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“You’d be surprised.”
I nod and she hurries out of the Chapel.
Evangeline shifts in her heels impatiently, and Elvis tries to reassure me that forgetting the rings isn’t a sign of a doomed marriage. Giving him a menacing glare shuts him up until the woman returns a few moments later with two rings.
“Do people actually wear these?” I hold one in my hand, a pair of dice replacing what would be a diamond. Evangeline scoffs and shakes her head at me as if I’m the biggest moron on the planet. The other ring is adorned with dice etched into what feels like aluminum and holds the promise of making my finger turn green.
“Oh yes,” Marla says eagerly. “It’s one of our best sellers.”
Evangeline smirks and I glare at her while I slip the ring on her finger. “I’ll get you a nicer ring, I promise.”
“Not necessary.” She shoves the ring on my finger and it catches on my knuckle before sliding down, and I think it might cut off circulation.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Elvis says with a shake of his hips. “You can now kiss your bride.”
Can’t Help Falling in Love plays loudly through the speakers, and my eyes fall to her full pink lips, remembering our kiss in the diner, but this feels different. Permanent. Meaningful.
She doesn’t move an inch, making me be the one to close the distance between us. I sink my fingers into her hair as I pull her to me. Her chest rises with a deep breath, and her eyes are trained on mine while she blinks against her bangs. I can feel her breath against my lips, and when I kiss her, hand to God, I can taste resentment on her tongue, and I will go to hell swallowing her anger like it’s fucking caviar.
It’s not the kiss of two newlyweds excited and eager for what’s to come, but the slow, deliberate kiss of a couple exploring new territory. The way her fingers curl around the hair at the nape of my neck tells me she feels it too. Underneath all of the resentment and spite is the kindling of a fire that threatens to consume us both. She lightly bites down on my lip, pulling it with her as we pull apart, and it makes me groan.
With her eyes narrowed and so close to mine, I can see the rolling ocean in their depths. I’m a fucking prick, but that look makes me hard. There is a moment when it looks like she wants to say something, but it passes.
“Now remember there is no return to sender, and a little less conversation and a little more action can solve all your problems,” Elvis interrupts while trying to grab onto my arm to get me to play along with his hip shake, but I shake it off.
Gently, I take her hand and lead her down the aisle, while Marla throws confetti into the air. Little pieces land in her hair and on the tips of her lashes, which she blinks away. Camera flashes temporarily blind me as the photographer takes pictures of us to preserve the memory.
“We’ll send all the photos and the video to the email you provided,” Marla says, giving us both a wide smile. She claps her hands together giddily. “You really do make a gorgeous couple,” she sighs, and then steps aside so we can walk out of the chapel.
When we step into the parking lot, the breeze pushes her bangs off her forehead, and her blonde hair falls around her shoulders. I stop and look at her. She really does make a beautiful bride. Bailey holds the door to the SUV open, and before we get in, I turn to Evangeline and ask, “Have you ever been to the Eiffel Tower?”
10
Paris Syndrome
Darren
Using the private jet isn’t very subtle, but I’ll have to face Rausch sooner or later, and fuck if I’m flying commercial. The flight from Nevada to Virginia is only about four hours, and I check my watch before hearing the door to the bathroom where Evangeline emerges, having changed out of her wedding dress and back into her tight jeans and an oversize sweater. The smell of her perfume, floral and sweet, filters through the air as she passes by to take the seat across from me.
The stewardess refills my glass and offers Evangeline something, which she declines, and then quietly disappears back into the galley. I watch as Evangeline surveys the cabin, crossing her legs haughtily. She makes a frustrated sigh that I can’t ignore. I can’t ignore her period.
“Not to your liking?”
“You didn’t waste any time spending your inheritance,” she jabs. “Private jet. Very classy.”
I chuckle, looking around the cabin of my parent’s private plane.
“Feels like the inside of an expensive coffin.” I shift in my seat uncomfortably.
Evangeline’s eyes meet mine, a flicker of sympathy in them before it’s replaced with open annoyance.
“No magazines, books, anything to pass the time?” she asks, looking around.
“If you were expecting a copy of The Sun Also Rises, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” I scoff, taking a healthy sip of my drink.
“You’re a pretentious asshole,” she says with a bit of amusement before folding her hands in her lap.
“Why, because I prefer Hemingway to Emerson?” This debate seems to have lit a fire in her eyes. How did someone like her become an escort?
