Page 108 of Big D!ck Energy

The arena smelled like popcorn, testosterone, and the collective anticipation of twenty thousand people who'd paid good money to watch grown men throw each other around in spandex.

I still couldn't believe this was my life now.

“Okay, but walk me through the timeline again.” Brooke leaned closer, her voice barely audible over the pre-show music pumping through the speakers. “You're telling me that between the third tequila shot and sunrise, you somehow ended up married to a man you'd spent two years publicly annihilating?”

“That's the condensed version, yes.”

“And the Elvis impersonator, was he at least a good Elvis?”

“Blue Hawaii costume with rhinestones and a surprisingly good voice.” I shifted in my seat, hyperaware of the VIP passes hanging around our necks. “He really committed to the bit.”

“Unbelievable.” Brooke shook her head, but she was grinning. “You know, when I imagined your wedding, I pictured something elegant. Maybe a vineyard in Napa. Instead, you went full Vegas Chapel with an Elvis impersonator.”

“The heart wants what it wants.”

“The tequila wanted what it wanted.”

“Same thing.”

The arena was packed, a sea of signs, foam fingers, and people wearing merchandise with Dallas's face on it. Somewhere backstage, my husband was probably getting oiled up and psyching himself into character, which was a sentence I never thought I'd think, let alone accept as my normal Tuesday evening.

The seats behind us creaked as two women settled in. I didn't turn around, too focused on scanning the entrance ramp for any sign of pre-show activity.

“Oh my God, I'm so nervous.” The voice behind me was young, breathy, dripping with excitement. “I can't believe he invited me.”

“You're sure he's the one who messaged you?” Her companion sounded skeptical. “Because those DMs could be anyone. Managers, assistants, catfish...”

“It was definitely him. He used, like, specific details. Things only he would know.”

“But isn't he married now?” Skeptical Friend asked. “I saw something on Instagram...”

“To that fat podcast chick?” Breathy Voice laughed. “Please. That fat bitch can't satisfy him. You've seen his body. You think a man like that is attracted to someone who looks like her?”

My eyes widened, and my spine stiffened. Beside me, Brooke's hand found my knee, a silent stay calm that I felt more than heard.

I'd heard variations of this sentiment my entire life. Too big. Too much. Not enough. The comments section of my existence had been writing this narrative since I was twelve years old, when I first realized that the world had opinions about my body that it felt entitled to share.

But hearing it here, in this arena, about my husband, from someone who apparently believed she had some kind of claim to him, hit different.

Brooke's grip on my knee tightened. “Don't,” she murmured. “They're not worth it.”

“I know.”

“Davina.”

“I said I know.” But my heart was hammering. Not because I believed the DM story, because I didn’t. I trusted Dallas.

No, the cold feeling was the voice in my head that whispered, maybe they're right and this is all temporary. Maybe he'll wake up one day and realize he could do better.

I shoved that voice into a mental closet and locked the door.

“He probably just married her for publicity,” Breathy Voice continued, apparently determined to narrate my worst fears aloud. “Or like, a bet or something. There's no way it's real. Did you see his exes? Models and actresses. Women who take care of themselves.”

“Maybe she's rich?” Skeptical Friend offered.

“Rich enough to buy a husband like Dallas Dodger? Please.”

Brooke was practically vibrating with suppressed rage beside me.