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An Uber pulled up to the curb to let someone out, and I rushed forward, slipping into the back.
The driver blinked at me in confusion as Oliver hurried across the sidewalk, his movements less coordinated than I’d ever seen them.
Good. Let him be the one off-center for a change.
“Miss?”
“Take me to Elvis. Now,” I demanded, as he whipped away from the curb just as Oliver reached for the door handle.
“I’m assuming you mean one of the chapels? I personally know of a few of them.”
Hi, my name is Sage Evans. I claim not to be a romantic, but where do I run after a possible breakup with a man I wasn’t even dating, just fucking? To a wedding chapel.
With a fake Elvis, but whatever.
“Take me to whichever is closest.”
Unshockingly, we ended up back at our hotel, the Golden Apple. We’d been eating lunch just a short distance away, so no surprise there. But I didn’t balk.
I shoved money at the driver, along with my profuse thanks, and climbed out. I didn’t see if Oliver was hot in pursuit. If he wanted to talk to me, he’d just have to deal with the chapel too.
The one thing I didn’t expect? That fake Elvis would have a line even at midday.
A line of couples, most of them giddy. Not surprising, since hey, getting married and all.
Right now, I hated every one of those people.
“Hi, honey, you here to see the King?” A tiny senior citizen with bright turquoise hair and glasses to match came up to me with a clipboard. “You alone or waiting on your fella?” Before I could reply, she lowered her glasses to eye me up and down. “Never had no one marry themselves yet, but there is that whole Galentine’s movement, and we don’t judge at Hunk O’ Burning Love Chapel.”
A laugh burst out of me as I craned my neck to read the sign. Dear God. Perhaps Oliver was right. Who would come to a gaudy place like this, Elvis fan or not?
I could always book a trip to Graceland. Solo, of course. The way I was doomed to travel from now until eternity, amen.
“So, no fella, is it? We won’t stop you from meeting his Excellency, though there is a charge—”
“Fellow reporting in.” Oliver’s winded, harried voice made my stupid heart go into a free fall, but I didn’t turn to look at him.
Naturally, he’d found me. I’d broadcast my plans all over God and country. I was as subtle as Halley’s comet.
“Oh, well now, look at you. You’re a tall drink of water, aren’t you?” The woman tilted back her head. “Y’all getting married?” She glanced at her clipboard. “Do you want the quickie or the longie? Quickie includes—”
“No,” we responded simultaneously.
“No what? No quickie? The longie is much more expensive because the King performs two songs for you, one of them couple’s choice. Tipping is optional.”
“We’re not getting married. Just here to see,” Oliver coughed, “the so-called King.”
I glared at him. “Can’t you just play along? Do you have to ruin everything?”
“I’m sorry if I have trouble calling a man in black pleather the name that belongs to one of the greatest artists this country has ever seen.”
A huge guy wearing leather overalls sans shirt and what appeared to be a full set of brass knuckles stepped out of the line to eye Oliver. “You got a problem, son? This is supposed to be a happy place,” he added in a growl.
Oliver held up his hands, palms out. “No problems here. What you people do for entertainment is your business.”
That didn’t seem to placate the man, and he stepped forward. “That so? How you feel about me entertaining myself by putting my hands around—”
“Hey there, mister.” The turquoise-haired lady smacked the man in the gut with her clipboard. “Back in line or you lose your place. We don’t tolerate no riffraff here.”
