Page 25 of Big D!ck Energy

There we were, in a chapel, Dallas in black slacks and a dark grey polo, and me in my dress. An Elvis impersonator was pronouncing us husband and wife. Dallas was grinning like an idiot. I was laughing so hard I was crying.

And then we kissed.

It was not a polite, friendly kiss. It was the kind of kiss that belonged in an R-rated movie, all heat and passion. Even watching it now, hungover and horrified, I felt my face flame.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

Dallas appeared behind me, looking over my shoulder at the phone. I heard a low whistle.

“Damn, we put on quite a show,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “I give that kiss a solid 9.5 out of 10. Would have been a perfect 10, but I think I almost dropped you at the end there.”

“We got married,” I said flatly. “We got drunk-married in Vegas.” I turned to face him, still clutching my phone. “I married you. This is literally my worst nightmare.”

“Hey!” His eyes danced with mischief. “I'm wounded. Most women would consider marrying me the grand prize.”

“You're the worst person I know!”

“And yet,” he gestured between us with a growing smirk, “here we are, Mr. and Mrs. Worst Person You Know. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

We glared at each other, both breathing hard, and I became acutely aware that we were still naked, and we were standing very close together.

I stepped back quickly, nearly tripping over a room service cart I hadn't noticed before. Champagne bottles lay empty on their sides. A half-eaten wedding cake sat on a plate, the plastic bride and groom topper lying face down in the frosting.

“We ordered a wedding cake,” I said numbly.

“And we went all out,” Dallas observed, picking up the fallen cake topper and examining it. “Look, the little groom has my hair.” He looked way too pleased about this discovery.

I spun on him. “This isn't funny,” I growled.

“It's at least a little funny,” he countered, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come on, Davidson. We got so competitive that we ended up married. If that's not the perfect punchline to our rivalry, I don't know what is.”

“Shut up.” I started pacing, the sheet trailing behind me. “Okay. Okay, we can fix this. We'll get it annulled. It's Vegas, this happens all the time. We probably aren't even legally married.”

“Actually,” Dallas said slowly, pulling a sheet of paper off the nightstand, “according to this marriage certificate, signed by both of us and the Elvis impersonator, we definitely are.” He studied the paper.

I snatched it from his hand. There it was, in official black and white: Davina Marie Lawson and Dallas James Dodger, married at the Chapel of Eternal Love at 3:47 AM.

“This is not happening,” I said. “This is a bad dream. I'm going to wake up in my own room, alone, and this will all have been a stress-induced nightmare brought on by too much work and not enough sleep.”

“Should I pinch you?” Dallas offered, waggling his eyebrows. “That's what husbands are for, right?”

“You should get away from me before I kill you and claim temporary insanity.”

“Pretty sure being married to me isn't grounds for murder,” he said, looking far too entertained. “It would make one hell of a headline: Newlywed Murders Husband After Vegas Wedding; Claims She Was Driven to It by His Charm.”

“Don't,” I warned, pointing at him. “Don't make jokes. Don't be charming. Don't do whatever that thing is that you do….”

His jaw tightened. “You know what? Fine. You want to pretend this is all my fault? Go ahead. But last time I checked, it takes two people to get married.”

“Last time I checked, I was blackout drunk.”

“So was I.” Despite the raised voices, he looked like he was fighting back laughter.

“We need to get divorced,” I said, but it came out weaker than intended.

“Annulled,” he corrected. “And yeah. Obviously.”

We stood there in awkward silence, wrapped in our sheets, surveying the wreckage of our impulsive, drunken decision.