The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(26)

Married. To someone I hardly know and who just so happened to make a pact with me that ended in us saying “I do” in front of a drag queen Marilyn Monroe.

And all of that doesn’t even consider the fact that we had the hottest sex of my life before parting ways.

I let out a sigh. Nope, not going there. No way in hell am I going to step foot in that minefield of sexual confusion.

Because, technically, I’m still illegally living and working in the United States, and correcting the type of problem that involves Uncle Sam definitely takes priority over the Flynn-inspired charley horse in my vagina.

There’s no time for excuses or procrastination. I have to do what I need to do to rectify my expired-visa situation, and I have to do it now—even if it has nothing to do with what I should be doing on a Tuesday in the middle of my workday.

Somehow, I’m going to have to pull a rabbit out of my hat and fit in my actual work to-do list, which is a mile long, at the very end of the day. It’ll be tough, but I’d look like shit in an orange jumpsuit and I’m certainly not photogenic enough to make a mugshot look good, so there’s really no other option.

Goodness, what has your life come to that prison is a potential outcome?

The mere idea of living a real-life Orange is the New Black situation urges my lungs to seize and short pants of air to burst out of my throat. Mentally, I feel as if I’m holding myself together by one single, already-shredded thread.

Knowing I need to talk to someone before it severs entirely, anyone who might be able to rationally talk me off this ledge, I grab my cell phone and call the one and only person who could fulfill that role—Gwen.

It rings four times before the line clicks open.

“Daisy!”

Oh, thank goodness. Relief fills my chest, but that’s quickly squashed when static hovers over the rest of her words.

“Darling! I’m…you…call…”

I squint and hold the phone as close to my ear as physically possible. “Where are you? I can hardly hear you.”

“…here…I…trip…it’s…”

“What?”

“I said…”

And then, nothing.

A few seconds later, the line clicks dead. Immediately, I try to call her back, but it goes straight to voice mail.

Well, shit. This certainly isn’t helping me work through my existential, I-got-married-for-a-green-card crisis. I try to call her back another three times, but eventually, I give up when a text message from an unknown number chimes through on my phone.

Unknown: Daisy, darling, it’s Gwen. My phone isn’t working on the boat. I think we’re too far out to sea for me to get service.

Too far out to sea? What the heck is she talking about?

Me: Huh? Where are you?

Unknown: Me and the girls found a half-off Groupon for an Alaskan cruise.

Me: You’re on a flipping discount cruise right now?

Unknown: Don’t worry, darling. It’s a Norwegian.

Like that’s supposed to make me feel better?

Unknown: I’ll be back in two weeks.

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

Unknown: Is everything okay?

Um, no. Everything is not okay, but there’s no way I’m going to unload all my drama on her while she’s supposed to be enjoying a cruise with her friends. And I’m certainly not going to do it via text message.

Truthfully, this is all so crazy that I don’t even know what her reaction will be, but it looks like I’m going to have to wait to find out.

Me: Everything is fine. Have fun and be safe! Love you.

Unknown: Love you too, Daisy.

On a sigh, I set my phone back down on my desk and try to get back to finishing up what I’ve spent the majority of my workday on—getting a damn green card.

Let me tell you, the application process to obtain a green card through marrying a United States citizen is anything but the simplistic process I imagined it to be. Several forms, over fifty pages of information to read through, and a bunch of other shit that my brain is having a hard time comprehending are what I’ve been sorting through since I sat down at my desk in my small office inside the EllisGrey downtown LA building.

Just…forget everything else and focus. The sooner this gets done, the sooner your life won’t feel like such a clusterfuck.

As I scroll through the mostly filled-out application I downloaded onto my laptop, I try to pinpoint the areas of weakness. Apparently, when you want to obtain a green card, they want to know everything they possibly can about you. It’s all understandable, but it’s nerve-racking as hell when you’re doing it under the pretense otherwise known as my-marriage-is-an-immigration-fraud.

Racing heart. Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Is this what criminals feel like?

Pretty sure, legally, once you send in this application, you are a criminal…

Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is why criminals have to find a way to remove their conscience. I roll my eyes at myself, ignore all the red flags my yet-to-flee inner voice is throwing my way, and refocus my attention on the application.





Part 1: Information About You


I scan the long section closely and verify that I’ve dotted all my i’s and crossed all my t’s. It’s pretty standard stuff, and I take heart in the fact that it doesn’t require even a single lie.