Hitched (3 page)

"He must have been some lay," Tate says. "When are you going to see him again?"

"I'm not." But God I want to. This man has ruined sex for me, at least with anyone but him. "This is over. We're getting it annulled. It's the best thing."

"Do you like him?" Vi asks.

"What do you mean?"

She rolls her eyes. "I mean, do you like him? I know you liked the sex. Sounds like the man could seduce a nun and live to tell the tale. Plus, he's a modern day super hero who saves little kids. So, the only other question is, do you like him as a person?"

I think about it a second, but I could have answered right away. "Yes." Even though I don't know him very well, or at least can't remember knowing him, I like him.

She pats my arm, a knowing smile on her lips. "Then, honey, don't blow this. Marriage might have been a bit… extreme on your first night. But that doesn't mean you can't keep dating the man. You don't meet many like him in this world."

I groan, letting my head flop back against the couch cushion. "My head is going to explode. I'm dying. It's likely a tumor."

Tate scoffs, and Vi jumps up. "Time for my Super Secret Hangover Cure All!"

"Oh God, no! Not that!" I whine. "Anything but that. I thought you were my friend. I thought you loved me."

She darts into the kitchen, ignoring my pleas, and comes out a few minutes later with a glass full of red... something.

"It's tough love. Here you go!"

The first thing you'll notice about Vi's hangover cure is the smell. The fumes alone could kill you. The second is the unnaturally bright red color, like Hollywood blood. But it's the taste that really does you in.

She's never told us the ingredients, but Tate and I made a list once. It included such delicacies as innards of beetles, lava from an active volcano, ash, vomit from a dog that's been poisoned and ate its own shit, and the tears of dying children.

"Drink up. Don’t miss a drop, or it won't work."

"I hate you."

But I drink. I drink as I feel it eating through my esophagus and trying to claw its way out of me like an alien. I drink as the taste makes me want to cut out my own tongue. I drink until there's nothing left, and I shove the glass back into her hand.

"Never again," I growl, grabbing Tate's water bottle to wash the taste out of my mouth.

"I love you too," she says, sauntering back into the kitchen.

The phone rings, and it doesn't send shooting pain through my brain. The drink is already working. How and why we'll never know. Vi is probably a witch in her spare time.

She comes out to answer it, nods briefly and puts the caller on hold. "It's Joey?"

"He's a regular. Good guy. Lawyer with a lot of friends. He ends up best man to many of them and is always looking for new bachelor party ideas. He got tired of the same old strip clubs, so now he uses us."

She puts him on speaker, and Joey and I exchange pleasantries before he gets to the reason for his call.

"So my buddy's getting married for the third… no, fourth time, and we need to do something really over the top."

I flip through my mental Rolodex and land on something fun and unique. "How about skydiving?"

"That could work. Keep it as a plan B. But I kind of had my heart set on a tank."

"A tank?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice. Vi rolls her eyes, and Tate looks a bit panicked.

"Yeah, a buddy of mine said he knew a guy who went to Russia and got to ride a tank. You know how to set that up?"

No. We're in Las Vegas, not Russia. Holy fuck. But of course, I don’t say that. "I'll look into it." Though in my mind I'm already working on that plan B. "How many guests?"

"Twenty-three."

Tate whistles at the number: it’s larger than their usual.

Joey continues. "Kacie, I was wondering, is there any kind of discount for a large party? Because with the divorce, things have been tight, you know?"

Joey told me about his ongoing divorce at our last party. He'd caught his wife sleeping with an old flame from college. Apparently, she'd never stopped loving him. Now, because they didn't have a prenup, they had to split everything down the middle. Joey didn't care too much about that, but they had two kids. He was fighting for them.

"Don't worry. We'll make it work. You'll get the Hitched Frequent Customer Discount." Something I just pulled out of my ass, but whatever.

"Ah, thanks, Kacie. You’re a doll."

We hang up, and I go into the kitchen for something to eat while Tate starts typing on his laptop. "Kacie, there's no way in hell we're going to get a tank for these guys, you know that right?"

"I know." I find some cheese and crackers. Good enough.

"So what's the plan?" he asks, still googling the impossible.

"The plan is to create an adventure that will make him forget about tanks and Russia and remember why he loves us and Las Vegas so much."

Vi heads to the kitchen for coffee. "You're too good to these people. I could never do your job."

"I'm pretty sure I could never do yours either," I say, thinking about what it must be like to work as a Dominatrix. "Oh, I nearly forgot!" I leave the food on the counter and run to the closet by our front door to pull out a bag. "I bought stuff for my super stealthy plan to put Hitched on the celebrity map!"

Tate rolls his eyes. "This is so lame, Kacie. The cheese factor is at stench level."

I stick my tongue out at him. "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."

I dump everything onto the coffee table and start assembling my masterpiece.

Vi comes back in and sits next to me. "What's this?"

"It's Kacie's latest 'business plan,’" Tate says, using air quotes.

"Shut up, Tate. Until you come up with something better, we're doing this." I turn to Vi to explain as I hold up a toy car. "You heard the news that David Melton's getting married, right?"

Her eyes light up. "Melton, as in the famous magician who performs at the Wynn? The guy who literally disappeared, without any props, live in front of thousands of people?"

"That's the one!"

"He's getting married? That bastard! He's
my
magical goth-rock-star-celebrity husband. He just doesn't know it yet," Vi says, fanning herself dramatically.

"You'll have to fight his fiancée for him."

"I'm a patient woman. I can wait for the divorce."

I laugh. "And such a romantic. Anyways, I want Hitched to land his bachelor party. So… I'm sending him a basket with little gifts that represent my ideas for his party, along with a handwritten note pitching him my idea. I did some research, and he's a huge fan of Michael Schwartz, the racecar driver, and loves race cars. So I'm including miniature high-end cars, a helicopter, handcuffs, champagne, whipped cream and a few other trinkets. The plan is to host his party on the roof of the Wynn and have a helicopter pick him and a few of his closest friends up to take them to the tracks to race. What I'm really hoping is that I can get Schwartz himself to show up. But I'm not promising that yet, since it's not a done deal."

I add the finishing touches to the basket, and then I tuck my card, our brochure, and the letter I wrote inside and wrap it up. "Voila!"

Vi examines the basket. "I like it. I think it's clever and fun and unique. I have a good feeling about this."

I flip Tate off and smile. "See? This is going to work. Melton will be blown away, he'll book us, we'll rock his world, and he'll tell all his celebrity friends about us. It's going to launch us onto the next rung of the business ladder," I insist.

"Want me to deliver it? I'll be driving by the Wynn today, and I know some people there who can help make sure it gets to him," Vi says, standing and grabbing her purse.

"Oh, that would be great. Thank you!" I hand her the basket and kiss her cheek. "You're the best."

She tosses her hair over her shoulder. "I know. But it's good to be reminded."

As Vi heads out, she runs into a deliveryman coming up the stairs. "Someone's got a package," Vi hollers as she walks away. "I wonder who it could be from."

Don't judge me for the butterflies I get in my stomach. You know you'd get them too if there was any possibility that the hot guy you spent the night with had just sent you something. Not that he has. I'm sure it's just… a mistake or wrong address or something.

When I get to the door, a man is standing there with a long white box wrapped in thick red ribbon. "Miss Michaels?"

"That's me."

He holds out the box. "This is for you." When I take the box, he holds out a clipboard. "If you could just sign here." He points to a line, and I scribble my signature and close the door.

I carry it into the living room and sink onto the red couch I talked Tate into letting me buy for our house. The ribbon on the box slips off easily, and when I open the box, I find two dozen long stemmed red roses, my missing red shoe and a card.

My hand is trembling as I tear through the thick parchment envelope. When I open it, a gold ring falls out. My wedding ring. The note is written in neat cursive.

My darling Kacie,

I know our relationship started unexpectedly and proceeded with too little caution, but I can't get you out of my mind. Like Cinderella, you lost your shoe, and I endeavor to make mine the only woman who should be wearing it. Watch for another package tomorrow, and please keep tomorrow evening free. I'll pick you up at seven o'clock, and we can discuss our future, for there will undoubtedly be one if I have anything to say about it.

Yours truly and always,

Sebastian

Tate, the busybody that he is, snatches the note from me and reads it aloud. "That's so sweet," he says, his voice too syrupy. "You should definitely see him again. And fuck him again. He sounds perfect. If I were gay—and he were gay, obviously—I'd totally go for it."

I grab the note back from him. "If you were gay, you'd bang him one night and never call him again. I don’t think being gay would change your genetic makeup of love 'em and leave 'em."

He grins like an idiot. "But what a night it would be."

"Go away now, please. I will go, but only to discuss the annulment. Nothing more."

He wags his eyebrows. "That's what they all say. Until it's cock-o-clock."

"Gross. You didn't seriously just say that did you? That better not become a thing. I don’t ever want to hear that spoken aloud again."

I take my package up to my room and think about the note.

I should be irritated that Sebastian would be so presumptuous about my evening plans and entire future, but my stomach dances with those butterflies. I want to see him again. Need to see him again.

My pigheaded stubbornness does its best to present all the reasons why getting involved with this guy is a very bad idea. We met in a drunken haze of sex and need, and that's no way to start a healthy relationship. I barely know him. I don't want anything serious right now. I like to keep my life simple, orderly, focused.

The list is endless, but underneath all of that, my heart is adamant that I must see him again. Must kiss him and feel his lips against mine. Must taste him.

Must have him.

With this in mind, I slip the ring through my silver necklace and tuck it beneath my shirt, just so I can give it back to him without losing it. I'm grateful he sent back my shoe, and I place it with its twin, then put the roses in a vase and center it on my dresser. No point in wasting beautiful flowers.

As for the note, I stick it in my red Coach bag and try to forget about it for now.

I reach for my MacBook and fire it up, doing a search for annulments in Las Vegas. Turns out, it's not that hard, especially if both parties agree. Assuming the judge rules that I was in fact incapable of making informed consent given my state that night.

I print out the forms we need, sign and fill out what I can, and stick them in my purse next to his note. Even
if
we end up fucking again—the thought of him inside me makes me wet—once we get these signed and notarized, we'll be set. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks for the annulment to be final and our lives to go back to normal.

Now I feel better. Mostly better. Definitely better. Maybe in a few years when our business is booming, and we can move into bigger events and party planning, when I can hire a bigger staff and step away from the day-to-day operations a little more, maybe then the timing will be better for me to think about something serious.

I go downstairs to rejoin my brother and figure out a way to get Joey off his “tank” kick.

"Hey, sis." Tate says, feet resting on the coffee table as he works on his laptop. "Come to any major life decisions up there all alone in your room?"

"Everything is sorted out. I'll be seeing him tomorrow to finalize things." My heart does a little skip at that, but I ignore the traitorous beast.