Wait a minute.
Me: Are you seriously still in a group chat? Fucking traitors.
Mills: Duh, how else would I know how much I’m earning? He’s so funny too.
My eyes roll of their own volition. What is wrong with him? I can’t help but grin because, of course, he’s still in a group chat…with my people. There’s no point in making a bet unless you have someone to brag to about winning. And he really does think he’ll wear me down and get me screaming his name.
I’m enjoying the effort.
I wipe the dew from my freshly washed grapes on my shorts before texting her back.
Me: You better be more concerned with being nice to me. Or I’m going to throw this bet. Truth—my roster can be replenished. *salute emoji
Mills: Speaking of throwing it back, I feel like I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t state the obvious…
I laugh. That’s not even a good segue.
Me: And that is?
Mills: That having sex with someone in the form of a one-night stand is one thing, but living together…sleeping together… Do you see where I’m going with this?
I see and hear what she’s saying. And truth be told, I already gave myself the same gut check. Because the last few days have been weird. Almost kind of awkward. We basically fuck, he trains, we fuck again, and then stumble around conversations. It’s like we’re back at the beginning, sitting in my car, smiling at each other.
Which I guess is better than plotting murder scenarios, but still, it gave me pause.
But once I thought about it, Sunday was kind of a reset. As if everything we were pissed about got settled after he carried me upstairs and fucked my brains out. And now the dust has settled, and we’re just back to being two people who are attracted to each other while sentenced to marriage and allowed to do dirty shit to each other.
I chuckle as I type out my exact thought.
Me: Mills. I can like someone, even fuck them, and not fall in love. It’s called friends with bennies. C’mon. You know me. I tap out at the idea of catching feelings and he’s allergic to relationships. We’re good. Plus, I’m totally planning on fucking the friends again. Ha ha.
Mills: Rub it in, bitch. RUB IT IN.
Oh, I’m going to be rubbing something all right.
Mills: Oh…P.S.—4, 7, 22, 30
I frown, confused, holding my phone above my face as I whisper to myself, “What the fuck?”
Mills: Your horoscope says those are your lucky numbers. And that big life changes will alter the road to your happiness. Bet on red!
The sound of a duffel bag hitting the floor grabs my attention, making me drop my phone on my nose but immediately shoot to my knees on the couch, almost choking on a grape.
“Hey.”
Crew stretches his muscular arms, sweat still soaking his shirt.
“Fake honey, I’m home.”
I rub my nose as I smile back at him.
“We gotta go to the craps tables.”
He runs his hand through his hair, grinning before he chuckles. “What?” His expression drops as I raise my brows, so he adds, “Am I getting a choice?”
I shake my head, pushing off the couch.
“Duh…happy wife, happy life.” My shoulders pop in a quick shrug as I smile big, and my voice raises in celebratory cuteness. “Let’s go!”
“This is the worst game,” I groan, pouting and not even embarrassed about it.
“That’s because you lost all your money.”
He gently flicks my bottom lip as I swerve my head, scowling.
“Exactly.”
Crew laughs, shoving his hand into his pockets, and smiles down at me as I keep grumbling. It only took fifteen minutes for me to lose the hundred dollars I had.
I turn to him, ignoring the fact that people keep staring at us…really at him, only occasionally looking at me. Which is weird in itself because I know they know about my life, seeing as quite a few news stories have reported about our married-in-Vegas cliché.
However, considering how I look right now, it’s more likely that people are wondering why he’s with some girl who looks homeless. Jesus, if Sam doesn’t get my shit here sooner, I’ll be stuck rotating the same four outfits for the whole month. I had five, but a dress without buttons will not do.
“We can go,” I offer, turning away from the crappy table. “Clearly, Millie doesn’t know what she’s talking about…lucky numbers, my ass.”
My stomach growls, kicking me while I’m down, and he grins, motioning with his head for me to follow. I don’t ask where we’re going because I’m too irritated over losing my money until I see the entrance to the Mexican joint I saw on television on the channel that tells you all about what the hotel offers.
Shit’s getting dark in the entertain myself portion of life.
“Hungry?” he offers, still smirking.
I nod. “Always.”
“Tacos to the room?”
My shoulders do a little dance in answer as I wag my brows, even though I’m about to protest and say let’s eat down here since I spend almost all my time in the damn room.
“All my time” dramatically being three days, but still, it’s boring.
As I open my mouth, our path is suddenly co-opted and halted by a middle-aged dude in a button-up shirt with flamingos on it. He looks like he sells insurance.
He’s holding the hand of a woman with a gold band on her finger who looks mortified to be standing with him. And I’m certain it’s because the man is speaking a mile a minute, elated to be two feet away from “The Crew Matthews.”
Oh wow.
“You’re the GOAT.” The guy excitedly looks at his wife. “Babe, it’s Crew Matthews. He’s the fucking GOAT. Holy shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss in front of your wife. Congratulations, by the way.”
Crew slips his hand in mine, folding my arm behind me as he tucks me into his side. I blink, not stunned by the move but because this energy is a lot. I smile, knowing my eyes are open a bit wider than normal as I try to take it all in.
This is so strange. I mean, I know who Crew is and that he’s a big deal. But it’s bizarre to see the reality acted out live and in person. Because he’s still the same guy who argued the validity of me calling chicken wings “Buffalo wings” if they didn’t have sauce on them. Which is ridiculous.
“You can’t call them Buffalo wings if they don’t have sauce because that’s how they originated…with sauce, in Buffalo, New York. I thought you read books.”
I set my plate on the nightstand since we’re eating in bed.
“Listen. You better stop treating me like I’m Jessica Simpson and I don’t know the difference between tuna and chicken…of the sea… Circa 2003.”
Crew’s hand grips my thigh as he drags me across the bed toward him, making me laugh.
“Well, if the designer shoe fits, Wild Card. Because the only correct answer is you’re eating chicken wings, and I’m gonna eat pussy.”
My zone-out is interrupted as the guy hooks a thumb at his girl.
“We got married this weekend too. She finally talked me into it.” He laughs like we’re all supposed to, except nobody does, and somehow, that doesn’t stop this dude from talking. “I bet your wife didn’t have to talk you into anything though. She’s smoking hot.”