Prologue
4.42 a.m. April 10, 2016 - Las Vegas, USA
Fried chicken grease stains my wrinkled white shirt, and undone buttons reveal my pale skin. The world spins as I lean on a pillar in the fancy hotel lobby. My date slips a matt black card into the lift, gesturing for another couple to wait.
As we ride to the penthouse level, he pushes me against the mirrored wall and kisses me hard with lips that taste of whisky.
In the penthouse suite, translucent curtains flutter at windows overlooking garish casino signs lining the strip below.
A bartender with piercing blue eyes pours champagne.
My date is handsome in a craggy, daddy-bear way. Not that I buy into the whole gay men as woodland critters thing. Every online hook-up describes themselves as a bear, an otter or a pup, and I’ve yet to find the animal that chimes with what my Spotlight Casting Directory profile calls ‘an average build, Hugh Grant type’.
He lifts his glass in a toast. “Should we hyphenate our last names, or are you taking mine?”
Shit!
I didn’t imagine it. There was a wedding chapel, dingy and worn, with stained beige carpeting and rows of plastic chairs. And some campy older guy dressed as Elvis crooning, ‘Love me tender’. Cheesy organ music played on a loop, and we gave money to a woman who promised our marriage certificate tomorrow. I made jokes about getting it framed to hang in the loo.
“We’re not married, though, right?”
He winks. “I’ll call and explain it was a mistake.”
Stressed whispers carry from the other room. I steady myself against the wall as the floor lurches—time to leave. Stop being so polite and so British. Be direct. Tell him to order you a taxi.
“Do you have company?” I say, in the sort of voice my mother might use when asking if the local branch of Waitrose stocks oven chips.
“Just friends.”
The room spins, and my mouth waters. My head is banging, but his hands are on me.
“Shame to waste our honeymoon.” He kisses my neck. “The bedroom is through there.”
“Yeah, great, but I need the bathroom.”
A door opens at the end of a low-lit hallway, and a guy stands staring. Young. Handsome with a tiny scar below one eye. Bare-chested. Bold. But mostly young. The floor lurches, and I reach for a wall to steady myself.
His fingers brush my cheek. “Stay, baby. I’ll get you home safe.”
I pull back. “Call them. Tell them we made a mistake.”
With a grin, he pulls out his phone and pushes a button.
“Siri, remind me to annul the marriage.”
