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I popped some berries into my mouth as I spun in her chair like a child. “Tell you what. Let’s wait for your temporary visa first. That buys you time to find a job that will sponsor you. And if the arrangement works out—and no offense, but I wouldn’t bet my chips on it—we can stay married until your green card is secured. If not, you’ll grant me adivorce. A nice and quick one, or I tell the authorities you blackmailed me into doing so. Final offer.”
She looked like she was about to argue, first opening her mouth, then pursing her lips reluctantly. Finally, she nodded. “Fair.”
I stood up and thrust my hand in her direction. She looked down at it like I was offering her chlamydia. Her stuffiness was starting to get on my last nerve. I almost withdrew when she apparently decided to bite the bullet and place her hand in mine. Her shake was cold and dry. Her beauty was sadly wasted on one of the most horrible women I’d had the displeasure to meet.
Duffy despising me was great news to both of us. The last thing I needed was for my fiancée to tolerate me.
“How does it feel?” I peered down at her purple eyes.
“How does what feel?” She glowered.
“To catch genital herpes through a handshake.”
If she enjoyed my joke, she chose to show it by visibly gagging. She stepped back and wiped her hand on her dress.
“Don’t be so stuck up. I promise to keep my STDs to myself.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Oh, and Dina?”
“Duffy.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?” She looked like she was bracing herself for a blow.
“How open would you be to changing your name to Desiree?”
CHAPTER FIVE
RIGGS
Later that night, I stopped at the Brewtherhood, a bar favored by aging hipsters. There was nothing overtly special about it, other than the fact that it was too run-down to attract tourists, and the playlist swung heavily toward ’90s and early 2000s music.
Arsène, Christian, and I sat at the bar. I was crashing at Christian’s while in town. Since I had just become betrothed, I was racking my brain for a creative way to tell him his bedroom would be needed for a few more weeks while Duffy and I tied the knot and filled out paperwork. No fucking way was I sharing a confined space with Cruella de Vil. Cohabitating a city seemed too much at this point.
Both my friends’ wives were great catches, albeit in different ways. Christian’s Arya was a bossy, sassy, red-heeled ballbuster with world-domination aspirations, and Arsène’s Winnie was a doe-eyed actress with a southern drawl and the best peach pies on the East Coast. They both seemed chill about my using their places as hostels. It was Arsène and Christian who wanted me out of their hair so they could continue humping their partners’ legs uninterrupted.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” A new bartender, with spiky green hair and a collection of piercings, winked my way as she slid coasters across the bar.
I ordered a local brew, Arsène a Japanese beer, and Christian a whiskey, neat.
“Coming right up.” She beamed at me behind her shoulder, peppering the gesture with a wink.
“This new one seems extra jolly.” I patted my jeans. “Did she just steal my wallet or something?”
“For what purpose? You look like the kind of guy who only holds used gum and a Costco membership in it. No, you porked her,” Arsène articulated graciously, an astronomy book propped under his elbow.
“Fuck.”
“Aptly put.” Christian was typing an email on his phone.
“When?” I may or may not have promised my friends to stop hooking up with the staff here. Quality, quiet dive bars were becoming hard to come by downtown.
“Between Chile and Mozambique,” Christian supplied, reluctantly ripping his gaze off his phone. “She asked about you a dozen times after you went away. Apparently, you told her you had one year to live and were on a mission to travel the world, so no relationships for you.”
That sounded like something I’d say while zipping up my pants on my way out.
