Instead of inching forward like I planned, I stand there in my mermaid wedding dress, my husband on my back—wearing my veil—and the pressure of his weight pushing me closer and closer to the ground until my knees buckle beneath me sending me forward, through the entrance of the door, and straight on my face, burning our new carpet against my cheek. Eric’s weight is crushing me as he laughs hysterically, his deep voice echoing through our barely moved-in apartment.
“I told you, Twigs,” he says in between laughter. “Damn, I’ve been wanting a good blow job lately, glad I made that bet.”
The need to hide within the tulle of my dress is strong, but the practical side of me is still at work. Reasoning eclipses me as I turn my head to look up at him, the carpet rubbing against my face.
“What do you mean?” I ask, taking in my surroundings. “You lost.”
Rolling off me, he observes my pathetic attempt at carrying him. I’m sprawled out like a homicide victim on concrete while he attempts to refute my statement. “Um, pretty sure I won, sweetheart. You couldn’t even hold me up for a second.”
“The bet was to carry you into the apartment. Are we or are we not in the apartment right now?”
Realization hits him and he says, “Oh, hell no. You’re not winning this on a technicality, Twigs. You didn’t carry me. You fell.”
“Fell with you on my back which technically is carrying you . . . sooo, get that tongue ready.”
“No fucking way.” He laughs, kicking the door shut and straddling my body. His intense brown eyes stare down at me, all laughter escaping both of us. “How about this? Since it’s our wedding night, we fuck in every which way until we can no longer move and call it even?”
My heart rate picks up a notch. “Does that include you going down?”
“Giving you my best tongue is in no way a hardship, beautiful wife of mine. Either way, I win here. As do you. Now, let’s get you out of this dress. I’ve been dying to see what you have hidden underneath for me.”
I’ve been waiting for this moment, right here. Where my husband—my husband—is looking into my eyes, the only woman he would ever want and need in his life, completely content and so far in love that I know what we have will last forever. As a couple, we are unbreakable.
Our love is protected by everlasting armor. I’m aware we married absurdly young, but there is something to say about falling in love with your soulmate. Nothing will penetrate what we’ve created which makes me one hell of a lucky girl.
JACE
Two months ago . . .
“Dude, don’t move or I will blow up your face.”
“Listen, I didn’t do anything. Put down the gun, turn around, and walk away.”
“Give me a reason as to why I shouldn’t pop one between your eyes right now.”
Sighing, I rest my forearms on my legs, my controller in my hands, and turn to my teammate. “Dude, we’re on the same fucking team. What’s the point of blowing me up if we’re on the same team?”
“Because I can,” he answers right before he blasts my player in the head, turning my screen red.
“You’re such a dick.” Sitting back on the cool leather of my couch, I take a sip from my beer and scowl at my best friend, Ethan, who apparently thinks it’s the funniest damn thing to shoot me.
Being drafted right out of high school for the same team and growing up together in the minor leagues, we’ve become very close. Two years ago, he was called up to fill in for Kyle Sanders, the Denver Miners catcher who was put on the DL for a torn meniscus. Kyle didn’t end up coming back, setting Ethan up as a starter. I followed him up last year, starting as shortstop. My rookie season was something I never expected. It was a fucking whirlwind of attention, press, and success. Smashing the longest hitting streak by a rookie with fifty-five games, I immediately rose to the top of the lineup and to the top of the list of consideration for Rookie of the Year.
Thinking about it now, I still have no clue how I did it. I played ball the way I know how to and the way I love to. It almost seemed too simple.
Now it’s the off-season, I’m sitting in my nicer apartment in downtown Denver, Rookie of the Year title stamped on my career, and enough endorsements rolling in to make any twenty-one-year-old dickhead a pompous ass.
But that’s not me.
I will always be humble, I will always be grateful, and I will always be safe with my money.
Humble beginnings bring you great appreciation, a saying I’m quite familiar with.
“Do you know why I shot your sorry ass?” Ethan asks, sipping his beer.
“Because you’re a little bitch and saw that I was carrying the team?”
“No.” He takes another swig from his beer. The off-season lends to heavier drinking. We’ll work it off in the spring. Pointing his bottle at me, he continues, “Because you made me drive down 470 West, during rush hour, on a Friday, to bring you gas because you drive a piece of shit that doesn’t have a working gas gauge.”
This happens to be true. I drive a rusted Jeep Cherokee. Traffic sucked the life out of my car, and I wound up not being able to make it to a gas station on time. I know when my truck needs gas. I always have to pump when the gauge gets to a quarter of a tank, anything past that and I’m playing a gas gauge game of Russian roulette. Thanks to Denver traffic, the gauge fell below the quarter mark, leaving me no choice but to call Ethan when my car stopped.
“I bought you dinner that night, dude. We’re even.”
Ethan shakes his head, bottle halfway to his mouth as he peers over at me. “Nothing will make up for making me drive on 470 West during rush hour. Nothing.”
“Who’s being the little bitch now?”
“Fuck you.” Ethan laughs. “Speaking of dinner, are you ordering that pizza anytime soon?”
“Already did on my phone.”
“Did you get black olives? You know I hate those turdlettes.”
I shrug, knowing fully well I didn’t get black olives.
“Dude,” he whines. Laughter erupts deep down within me just as he punches me in the shoulder.
Ding dong.
When I go to answer the door, Ethan asks, “Did you really get black olives? You know those things are impossible to pick off.”
“I didn’t get black olives. Christ, you really are being a little bitch today.”
Shaking my head, I grab my wallet off the kitchen counter and head for the entryway. I’m rifling through my cash when I open the door. “Twenty-two fifty, right?” I look up and don’t see a pizza, or a warming box, or a delivery person at all. Instead I see a woman.
Not just any woman, but Rebecca.
Rebecca the bartender from Phoenix.
The bartender I had many long orgasm-filled nights with.
The bartender who I was exclusive with until I moved up to the majors and she called everything off.
The bartender who came to visit me once last year, seven months ago.
The bartender who now stands in front of me with a protruding belly, a very pregnant protruding belly.
Fuck me.
Avoiding eye contact with me, she somberly says, “Hey, Jace.”
I swallow hard, sweat starting to form at my brow, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There can only be one reason why she is here.
“Rebecca, uh what are you doing here?” It’s a stupid question. It’s obvious what she’s about to tell me, but I’m at a loss for words.