Page 67 of Fake Shot
“You’re in luck,” he says, “the Marriage License Bureau is open until midnight, so I can get you down there with just enough time to get your license, then bring you back to a chapel.”
Brock flashes his shiny, white grin at me, then says, “So we’re definitely doing this, right?”
When I nod in agreement, my head keeps bobbing up and down until I feel like I’m going to be sick. So I lean back against the headrest and crack the window open, breathing in the fresh air as we go speeding down The Strip.
“They’re not going to approve the license if you two are wasted,” the driver says.
“We’re not wasted, just tipsy. Right, babe?”
My eyes are closed, and it doesn’t really register that he’s talking to me, until he squeezes my thigh. “Right?”
“Yep, just tipsy,” I lie. “I’m tired, too.” The long day and night, combined with all the alcohol we’ve consumed, have me feeling like I want to lay my head in his lap and sleep.
“Alright, we’ll be at the bureau in five minutes,” the driver says. “You’ll need identification.”
“You’ve done this before, I take it?” Brock asks.
“Several times a night,” the guy responds.
My eyes stay closed as they chat, and it feels like only seconds later Brock is shaking me awake. “You sure about this?” he asks, pressing a kiss to my forehead in the sweetest, gentlest way.
“Positive.” In fact, this is probably the best idea I’ve ever had. Or ever agreed to? At this point, I’ve lost track of who suggested this in the first place.
My head pounds, the pain so intense I wake up wanting to cry. Everything aches. Do I have the flu? I had it once when I was twelve and it felt a lot like this—a lot like wanting to die. My stomach flips over in a way that has me thinking I’m going to vomit, but then it must flip back the right way because the feeling passes.
Where the hell am I? Everything feels like it’s moving. Maybe I’m on a boat?
I breathe through my nose because I think that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in pain? Why does everything hurt? I try to remember the last thing I was doing before I went to sleep, and that’s when it hits me: I’m in Paris! No, that doesn’t make sense; I can’t be in Paris. I was in Las Vegas yesterday. Yes...Vegas. The game. Dinner afterward. The casino. Brock flirting with me. Whiskey sours. Colt demanding I leave. The woman in the pink dress. My broken heart. The hotel room floor. Brock’s text.
I haven’t opened my eyes, but I can feel the tears leaking down my face. And the memories just keep coming.
The elevator ride down to the casino. Brock flirting with me, taking me to dinner. Candles and an outdoor bistro. The Eiffel Tower.And then it gets fuzzy...A car ride somewhere? Paperwork? Elvis?
No, the last things don’t make sense. We were at dinner, we left, the Eiffel Tower was above us, then we walked across the street where there were lights and music and water.
I hear movement next to me, so I open my eyes. The stark morning light through the hotel room windows blinds me at first, and I squeeze my eyes shut again. Did I not pull thecurtains shut last night? No, that can’t be right. Audrey was already back in the room asleep when I went out, and it was pitch black in there. She had to have pulled the curtains shut.
I crack my eyes open ever so slowly, trying to let myself adjust to the light. My head pounds harder, begging me to just go back to sleep. Anything to escape this pain.
My eyes are open probably halfway when the body in bed across from me comes into focus.Brock.
Fuck, what am I doing in bed with Brock Lester? We flirted, yes. We went out to dinner. But why am I in his hotel room, and not my own? I’m lying on my right side, so I reach out my left hand to nudge him awake. And just when my fingers poke his shoulder, that’s when I see it. Sitting prominently on my left ring finger, the stone catches the light, shooting rainbow daggers back into my eyes. I pull my arm back quickly, suddenly not wanting to wake him, but it’s too late.
He opens his eyes, takes one look at me, and says, “Why are you still here?”
Ouch.This is not the Brock I remember from last night—the one who flirted with me shamelessly, told me I was beautiful, kissed me like he meant it, and apparently...married me?
My jaw drops open in shock as I consider his question and this reality. He doesn’t remember that we’re married. Maybe we’re not? Maybe this ring is some sort of sick joke.
When I fail to respond, he says, “You were much more talkative, and prettier, when we were both drunk.”
I need to say something, but I’m at such a loss for words. I’ve never been spoken to like this before, so I have no ideahow I’m supposed to respond. Is this what it’s always like “the morning after?”
Instead of saying anything, I hold up my left hand in front of his face.
“What the fuck?” he says, and as he goes to grab my hand for a closer inspection, we both notice the ring on his finger. His hand pauses midair, and he looks from it to me, then rolls on his back and groans out “Fuck!” at the top of his lungs. His fists are clenched and so are his teeth, and every muscle in his upper body flexes in rage. It’s enough to actually scare me out of my stupor.
I jump off the bed and hold my palm to my forehead, pressing to relieve some of the pressure, as I stare down at him. “What the hell was that, Brock?”
