Vegas Love (8 page)

“Your names, please,” the minister says, as I take Sexy’s hands. They are warm and envelope me with trust.
 

“His name is
Sexy
,” I say with a grin.

“And her name is
Hotass
,” he adds with a laugh.

“Are those the names you’d like to use when you take your vows?” We both nod and the minister says, “Very well. Will you,
Hotass
take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold from this day forward for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” I say.

“And do you, Sexy,”—the minister chuckles—“take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward for as long as you both shall live?”
 

Sexy looks deep into my eyes and says, “I do.”

“Would you like to exchange rings?” the minister asks.

“Yes,” Sexy says, pulling a pair out of his pocket. “And we’ll say our own vows.”

He slides a diamond-encrusted band on top of my engagement ring.
 

“It’s so beautiful,” I gush.

“
You’re
beautiful,” he tells me, grabbing my ass with one hand and pulling me closer. “With this ring, I promise to make life fun, to help you live out your crazy dreams, and to fuck you silly.”

The minister coughs—or chokes—I’m not sure. I wipe little tears from my eyes and slide a wedding band on his finger. I hold his hand tightly as we lock eyes. “With this ring, I promise to remember this day forever, because it’s been the best one of my entire life.” Then I grab his face and kiss him.

The margarita crowd erupts with cheers.

“Uh, well—then I guess I will now pronounce you husband and wife. You may, uh,
continue
to kiss the bride.”

At some point, the minister coughs, so Sexy stops kissing me.
 

Which sucks, because I didn’t want the kiss to end.

Ever.

The minister asks for our IDs. I hand him my fake one and carefully sign that name on the marriage certificate in front of me. I try to make out Sexy’s name, but his signature isn’t the least bit legible. I know it’s supposed to be a no-names night, but I can’t help but wonder who he really is.

“Congrats,” the minister and witnesses say, shaking our hands.
 

Music starts playing, so we stagger down the aisle together to the cheers of the margarita crew.
 

We stop and take a whole bunch of crazy photos with them.
 

When that’s done, Sexy leads me outside to a waiting limo.
 

“Where should we go next on Sexy and Hotass’ Great Vegas Adventure?” he asks.

I pull him to my lips. “Straight back to our room, please.”

When we walk through the lobby, people clap and wish us well, but Sexy is on a mission. He’s holding my hand tightly as he takes us straight to the elevator, where he slides our keycard, hits the floor button, and then kisses me deeply.
 

When the elevator dings, he picks me up and carries me into our suite while still kissing me.

“You just carried me over the threshold,” I say, giddy and happy.

“It’s our wedding night. I had to.”
 

He calls our butler and says that we need champagne and desserts stat.
 

Then I get his full attention. He slides the straps of my wedding dress off my shoulders and kisses them.
 

“So, Mrs. Sexy—I assume you’re taking my name, right?”
 

“Yes, of course,” I reply.
 

He drags me into the bathroom. “After they deliver our champagne, we’re going to get naked, get in this amazing tub, and toast to our good fortune. I’m going to fuck you in the bathtub and then I’m going to dry you off, lay you on this ottoman here, and eat your sweet pussy until you beg me to stop. Then I’m going to carry you over to the bed and fuck you silly.”

“Sounds like you’re taking your vows seriously, Mr. Sexy,” I say, swooning in his arms.

“Oh, I am.”
 

I wake up with a start, wondering where the hell I am.
 

A sexy, muscular arm is wrapped around me. It’s attached to an equally sexy guy, who is sleeping soundly. I gently extricate myself from his arms, slide my legs out from where they are snugly tucked between his, and get up.
 

I find the dress I wore to the wedding balled up on the living room floor.
 

I slip it on—not bothering to look for my bra or underwear—grab my handbag and shoes, and silently sneak out.

When the door is safely shut behind me, I lean against it and whisper, “Bye, Sexy.”

Hurts So Good

Ashlyn

I get a cab, go to the airport, fix my makeup and wig, and catch a quick flight to L.A.

When I’m safely back home, I strip everything off and hop in the shower. I’m in hangover hell, but my body hurts so good in all the right places.
 

I’m shampooing my hair when I notice something different.
 

I hold my left hand out in front of me and am shocked by the huge, gorgeous diamond ring on my finger. But then I relive the moment when those brown eyes gazed into mine as he said,
I promise to make life fun, to help you live out your crazy dreams, and fuck you silly.
 

 
Visions of our hot sex, drunken laughter, club dancing, and wedding, plague me all day.
 

 
Much like my headache.
 

I stare at the ring. A ring like this had to cost a pretty penny. It can’t be real.
 

But I remember him telling me that it was when he proposed.
 

He must have been lying.
 

I gaze into the sparkling facets. This is so my dream ring, but I know I have to give it back to him.
 

Especially if it’s real.

I stop and think, wondering what he did when he woke up and realized I was gone.
 

Did he care?
 

Was he relieved?
 

Is it what he expected? I remember telling him quite a few times that it was a no-names night. Which, in retrospect, was pretty stupid of me. Because I know he knew who I was.

I guess if he wants the ring back, he can come find me, right?

Well, that should be my answer, but it’s not.
 

I cannot stop thinking about him and wonder if he’s as dreamy in real life as he seemed.

I’ve been pacing around, feeling unsettled. I have to find out if this ring is real. So after I order some Thai for delivery, I call my stylist, Zoey. She works with all the top jewelers for my red carpet events.
 

“Hey, Zoey, how are you?”

 
“I’m good. How are you, girl? I never would have thought that Luke would do something like that. His last album was a bit of a bust. Maybe he thought bad publicity is better than no publicity?”

“It was a shitty thing to do. My agent is working with a bunch of lawyers, trying to get it off the Internet, but I don’t think it will ever go away.”

“I saw the press release about you and Zach breaking up too. I’m sorry. Did you end up going to the wedding?”

“Get this—he broke up with me by press release
at
the wedding.”

“That really sucks.”

“Yeah, but looking back, I think all the amazing things he did for me were really to make him look romantic and dreamy to his fans. His tight family is very strategic when it comes to their image.”

“So, do you need something amazing to be seen in?”

“I may never leave my house again,” I chuckle. “Actually, I called you because I need a favor. I have this ring that I, um, found, and I need to determine if it’s real. If it is—I um, really need to, like, find the owner. I thought you might know someone who could help me.”

“You could just take it to the jewelry store tomorrow when they open.”

“With the crazy paparazzi, I was hoping for something more discreet.”

“Like a house call?”

“Yes.
Exactly
like a house call.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she demands. “Did Zach secretly propose in Vegas last week before the news broke?”

“No, he didn’t. I really just found this ring. Like I said.”

“Fine. Then I’ll get in touch with Tristan, my contact at the jewelers, and we’ll meet you at your home in an hour. Will that work?”

“Yes, thanks, Zoey.”

Now I’m sitting across the kitchen table from Tristan, watching him study the ring with a little scope attached to his finger.
 

“Definitely a diamond,” he says. “Excellent quality. I’d estimate the value at around a quarter of a million.”

“The fuck?!” I blurt out. Then I compose myself. “I mean, I’m sure whoever bought it—I mean, lost it—is freaking out.”

“One would assume it’s insured,” he says. “But most rings have a sentimental value that insurance can’t cover.”

“Can you tell me anything else about it?”

“Well, yes, it was designed by Christophe Panelli and there is a serial number on it, so it will be easy to track down the owner. This brand is exclusive to a particular jeweler in Las Vegas. You can call their business office tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll do that,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

After Zoey lets Tristan out, she marches back into my kitchen. “Ashlyn, what aren’t you telling me? Where did you find the ring?”

“At the airport,” I lie, leading her to the door. “Thanks so much, Zoey. I’ll let you know what I find out on Monday!”

I put the ring back on my finger, where it belongs, and wonder what it all means.

Dying Here

Ashlyn

I’m up bright and early Monday morning, pacing until I can call the jewelry store’s business office at nine.
 

When someone finally answers the phone at a quarter after, I word vomit on her. “Hi! I found a ring that I’m told was purchased at your store, and I want to return it to the owner. I’m hoping you can help me. It’s a very special ring. It’s numbered and should be easy for you to track. It’s a Christophe Panelli. Serial number is N24589. Can you please look it up for me and give me the owner’s name and address?”