Page 62 of Bound To Be Mine

“Want to bet we walked right into that chapel?” Mandy asked as we pulled back into the station.

“I’d bet my entire fortune on it.”

We climbed out of the car, both of us still laughing. Her hand was still in mine. I realized I should probably let go, but I didn’t want to.

This was dangerous.

I was having fun with my wife. My fake wife. The woman I was supposed to be maintaining a professional arrangement with for the next three months before we quietly divorced and went back to our separate lives.

I was thinking about how much I wanted to kiss her.

I wanted to pull her against me and feel her curves pressed against my body. I wanted to take her back to my hotel suite and spend the rest of the night learning what every inch of her felt like. Tasted like.

“Let’s go see where we got married,” I said.

It was a short walk and there was no fear of missing the place, given the flashing neon signs all over the building. The exterior was lit up with pinks and blues. There was a life-sized Elvis statue out front that had seen better days. His rhinestones were missing in patches, and someone had drawn a mustache on his face in permanent marker.

Poor guy.

“This is it,” Mandy said, squeezing my hand. “I can feel it.”

I could feel it too. Something about the place was triggering fragments of memory. Nothing concrete, just impressions. Laughter. Music. The smell of cheap champagne. And of course, Elvis. I would never hear an Elvis song again and not think of my marriage.

We walked inside.

The interior was exactly what you’d expect from a Vegas wedding chapel operating beneath a “Get Married Here” billboard. Red velvet everywhere. More Elvis memorabilia than should legally be allowed in one space. A small altar at the front with plastic flowers that were beyond cheap. And faded. Yellowed.

And behind the counter, an Elvis impersonator who looked up from his phone and broke into the biggest grin I’d ever seen.

“Well, well, well,” he said in a voice that was trying very hard to channel the King. “If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell, back for round two.”

Mandy’s hand tightened in mine.

“You remember us,” I said.

“Remember you? Brother, you two are legendary. Best wedding I’ve done in fifteen years.” He stood up, adjusting his white jumpsuit. The rhinestones caught the light. I had to do my best not to look at the black chest hair on display in the deep V of the ugliest garment I’d ever seen. “I’m guessing you don’t remember much, do you? I mean if you asked that question.”

“Not a thing,” Mandy admitted.

“Figures. You were both pretty well oiled when you stumbled in here.” He leaned against the counter. “But man, you were happy. Happiest couple I’ve ever married, and I’ve married a lot of couples.”

I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Happy drunk me apparently made better life decisions than sober me, which was deeply concerning. “Isn’t it illegal to marry people that drunk?”

Elvis laughed. “You were able to hold a pen. You knew your names. Produced ID. That’s all I need. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

“Did we say anything?” Mandy asked.

“You said a lot.”

“Did I ask her to marry me here?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You came in said you wanted to get married and asked if I sold rings.” I watched him pull out a box and open it. “I sold you the best tow I had. That fit you.”

There were an assortment of rings in the box. Mismatched.

“We bought our rings here?” Mandy asked.

“Yep. You’re not the only couple who showed up without a chance to go ring shopping. We pride ourselves on handling all aspects of the wedding.”