Page 31 of Breakaway Bet

“Let’s do it!” Ivy cheers.

If I weren't a half a bottle of Don Julio into this night, I might even have enough sense to stop this freight train. But I am, and ever since I moved to Vegas, I have to admit I’ve been curious how quickie Vegas weddings work.

They won’t let you get married drunk, right?

Apparently…wrong.

I’m so buzzed that we breeze right through the marriage license bureau, and less than a half hour after she had to pick between marrying West or me, we’re standing at the Little Chapel of Love and taking each other’s hands as we stare into each other’s eyes.

She’s in that white dress with those beady things on only one arm. I’m going to fuck her right out of that dress by morning.

My wife.

I say, “I do.”

She says, “I do.”

Someone snaps some pictures.

You know how time flies when you’re having fun?

It flies, but somehow it’s also moving in slow motion, like I’m having some sort of out-of-body experience.

I barely remember the wedding, and suddenly we’re at the reception.

West gets us another bottle of Don Julio at another club not far from the chapel. We dance with our best man and maid of honor.

We’re laughing. It’s all some big joke. It’s not real. This is Vegas. I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating at least some of the night. Maybe it’s a dream. We’re drunk. Wasted. All four of us.

So drunk, in fact, that by the time I get my wife back to my place, along with Ashley and West, since we’re all in a car together, there’s not much more I can do than carry her over the threshold and up the stairs to my bedroom, where we both promptly pass out before we even get the chance to consummate our vows.

CHAPTER 12: Cash Maddox

Did We Have Sex

BRRN-BRRN-BRRN-BRRN-BRRN!

I don’t know how to explain the obnoxious sound of the alarm ringing in my bedroom, but it sounds like one of those warehouse alarms meant to scare off intruders or something.

I bolt straight upright when it pulls me from the clutches of sleep.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck. I drank way too much last night.

What the hell is that racket?

It’s killing my head. It’s making my stomach roll.

It’s making me want to fucking break whatever device is causing it.

I’m slamming my hand against my nightstand, trying to make it stop, trying to locate my phone, but I don’t know if my phone actually makes that sound.

Is it an alarm on my house I’m not aware of? Maybe it’s some kind of house alarm that was tripped.

I finally locate my phone.

The room-darkening blinds are doing a hell of a job this morning, and I feel the bed move beside me, followed by a moan. It’s not a moan, like sexually. It’s really more of a grunt of pain with a bit of a groan mixed in.