Good Time(19)

Three tequila…

“We are such a good idea,” I tell Vince.

“Are we?”

“The best idea ever.”

“Hmm,” he hums against my neck because he’s sucking my earlobe into his mouth. Praise Jesus.

“You know what we could do?” I ask.

“What’s that?”

“We could make out behind that pinball machine.” We’re in an arcade because, well, because it’s here and who doesn’t love an arcade? Also because option A was ziplining and none of the guys wanted to zipline.

Confession: I knew they wouldn’t want to, which is why I paired it with the arcade. I have a real weakness for Skee-Ball.

“I don’t think that would work.”

“Why not?”

“Because the pinball machine is not an invisibility cloak and public fornication is illegal in Las Vegas.”

“Oh, my God. You’re a dirty talker! This is so much more than I deserve. Say fornication again.”



Four…

“A or B,” I announce for at least the tenth time tonight, flinging my arm wide. The foot-tall slushy I’m holding would likely slosh over the side if I hadn’t already drunk half of it. Slosh, such a good word. “We still haven’t found a tiger.” I look up and down Fremont Street with sadness. Not a tiger in sight.

“I don’t think a tiger was a reasonable goal for the night, sweets,” Vince comments from beside me.

“No one gets to tell me how big my dreams can be, Vince.” I heard that advice during my life coaching session. Now seems like the perfect time to implement it.

“Fair enough,” he agrees.

“I’ll get one tattooed on my ass. That’ll count.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I knew you liked my ass. I knew it! Just so you know, I’m not opposed to butt stuff.”

“You mentioned that an hour ago.”

“I did? Oh.”

“What’s the B, Payton?” Vince smirks like he’s so smart. Like a simple A or B option is going to lure me away from my tiger goal. “If A is you getting a tiger tattooed on your ass, what’s option B?”

“Getting married.” God, he thinks he’s so smart—well, take that, Mr. Smarty Pants.

“Seems like a clear choice then, doesn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” I think I’ll get something tasteful, like a tiger holding a shot glass. Something to remember the night by.

“B it is.”

You know what they say about Vegas, right? Don’t ask, don’t tell?

Just kidding.

I’m going to tell you everything.

Just give me a moment. And an aspirin.





Chapter Eleven





Oh, God.

Okay, give me a second. I’ve got this—of course I do. I’m not an amateur for crying out loud, I can hold my liquor. By which I mean I wasn’t that drunk. By which I mean I didn’t black out. By which I mean I remember enough to know exactly how I ended up in the honeymoon suite of the Windsor hotel.

The details might be a little fuzzy, sure. But fuzzy doesn’t mean you don’t remember, it just means the details made more sense as they were happening than they make the next day, that’s all.

I’m married. To Vince. That part would be crystal clear even if there wasn’t a shiny gold band on my finger to remind me. I remember most of it, in a fuzzy way. I’m positive it made more sense last night, but tequila will do that to you.

Canon was my maid of honor. That part is a bit hazy, but I do remember him yelling “Shotgun, maid of honor!” as if he was calling dibs on sitting in the front seat of a car. Then he put himself in charge of the photos and insisted on comping us a stay in this honeymoon suite. And he was really into that something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue bullshit, but I can’t quite remember the details.

Wait, it’s the suite. He said it was new because no one had actually stayed in it yet. And borrowed because he was comping it. He said the something old was Vince. What in the hell was the something blue though? Wait—it’s the shower. All the suites in this hotel have blue tile in the bathrooms. I groan as softly as possible in order not to wake Vince as I slap a hand over my eyes.

That freaking shower. I don’t think I’ll be able to shower again without being turned on. Ever. I’ll probably have to allocate time to rubbing one out every time I take a shower for the rest of my life, as I’ve now been conditioned to equating showering with seeing Vince naked. Naked and wet and sudsy and generous with his tongue.

By generous I mean talented and possibly in possession of magical abilities.

Scientists will tell you that it takes twenty-one days to form a habit, but no scientist has ever had Vince’s tongue on their clit so I don’t think they have a clue about how fast habits can form, because oh, sweet holy Jesus, trust me when I tell you that you’d only need one night with Vince’s tongue to want it habitually. Though now that I think about it I learned that twenty-one days thing from a Facebook post so it’s likely not even true. Vince’s tongue is verified true, I can promise you that.

It was a really great night.

A perfect night.