Chapter Five
PIKE
“Fucking . . . hell,” I say as I roll my suitcase through McCarran Airport.
How I remembered to set an alarm for myself, I have no idea.
How I remembered I was even human this morning—an even better question, because when the piercing sound of my alarm woke me, I almost threw up from the pain and uneasiness in my gut.
Too much to drink.
Way too fucking much to drink.
And I can’t for the life of me remember why.
Instead of trying to figure it all out, I took a quick shower, brushed the fuck out of my teeth, and then bolted to a cab so I wouldn’t miss my flight. I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of Vegas and back to Chicago where I could resume my peaceful life.
Now that I’m at the airport, the sounds and the lights feel as if they’re inches from my face, blasting, shining so brightly that I can barely see.
Jesus, when was the last time I drank that much?
Probably six months ago, the night Pa told me I needed to marry Iris to help the family business, because I actually thought that was going to be my life. That was until Killian convinced me to break up with her and to live my own damn life, not live the one Pa expected. It’s how Killian lives daily, and that next morning, I decided to do the same.
Getting wasted in Vegas was not part of the “live my own damn life” plan though.
I feel like absolute piss.
Needing something for my rolling stomach, I get in line at Starbucks—an egg sandwich is all I want from this establishment, as they don’t know how to properly make tea—and I pull my mobile from my pocket, checking it for the first time since I turned off my alarm.
That’s when I see three unread text messages.
One is from a number I don’t know, and two are from Killian.
Hell, what kind of groveling is he up to now? I’m still fucking furious that I saw Pa at the tournament. “You’re staying in different hotels, running in different circles, teeing off at different tee times. There’s no chance. Just go in there, get the money, and then go home. Simple.” Simple, my arse. I read his texts first.
Killian: YOU MARRIED THE PROSTITUTE?
Killian: I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU.
What?
I blink a few times.
Did I read that right?
Married a prostitute?
Did he get drunk too?
I text him back.
Pike: What the hell are you talking about?
I shuffle forward with the line. Killian is quick to respond.
Killian: Please tell me you remember what you did last night.
A light sheen of sweat breaks out on the back of my neck as I take another step forward.
Pike: Uh . . . not really.
Instantly, my mobile rings. I don’t even have to look at the screen to know who it is.
“Hey,” I answer, defeated.
“Pike, please . . . please, for the love of God, tell me you remember what happened last night.”
I wince. “Why don’t you give me a hint and I’ll tell you if I remember or not.”
“Jesus . . . fucking . . . Christ. Does this jog your memory?”
My mobile buzzes and I pull it away from my ear to see a text from Killian. It’s a picture, and when I click on it, it’s like a wave of memories hitting me all at once.
Coraline Turner.
An emerald-green dress.
Tequila shots.
Poker.
Fireball.
Pretzels on a Ferris wheel.
Bitching on a tour bus.
A mouthy gondola ride.
And . . .
“Oh fuck,” I whisper.
“Please, Pike. Please tell me that’s not a bad oh fuck. Please tell me that’s the kind of oh fuck you laugh about. The kind where we share over a pint as a good story.”
“Well . . . it is a story.”
“Fuck,” he says in defeat. “So, what you’re telling me is that you got married last night to a prostitute?”
“What? No.”
“Oh,” Killian says with hope in his voice and then a dry chuckle. “Christ, mate. You gave me a heart attack. I thought you got married—”
“I did,” I say, the words feeling like dust on my tongue. “I got, uh . . . married.” I take a step up to the counter and tell Killian, “Hold on, putting in an order.” I quickly order an egg, ham, and cheese sandwich and also throw in a bottle of water. After paying for my breakfast, I step off to the side and say, “I’m back.”
“You’re back . . . that’s all you’re going to say? You’re back?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” I scoot my suitcase to the side so it’s out of the way. “I can barely comprehend it myself. Wait, how did you find out?”