The whole bus erupts in hollers and oooo’s.
“Enjoying yourself?” I chuckle.
She nods, but I shake my head before I turn to my friends. Big mistake.
TJ’s clapping and laughing as Nate nods, his eyebrows raised, waiting for my answers. They’re enjoying this way too much.
“Well? Answer her,” is said from the back somewhere. I reach for her, ready to throw her over my shoulder and walk her back to my fucking penthouse, but she steps back, her ass hitting the window.
“You’re gonna get it,” I grind out, rubbing the stubble on my jaw because she’s cupping her hand around her ear like she can’t hear me. So I add, “You want epic? Fine, I’ll give you epic—”
But before I can finish, TJ steps up next to her, puts his hands on her waist, and looks up at her with puppy dog eyes as he says, “I’d give you a boombox in the window if you came home with me. We can bring back 1989, sweet thang. Fuck him. I make all the touchdowns anyway.”
Her mouth falls open like she’s shocked as she runs her fingers through his hair before looking back at me.
That motherfucker.
“I don’t know, Crew…TJ’s giving me movie reenactments. That’s a pretty amazing offer. How do I turn that down?”
I shove his shoulder, pushing him away from her, making them chuckle as I growl.
“Get the fuck off her. You can’t make a touchdown with a broken arm.”
But it doesn’t matter what I say to TJ because I’ve got two cockblockers. As I turn back to her, Nate’s already got her halfway down on his lap, saying he’d tattoo her name on his ass.
“Nope,” I grind out, wrapping an arm around her waist and hauling her away before I set her to her feet.
She plops down onto the seat across from them, so I trap her, my palms pressed against the seat on either side of her shoulders.
The smile she’s wearing is so big that it’s infectious, but I keep my face serious, leaning close enough so my tequila-laced words are only for her. But as I do, out of the corner of my eye, I see it—an epic once-in-a-lifetime motherfucking gauntlet to throw down.
Say no to this, Wild Card.
It could be the booze or the fact that she’s made me feral, but what comes out of my mouth surprises me as much as it does her.
“You want epic?” I pinch her chin between my fingers, guiding her face over her shoulder, making her twist to look out the window as I let my lips brush her ear and say two little words that detonate like a bomb.
“Marry me.”
Her head snaps back, almost smacking me in the nose, but I jerk up to standing, falling backward. Luckily, Nate’s hand steadies my back.
“What the hell. Are you crazy?” she rushes out.
TJ high-fives me, saying, “Badass,” before he looks out the window. “You think they got an Elvis suit I could wear?”
Nate laughs. “I wanna be the best man.”
But TJ points at him, saying, “Co…best man,” as Nate bends forward with his forearms on his knees, looking between Eleanor and me, completely entertained and invested.
She’s shaking her head, so I raise my brows in challenge. More seconds tick by without an answer, and now the bus is starting to throw out come on’s and do it.
Even her best friend, Millie, chimes in, “Married today, divorced tomorrow…that’s a conversation starter for sure, bitch.”
I bite my lip, squinting one eye, trying to focus my thoughts—What am I doing? That’s sober me. Who cares. Welcome back, drunk me.
“You wanted epic, right?” I press. “Here it is. Marry me. Then you’re mine. Win-win.”
She’s actually speechless. Just like the whole crew on the fucking bus. Everyone’s just staring at us, waiting for her answer. But she wanted to play this game, and I don’t lose. Even if I’m plastered. I look around the bus, smirking, my arms spread wide.
“Anyone want to try to beat that?” I shrug, boasting my win, “No? Cool.”
An incredulous huff that sounds a bit like a laugh leaves her body before she stands, stepping sideways just a little before she grabs my waist and stares up at me.
“Or are you full of shit?” I press. “Maybe you’re just one of those girls who’s all bark and no bite? Likes the chase but doesn’t wanna get caught.”
Her brows raise as she takes a step forward like a little badass, making the backs of my knees hit the seat so we’re forced to switch positions—now I’m sitting, and she’s trapping me in.
She licks her lips, and I don’t even pretend not to stare at her mouth.
“You think I won’t do it? Or that I’ll just cave and go home with you because you tried some wack-ass reverse psychology?” She laughs arrogantly, like she’s about to mic drop. “No. You’re full of shit. I’m a helluva poker player, Crew. And I’m calling your bluff. You want me, then dun-dun-duh-dunnn, playa.”
We’re staring at each other for what feels like forever. Yes, I threw down the gauntlet. But she’s also right. A part of me didn’t think she’d actually call my bluff. She winks, and that’s when the most dumbass decision I’ve ever made solidifies.
The bus kicks into action, rumbling back to start, so I turn my head, bellowing my words.
“Stop the bus. We’re getting married.”
five
“I’m pretty sure there’s still cum on my back from last night.”
eleanor
“Home sweet hepatitis,” I whisper to myself, walking the three steps from the curb to my motel door, avoiding the décor of cans and discarded strip club flyers in front of the building.
My hair’s hanging in my face, so I brush it away before digging into my purse for my key card. All the funny disposition I had before now vanished. Because the moment I hung up with my sister, the adrenaline from my walk of shame plummeted, and all I was left with was a hangover and the mystery filth coating my back.
A tired breath whooshes out as I shove the key card in, but it just beeps, and the little light goes from green to red. So, I jiggle the handle before trying again. But the same thing happens—green to red.
What the hell?
“Dude, I’m too tired for this shit,” I grumble, tilting my head back to the sky before I look back at the lock and try again…only to fucking fail.
“Fuck my life.”
On the upside, I’m staying in the shittiest motel in Vegas. This means I don’t have to walk down luxurious hallways or take gold elevators to the front desk. I can walk about twenty or so feet to the small coffin-sized lobby—that smells like hot dog water—where you can rent a room by the hour, day, or week.
A little bell dings as I open the lobby door, and I’m greeted by a middle-aged guy in a black soccer jersey sitting behind a counter.
He’s licking his fingers clean of whatever sauce is on his chicken wings. Eww, who eats wings at the crack of dawn? Eh, somehow, that seems on-brand for him.
Regardless, the smell makes my stomach gurgle.
He uses his shirt to wipe his licked hands as he lifts his chin to speak.
“Right. Room 17. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He’s got one of those Irish accents that’s hard to understand, like Brad Pitt in Snatched. Except he doesn’t look like Brad, and my attitude is the only snatch I’m introducing to him. I half roll my eyes, not at him, just over the moment as I answer.