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“All right, let’s get this done.” The gruff voice of a man who is done with life and has been smoking a pack a day for twenty years scares us, and we jump apart, panting. Both of us hard as fuck, and my shorts offer no protection. I turn my back and tuck my dick into my waistband while Paul pulls his hoodie down farther.
“Up at the altar. Come on, boys.” He waves toward the front of the room where there’s a raised step and an arch with very fake, old flowers I think are supposed to be roses. Maybe. And white Christmas lights, to give it that romantic vibe. I think.
It doesn’t matter. It’s terrible, and I love it.
There are old church pews in the audience, and as I walk past, there are some suspicious stains on some of them. I guess we aren’t the only ones who got a little carried away in here. I try to hide my laugh at the idea but end up snorting into my hand, and my body shakes.
Paul turns a very confused face to me. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he whispers.
“Pretty sure there’s cum stains on those benches,” I say out of the corner of my mouth as we take our spots on the floor that have been worn away from all the people who have stood here before us. Paul’s face twists into disgust, and he eyes the benches in question like they’ve personally offended him.
The door opens again, and a woman dressed very similar to Ashley strides in. It’s honestly impressive that they can walk in those shoes. I would probably fall and break my nose or something.
She takes the papers from Paul, and our officiant, who looks nothing like Elvis, sighs and starts the vows while Paul takes both my hands in his.
“Do you take, uh . . .” He trails off, and the woman says “Paul” from the front pew.
“Right, Paul. Do you take Paul to be your husband, to have and to hold, through sickness and health, good times and bad, forever and ever, amen?”
“Amen,” I say on instinct, and Paul laughs. “Wait, yes. Shit. I do.”
He chuckles, and the officiant starts again.
“And do you take—”
“Brandon,” the woman says.
“Brendon,” Paul corrects.
“Brendon to be your husband to have and to hold, through sickness and health, good times and bad, forever and ever, amen?”
“I do.” Paul’s eyes are locked on mine as he says the words, and my smile is so big my fucking cheeks hurt.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss your husband.” The man could not sound any more bored, but I don’t give a shit. Paul is mine. Legally. Officially. No one can take him from me.
I jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, and kiss the fuck out of him.
“You’re mine,” he says quietly against my lips.
“Forever and ever, amen.” I beam at him.
“Sign here, please.” The woman’s no-nonsense words break into our bubble, and I drop my feet to the floor. Paul takes the pen and signs, then hands it to me to do the same.
“Smile.” She lifts one of those old Polaroid cameras that spits out the picture at the bottom, and we stand next to the worst Elvis impersonator on Earth but with the biggest grins on our faces.
She takes the picture and hands it to us with our temporary certificate.
23
Paul
I’mgiddy.
I’ve never associated that word with myself before and it’s . . . amazing. I’mmarried.Brendon is officially mine, and I want everyone in the entire world to know. Right. Now.
We’re walking down the street, Brendon talking a mile a minute in his excitement, but I can’t take my eyes off the Polaroid picture we were handed. The happiness on myhusband’sface.
A grin takes over my own face, and I grab a fistful of his shirt, shoving him back against the wall of whatever building we’re standing next to, and plant my lips on his. It doesn’t matter that we’re in public and anyone could see us. I don’t know how close we are to the hotel and to our teammates. In this moment, I need him, and I will not wait another second.
