Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
My best friend leans over to see yesterday’s wasted version wobbling in the frame. “Why are you giving me a shout out?”
“No clue.”
“There’s no way I would let you miss me finally getting married!”
“Married?!” The two of us shriek in tandem.
“Because like we never thought this day would come.”
“That day damn sure should not have come!” I squawk to the camera version of myself.
“Is that a fucking magician?!” Margot bites back in outrage. “Did you really let a fucking Vegas magician of all people marry you?!”
“No.”
“Meet The Great Magical Mike!”
“Maybe.”
“We saw him working outside the costume shop and knew he had to perform the ceremony.”
“Likely?”
Further scoffs of disgust seep from the woman beside me. “You did not seriously get married in Vegas!” Her headshaking becomes frantic. “You couldn’t have! There are…fucking…laws in effect that prevent that type of shit from being valid.”
“Ma’am,” the magician uncomfortably sighs, “I cannot perform a ceremony if the two of you are dr-”
“I will pay you double-”
“Double,” Bricks unnecessarily echoes from beside me.
“In cash-”
“Cash.”
“To consider us sober enough to do this.”
Magical Mike doesn’t hesitate to wave his wand at us. “You two got rings?”
“And that’s how you get around that,” Margot grumbles to herself at the same time one hand flies over my heated face.
Hey, at least Bricks is a good hype man?
Through my spread digits, I nervously watch what has to be the worst decision of my life in progress with no way to stop it.
Bricks and I whip out the round accessories—that I now know really are fucking mood rings—turn towards each other—eagerly—and continue to stare adoringly into one another’s drunk gaze as though it’s impossible to look elsewhere. Horror settles deeper and deeper into my present expression during the repeating of vows. The proclamations that we’re soulmates. The exchanged agreements that we’re absolutely meant to be. Twisting and turning and gagging in my seat like I’m overdramatically acting out the injecting of poison in front of an audience that doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening doesn’t cease the terror from continuing.
Or erase the actions of our holding hands.
Our face cuppings.
Our first married kiss, which has way too much fucking tongue—even for me.
One minute I’m watching a shirtless, roided out idiot in a top hat wave a wand around our hands and the next we’re using said wand to sign paperwork that I have no idea where he was hiding before the moment arrived.
Margot pounds the screen with her recently manicured index finger and disapprovingly snarls, “Harlow. Emery. Hennington.”
The mixture of guilt and shame shifts my still shielded stare from the screen to her.
“What…in the actual…fuck…did you. Just. Do?”
Good question.
What in the actual fuck did I just do?
Brendan
Waking up to the sound of chick choking on my cock?
Acceptable.
Waking up to the sound of her choking on something else?
Not so much.
Popping open one eye grants me access to an unexpected view that prompts me to grouse, “You’re not who I went to bed with.”
Geoffrey Winslow, my boss as well as one of my friends, successfully hacks up a piece of whatever got caught in his throat and playfully pokes, “And you are not who I went to breakfast with.”
The retort receives a small smirk and the closing of my eyes again.
Fuck, is it really breakfast time already?
We basically just went to bed.
Huh.
Where is the other part of we?
The long legged, warm, honey brown skinned babe who was screaming my name at the top of her lungs until her voice was literally hoarse.
We’re talking sounded like she smoked a pack and a half a day type of scratchy.
God, that was the sexiest shit I had ever heard.
The type of shit I can’t wait to hear again. And again. And again…
“Donut?”
Geoffrey’s offer not only receives my full attention but an action too. Reaching over to grab a pastry is lazily executed; however, in doing so, the two of us are exposed to a small, almost unbelievable sight.
“Why on bloody earth are you wearing a goddamn mood ring like Hennington?”
The fingers of my left hand curl around one of the chocolate-glazed circles. “Pretty sure I got married last night.”
“As in primary school married?” Geoffrey taunts, tossing the box on the edge of the mattress. “As in here is half of my peanut butter and jam sandwich in exchange for your small hand in first grade marriage, hence the cereal box accessory?”
“Tate’s right. Your accent really does have a way of making insulting shit sound way more fucking insulting.”
“It is a gift that never stops giving.”
Light chuckles are accompanied by a bite of the sugary breakfast treat.
“Now,” he angles himself to face me better, “back to your k-i-s-s-i-ng in a tree nonsense. Given that you are so bloody young, you getting married with a mood ring actually adds up. That is if you indeed did get married.”
“Which I did.”