The Rules of Dating(80)

The clerk frowned. “No, it’s not.”

I shoved my hands into my pants pockets. “Then let’s get this over with.”

The clerk looked between us. “Is there a problem?”

The alcohol had started to hit me, and that always brought out my sense of humor. At least, I thought so. I shrugged. “Nah, my religion just prohibits me from touching her before we’re married.” I snort-laughed again. “Too bad it doesn’t prohibit sleeping with strippers, huh, Father?”

“Umm…I’m not a priest. I’m a city employee, a clerk of the court.”

“I was wondering why you didn’t have one of those collars on. Those things are probably hot as balls in the summer, huh? Like wearing a turtleneck.”

Maya’s eyes drilled into me. “Why don’t we let the man do his job and marry us?” She plastered on a pageant-worthy smile and looked at the clerk. “He tells jokes when he’s nervous. I’m sorry.”

The clerk shrugged and went on with the ceremony. A whopping seven minutes later, he said, “Congratulations, you are now husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

A wave of nausea hit me, and I actually had to cover my mouth. “I don’t feel so good. Can we leave now?”

Maya offered the clerk an apologetic smile. “Bad sushi for lunch.”

The guy couldn’t care less. He just wanted us out of here before four. He stamped a bunch of papers and pointed to lines for each of us to sign before offering us a certificate. “Good luck. I think you might need it.”

I made it as far as the garbage can in the hall outside the clerk’s office before everything really did come up. I wasn’t sure if it was what I’d had to drink, or what I’d just done to my life. But my new bride didn’t seem to give a fuck.

She put her hands on her hips while my face was still hovering over the top of the garbage. “This behavior isn’t going to fly with the investigator, Colby. You’d better learn to act like I’m your loving wife.”

I spit the bad taste in my mouth into the garbage. “De Niro isn’t good enough to pull off that shit.”

Maya shook her head. “I’ll be in touch about prepping for the interview soon.”

I lifted my head. “Go fuck yourself.”

***

“What can I get you?” The bartender put a napkin out in front of me.

“Tequila.”

“A shot or a drink?”

“Both.”

“Any particular type of tequila?”

“Whatever.”

The guy shrugged. “Coming right up.”

A few minutes later, he came back and set down a shot glass, a whiskey glass filled with ice, some limes, and a can of Coke. He poured Don Julio from a bottle with a tapered spout. “This stuff is a little more expensive, but you’ll appreciate it the next day. I also brought you a choice of chasers. I don’t suggest chasing tequila with tequila.”

“Thanks.”

I knocked back the tequila shot and made a face that probably looked like I’d just sucked on a lemon.

The bartender snickered. “I thought so.”

“What?”

“This isn’t a regular thing for you, is it?”

“Definitely not.”

He leaned an elbow on the bar. “You want to talk about it?”

I looked him over. He was probably in his early sixties, wearing a tucked-in plaid shirt and a pair of jeans with a towel slung over his shoulder. “You married?”

He held up three fingers. “Third time’s a charm.”

It hit me for the first time that if I married Billie, she wouldn’t be my first wife. She’d always be number two, and she didn’t deserve anything but being a one and only.

I lifted the glass of tequila and sipped. “What happened to the first two?”

“I’ve been sober for six years. Can’t really tell you what went wrong the first couple times because I don’t remember most of those years. But I’m guessing it had something to do with me being a raging alcoholic. I’m not a happy drunk.”

“You’re in recovery and you work at a bar?”

“Own it. Not much else I know how to do except run a bar.”

I nodded.

The bartender held out his hand. “Name’s Stan Fumey. Nice to meet you.”

“Colby Lennon.” I shook.

“So what’s your story?” Stan asked. “Wife giving you a hard time so you’re in here trying to forget she exists?”

“Something like that…”

“How long you been married?”

“What time is it now?”

Stan looked over his shoulder at a Budweiser clock on the wall. “It’s just about five o’clock.”

I nodded. “About an hour then.”

His brows pulled together. “You’re shittin’ me.”

I sipped more tequila. “Wish I was. Got married at four o’clock.”

“Where’s your bride?”

“Getting run over by a bus, hopefully.”

The bartender chuckled. “I have two words of advice for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Walter Potter.”