Deal,” he cackles.
“Deal.” I reply.
“Can't wait.”
“Me either,” I say. “Sooner the better.”
Brayden lurches toward a small control panel on the console of the car. He stabs at the button with his finger half a dozen times before he sticks the landing. He looks at me victoriously, a sloppy smile on his face as he holds the button down.
“Driver,” he says. “Change of plans.”
Chapter Seventeen
Brayden
My head is pounding so hard, I fear it might crack open. I open my eyes and immediately regret it, as the sun shining in through the windows makes me feel like rusty, jagged razor blades are being dragged across my eyeballs. I groan and flop back against the bed.
I lay there for a few minutes, trying to piece together how I'd gotten there and what had happened the night before. I clearly recall fucking Holly in that club she took us to. Recalled it very well. But, I'm so hungover, not even the memories of what we'd done in that booth are able to get me hard.
I turn my head to look over at the other side of the bed. Empty. Where the hell had Holly gone? Did I take her back to the Rio? Why would I have done that?
I rack my brain, straining my mind so hard that it makes me feel queasy. I can't remember anything after leaving the club.
“Wow, you look like a sack of dog shit.”
I groan and fight back a wave of nausea as I sit up in the bed and see Trey leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, a massive grin on his face. I run a hand through my hair and rub my face, trying to will the nausea away.
Trey crosses the room and hands me a glass.
“What's this?” I ask.
“Just drink it.”
I raise the glass and power it down, immediately fighting the urge to vomit. Wincing, I sit entirely still for a moment and wait as the nausea slowly begins to fade and the pounding in my head lessens to more of a dull roar.
“Raw egg, tabasco, and three fingers of scotch,” Trey says. “It’s basically hair of the dog with some added protein and kick. It's not gonna entirely fix that hangover, but it'll give you a fighting chance. But, you need food, my man. Something to soak up what's obviously an enormous amount of booze still in you.”
“What the fuck happened?” I ask. “Where's Holly?”