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“But…”
“Stop stammering,” she scolds. “It’s very unbecoming. You should be happy you’re having an arranged marriage because what husband would take you if they knew you had such diarrhea of the mouth? Chop chop, Amy. I’m already dressed, and your father’s waiting downstairs. We need to go.”
Sure enough, Amity’s clad in a pink Chanel skirt and blazer set, with a big pearl CC broach pinned to her lapel. The rosy color sets off her fair skin, and somehow makes her red hair look even more beautiful, instead of clashing with its fiery tones. I scrunch the silk fabric of my gown with one fist, still shocked at this turn of events. Amity merely looks back at me, her blue eyes calm, as if nothing’s wrong.
“Are you going to get dressed or am I going to have to do it for you? You’re not a Barbie doll, Amy, nor a child. Surely, getting dressed should be doable?”
I jump into motion because I don’t want my mom touching me. Quickly, I slide out of my sleep set and into the pink dress. It’s tight across the bust, and the bodice hugs my torso like a glove before flaring out in a giant cupcake shape. Who wears these things outside ofquinceañeras?I can’t believe this is happening and clench my fists with frustration.
“There. Happy?”
My mom scans my figure, her eyes critical.
“You right. You put on weight,” she concedes with a sigh. “Goodness, Amy. Why didn’t you use those Ozempic shots I got you? You know I had to beg my friend’s friend for a few syringes of that stuff.”
“Sorry, I didn’t have time to diet before the wedding,” I say in a stiff tone. “Because you know, I totally saw this coming.”
Amity shoots me a sharp look.
“Don’t you sass me, young lady. I didn’t ask for this. Now, button your lip and let’s go downstairs. Daddy’s waiting to drive us to the courthouse.”
Then, Amity spins around and leaves my bedroom, her heels clattering on the stairs outside. The silence is overwhelming and for a moment, I just stand there, caught in the middle of a nightmare. But then my mom’s voice comes floating up the stairs, piercing my reverie.
“Amy!” she yells. “Are you coming?”
That’s when I jolt into motion. What the hell is going on? Should I try to escape? Should I make like I’m going to get into the car, and then bolt? Surely, my parents can’t force me to get married, and to a stranger no less.
But as I make my way slowly down the stairs, hope begins to give way to despair. After all, I have no way of communicating with the man who stole my heart. Drake lives somewhere on a secret island in the middle of a no-name lake, and I don’t know how to find him. We never talked about staying in touch, and although he isn’t a dream … suddenly, he feels very much like one.
CHAPTER 13
Drake
Ihope Amy doesn’t kill me when she finds out. I’m standing at the head of the aisle as organ music fills the air, swelling to a grandiose level. We’re at City Hall, and for some reason, the St. George marriage bureau actually puts some effort into civil weddings. I was thinking it would be a clerk behind a desk asking us to repeat after him, but instead, there’s actually a special room for marriage ceremonies. It’s done up in fancy wood paneling, and there’s an altar, music, and even a vase of fresh flowers off to one side.
The officiant smiles at me. He’s an elderly dude, and it’s clear he’s done this a million times. Still, what he doesn’t realize is that the bride in question doesn’t know the identity of the man she’s about to marry. Literally, Amy has no idea. Sure, the curvy girl’s aware that she’s about to tie the knot, but towhomis the mystery.
After all, I lead a double life. Most of the men on Deux do. Yes, I’m a fisherman, but I’m also more than that. I own a fleet of ships that ply the Great Lakes for salable aquatic life. We harvest all types of seafood, from perch to bass to salmon to trout. There is no fish that’s too big or too small, and it’s a lifestyle that I appreciate complete with sun, sand, water, and hard work.
But yeah, there are frequent absences. I’m out on the boat a lot, and business can be cyclical at times, depending on sea levels, the temperature, spawning season, and of course, global warming. I disappear for long periods, and although I tell people it’s because of my job, it’s also because sometimes, I want to go out to Deux and relax.
After all, it’s not easy being a guy with double cocks. Our anatomy makes us the target of unwanted attention, and we’ve evolved a couple of ways to deal with it. One of them is male-only meetings on the island, kind of like the Bohemian Grove gatherings populated by presidents, Secretaries of State, senior media executives and other men of power. Except in our case, we’re united by a particular anatomical anomaly: double shafts that keep our women coming back for more.
Because it’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing because women love it. For the most part, ladies are shocked when they first see our anatomy, but then they can’t get enough. Soon, they’re begging to be double penetrated at all hours of the day and night, and baring their holes to us, pleading to be used like whores. They moan and whine and pant, flashing their big breasts and spreading their legs, hoping for a deep pounding courtesy of our special physique.
Even worse, we treat them as whores. Literally so. There’s a method to the madness at Deux because discretion is paramount. As a result, we’ve developed a system where a select group of women live at Deux, acting as our serving girls, wenches, and sexual playthings. They’re carefully recruited from the mainland, and asked to work at a “top secret” location for a period of months. I’m sure some of the ladies believed they were about to become mistresses to royalty, handsome billionaires, and titans of industry, and they wouldn’t be wrong. The men of Deux have achieved remarkable financial success, and we have our share ofWall Street Journalfront-pagers among us.
But I’m just a simple fisherman, is how I like to describe it. Of course, business is booming at Deux Fishing Co., but there’s no need for the world to know. In fact, I prefer it that way. I like being known as the reclusive owner of a Great Lakes fishing outfit, and strive to keep my name and face out of the papers.
So when Amity and Andrew Ryan told me about their daughter over lunch at the country club, an idea popped into my head. They spoke of an ugly red-headed girl who was working in fast food. The painted their only child as a complete loser whom no man would take. But the two are crafty. They mentioned that I was a bachelor, and hinted that she might be an easy lay. Andrew and Amity said that they would even pay me to marry their daughter.
I almost laughed my head off. Surely, no woman is that terrible? I’ve known some uglies in my life, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Still, Amity and Andrew were adamant. They’d pay me five hundred thousand dollars to marry their daughter, which I declined on the spot. That’s a lot of money, but I don’t need it. Deux Fishing is swimming in cash, and the money would be superfluous.
But an idea blossomed in my head. After all, a dummy wife could be useful in some ways. I’m not saying that she would be dumb, or stupid, or idiotic. I’m saying “dummy” as in she’d be a fake wife. She’d be someone that played the role of a wife, and nothing else. I’d never share her bed, nor share intimacies of any type. Instead, she’d be someone for me to squire about in my attempts to appear “normal.”
After all, society is prejudiced, even in this day and age. Dudes who stay bachelors forever are seen as odd, bizarre, and cantankerous. Seventy-year-old men who have never been married are associated with grimy trolls who never take showers, and who have hairs protruding from their nostrils. They have athlete’s foot and don’t get invited to parties, of any type whatsoever.
As a result, when my country club acquaintances suggested marriage to their daughter, a plan began to brew in my head. This “Amy” person could be useful. If she really was a troll, then I’d set her up at one of my houses. Heck, she could even be the lady of the manor, bossing around the staff while engaged in endless interior redecoration. God knows I’d never be home, and I’d only take her out on my arm if the occasion demanded it.
