Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

6 Years Ago

Las Vegas, NV

Is this what being drunk feels like? Exhilarating and terrifying and freeing, all at the same time?

Brock reaches across his body and intertwines the fingers of his left hand with mine, while his right arm circles my waist, anchoring me to his hip as we navigate through the small tables at the outdoor French bistro. I don’t think I’m swaying, exactly, but everything feels fuzzy and lovely, and it’s certainly easier to walk in a straight line when he’s helping me.

“Oh my God,” I gasp as I glance up at the lights of the Eiffel Tower sparkling above us. “We’re in Paris!” I’ve never left the country before, and I’m shocked and delighted that I’m in France and don’t even remember the trip here.

The smacking sound he makes when his lips land on my cheek is adorable. He can’t seem to keep his mouth off me, which is fine by me, because his kisses are a million times better than the drunk frat boys who are always trying to steal kisses at the MIT parties I’ve been to this year.

“We’re outside the Paris Hotel, not actually in Paris.” He says it with the same voice you’d use to tell a child they’re silly, and that has me in a fit of giggles.

I don’t know why everything is so funny, but I’m happy and I’m enjoying this feeling. It’s sort of a new one for me. Brock makes me happy. Well, Brock and whiskey sours and delicious French meals at an outdoor cafe under the Eiffel Tower, and some after-dinner drink with a name that had something to do with Paris and burning. Whatever it was, it was strong but delicious and went down easy—so easy that Brock had two.

“I’m pretty sure this actually is Paris,” I say, glancing from the outdoor bistro tables of the French cafe we’re walking through and back up to the Eiffel Tower.

“Sure thing,” he says and presses his lips to my temple as his fingers snake a figure-eight pattern over my hip bone.

His touch has my skin on fire, but, like, if fire was pleasant. It makes me glow. I’ve never felt like this before. Is this what I’ve been missing out on? Why was I holding out for Colt when there are so many other attractive guys out there?

Once we’re out of the cafe, he points out the Bellagio’s fountains across the street. They’re in the middle of their spectacular show, so we head over to watch them. Standing there with my back pressed up against his chest and his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, with the lights and the fountains and the music all coordinated, he leans his head down and says, “How about we go back to my room after this?”

My laugh is light and flirtatious, the alcohol pumping through my veins has me feeling warm and tingly. “Brock,” I say, nervousness creeping up on me. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”

I’ve never even done anything more than kiss a guy, and the thought that he expects more than that from me has me so nervous I could throw up.

“I wasn’t planning on getting much sleep.” His thumb runs back and forth over my wrist, and it’s sending sparks of desire through me. He might not be the man I’d envisioned losing my virginity to, but that man is currently fucking some random woman he’ll never see again in a Vegas hotel room. This man, however, has been nothing but sweet and attentive and wonderful to me all night.

I giggle as his lips trace a path up my neck and consider what it would be like to actually give myself over to him. Everything he’s doing—the way he touches me, the way his lips feel on my body—is amazing. Now, though, I’m suddenly feeling the effects of that after-dinner drink. The fountains in front of us look like a big moving blob of water, and the notes of the music blend together in a way that feels overwhelming.

I want to talk to Audrey. I want to ask her what I should do here. But knowing that she had a one-night stand last summer that resulted in pregnancy and her facing single motherhood when the baby is born, I already know what she’d say. I’m on the pill, though, and I can make sure he wears a condom too. Double protection. Still, accidents happen, and I don’t want to be a single mom. The only way to avoid that, though, is to wait until you’re married to have sex.

Yes! That’s it, my brain screams. Tell him you can’t have sex until you’re married.

When I say that, his chest shakes with a low chuckle. “Okay, let’s get married, then. We are in Vegas, after all.”

“I didn’t come to Vegas to get married.” I’m proud of myself for remembering this fact right now when everything is starting to feel fuzzy.

“Neither did I,” he says, then pulls my earlobe between his teeth. “But we’d be good together, don’t you think?” He takes one of his arms that was around my waist and moves it up, sliding his hand between his suit jacket that I’m wearing and my dress so that he can cup my breast in his hand. His thumb toys with my nipple in a way that has me instantly crossing my legs to relieve some of the pressure building there.

Right now I want to have sex with him. But I don’t want to be a single mom, either. Marriage is a good solution, my brain tells me, and in my drunken state, I don’t even think to question it.

“Okay,” I sigh, leaning the back of my head against his shoulder. “Let’s get married, then.”

He spins me around to face him and smacks a big, wet kiss on my lips. “Pretty sure I’m the luckiest guy in Vegas.”

“Because you’re going to hit the jackpot tonight?” In my mind, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever said, and I almost collapse into another fit of giggles.

He’s laughing right along with me, pulling me into his arms. “Exactly.” Then he flags down a taxi, and as we pile in, he asks, “Where’s the closest place to get married?”

“You have a marriage license already?” the guy asks.

Brock and I both let out big, drunk sighs. “Nope.”

“You’re in luck,” he says, “the Marriage License Bureau is open until midnight, so I can get you down there with just enough time to get your license, then bring you back to a chapel.”

Brock flashes his shiny, white grin at me, then says, “So we’re definitely doing this, right?”

When I nod in agreement, my head keeps bobbing up and down until I feel like I’m going to be sick. So I lean back against the headrest and crack the window open, breathing in the fresh air as we go speeding down The Strip.

“They’re not going to approve the license if you two are wasted,” the driver says.

“We’re not wasted, just tipsy. Right, babe?”

My eyes are closed, and it doesn’t really register that he’s talking to me, until he squeezes my thigh. “Right?”

“Yep, just tipsy,” I lie. “I’m tired, too.” The long day and night, combined with all the alcohol we’ve consumed, have me feeling like I want to lay my head in his lap and sleep.

“Alright, we’ll be at the bureau in five minutes,” the driver says. “You’ll need identification.”

“You’ve done this before, I take it?” Brock asks.

“Several times a night,” the guy responds.

My eyes stay closed as they chat, and it feels like only seconds later Brock is shaking me awake. “You sure about this?” he asks, pressing a kiss to my forehead in the sweetest, gentlest way.

“Positive.” In fact, this is probably the best idea I’ve ever had. Or ever agreed to? At this point, I’ve lost track of who suggested this in the first place.

My head pounds, the pain so intense I wake up wanting to cry. Everything aches. Do I have the flu? I had it once when I was twelve and it felt a lot like this—a lot like wanting to die. My stomach flips over in a way that has me thinking I’m going to vomit, but then it must flip back the right way because the feeling passes.

Where the hell am I? Everything feels like it’s moving. Maybe I’m on a boat?

I breathe through my nose because I think that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in pain? Why does everything hurt? I try to remember the last thing I was doing before I went to sleep, and that’s when it hits me: I’m in Paris! No, that doesn’t make sense; I can’t be in Paris. I was in Las Vegas yesterday. Yes . . . Vegas. The game. Dinner afterward. The casino. Brock flirting with me. Whiskey sours. Colt demanding I leave. The woman in the pink dress. My broken heart. The hotel room floor. Brock’s text.

I haven’t opened my eyes, but I can feel the tears leaking down my face. And the memories just keep coming.

The elevator ride down to the casino. Brock flirting with me, taking me to dinner. Candles and an outdoor bistro. The Eiffel Tower. And then it gets fuzzy . . .  A car ride somewhere? Paperwork? Elvis?

No, the last things don’t make sense. We were at dinner, we left, the Eiffel Tower was above us, then we walked across the street where there were lights and music and water.

I hear movement next to me, so I open my eyes. The stark morning light through the hotel room windows blinds me at first, and I squeeze my eyes shut again. Did I not pull the curtains shut last night? No, that can’t be right. Audrey was already back in the room asleep when I went out, and it was pitch black in there. She had to have pulled the curtains shut.

I crack my eyes open ever so slowly, trying to let myself adjust to the light. My head pounds harder, begging me to just go back to sleep. Anything to escape this pain.

My eyes are open probably halfway when the body in bed across from me comes into focus. Brock.

Fuck, what am I doing in bed with Brock Lester? We flirted, yes. We went out to dinner. But why am I in his hotel room, and not my own? I’m lying on my right side, so I reach out my left hand to nudge him awake. And just when my fingers poke his shoulder, that’s when I see it. Sitting prominently on my left ring finger, the stone catches the light, shooting rainbow daggers back into my eyes. I pull my arm back quickly, suddenly not wanting to wake him, but it’s too late.

He opens his eyes, takes one look at me, and says, “Why are you still here?”

Ouch. This is not the Brock I remember from last night—the one who flirted with me shamelessly, told me I was beautiful, kissed me like he meant it, and apparently . . . married me?

My jaw drops open in shock as I consider his question and this reality. He doesn’t remember that we’re married. Maybe we’re not? Maybe this ring is some sort of sick joke.

When I fail to respond, he says, “You were much more talkative, and prettier, when we were both drunk.”

I need to say something, but I’m at such a loss for words. I’ve never been spoken to like this before, so I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond. Is this what it’s always like “the morning after?”

Instead of saying anything, I hold up my left hand in front of his face.

“What the fuck?” he says, and as he goes to grab my hand for a closer inspection, we both notice the ring on his finger. His hand pauses midair, and he looks from it to me, then rolls on his back and groans out “Fuck!” at the top of his lungs. His fists are clenched and so are his teeth, and every muscle in his upper body flexes in rage. It’s enough to actually scare me out of my stupor.

I jump off the bed and hold my palm to my forehead, pressing to relieve some of the pressure, as I stare down at him. “What the hell was that, Brock?”

My eyes flick from him where he’s lying on the bed, to the hotel phone on the nightstand. Room 712. I still don’t know where I am, exactly, but at least I have a room number. And at least I’m fully clothed, unlike him. He’s in nothing but boxers, eyes transfixed on the ceiling.

“That was the sound of someone whose girlfriend is going to kill them.”

“You have a girlfriend? Seriously?” Of all the things I should be upset about right now, I choose to focus on this?

“Yeah.”

“Then what the fuck was last night?” I can feel the bile sloshing around in my stomach, threatening to come up at any minute as I continue to press on my forehead because it feels like if I don’t, my brain might explode.

He glances over at me like I’m trash that got stuck to the bottom of his shoe and ended up on his hotel room floor. “I was just trying to piss your brother off. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Piss Jameson off? Why?”

“None of your goddamn business, Jules.”

Who is this asshole, and how is he so entirely different from the man I was with last night? “So everything last night . . . it was all just an act? A lie?”

The bile sloshes around more, burning as it creeps up into my esophagus in waves that mimic the shame and anger flowing through me.

He looks toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of what I’m now noticing is a pretty nice suite—not the kind with a separate bedroom, but there’s a couch, chairs, and a table over in one corner of the spacious room, and a kitchen with an island and several chairs in the other corner.

Then he looks back at me, his eyes sweeping up and down my body. Given how hungover I am, I can imagine what I look like standing there in my sparkly dress from last night, my hair a mess, my makeup smeared from the tears.

“Honey,” he says, like I’m the most pitiful creature in the world, “guys like me don’t go for girls like you.”

I grab my phone off the nightstand, then sprint for what I hope is the bathroom door. Luckily, I guess right, and I shut and lock it behind me, then collapse, my knees crashing onto the tile floor as I lunge for the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach. It’s probably at least a half an hour before I stop retching, even though it’s been nothing but dry heaving for most of that time.

Brock hasn’t come to check on me, but I also appreciate that he’s not kicking me out of the room in my state. How sad is it that my standards are so low, I’m thankful my husband isn’t throwing me out into the hallway?

Finally, I open the map app on my phone and check to see where I am. Not in my own hotel, as it turns out. I try to stand, but my legs are shaking like crazy, and I collapse back onto the floor. I can’t ask Brock for help. I don’t even want to go out there and see him again, and I don’t really feel safe in his presence after the way he reacted to finding out we’re married.

Pulling out my phone, I text Jameson the hotel name and room number I noted on the phone earlier.

Jules

I need you to come get me.

I think about what Brock said about wanting to piss him off, and it makes me wonder what bad blood exists between them. Suddenly, I’m terrified that Jameson will kill him, and it’ll be my fault.

Jules

You should bring Colt with you.

Second only to Brock, Colt is the last person I want to see right now. But he’s generally level-headed and never gets truly upset about anything. More than once I’ve seen him calm my brother down.

Jameson

What the hell are you doing there? You’re supposed to be in your hotel room.

Jules

Well obviously I’m not. Just come get me and I’ll explain when you get here.

And then I set my phone on the floor and dry heave into the toilet a few more times. If this is what being hungover is like, why would anyone drink? It makes me think of all the mornings my dad was bleary-eyed but cracked a beer for breakfast anyway because he claimed it chased the hangover away.

That’s the model Dad set for us: alcohol and bad decisions.

I watched him go down a dark path. His heartbreak while my mom was dying led to heavier drinking, the drinking led to bad decisions that nearly bankrupted his company and broke our family apart, and the inability to control that drinking led to him walking away.

In retrospect, his leaving probably saved us. I don’t want to think about what Audrey’s and my life would have been like if he’d stayed. Jameson was a better father figure to us than our dad ever was.

And I don’t want to go down “Flynn Road,” as Dad calls it. It’s the same road his father walked before him, succumbing to alcoholism and a premature death from it. And it only took one night in Vegas, with too many drinks and a broken heart, to have me following in my father’s footsteps.

I will never be him. I won’t allow it.

I owe it to my family, and to myself, to be better than he was. It’s why I’ve been so damn careful. Until now.

The banging on the hotel room door starts a few minutes later. Or maybe I’ve dozed off with my head on my arms where they’re folded across the toilet seat? There are angry voices in the hallways outside the bathroom door, then Jameson knocks and says, “Jules, open the door.”

I push up to standing, holding on to the countertop for support as I walk to the door. And when it’s open, Colt’s standing there. Jameson’s behind him with one hand around Brock’s neck, while Brock holds his hands in the air, saying, “I swear I didn’t touch her, man.”

“Shit, Tink.” Colt’s words are a whisper as he reaches his hand out to me. And without thinking, I extend my left hand into his grip. He freezes when he sees the ring, then holds up my hand for Jameson and Brock to see. “What the fuck happened last night?”

And that’s when all hell breaks loose. Jameson’s got Brock on the floor before I can even blink, and Colt scoops me up, cradling me protectively in his arms as he stands in the doorway of the bathroom looking at the skirmish below. I wince when Jameson’s fist connects with Brock’s jaw, but Colt turns us toward the door. “Do you have everything?”

“My phone.” I nod my chin toward the bathroom where it sits on the countertop, and he reaches over to grab it with one hand while holding me to him with his other arm like I weigh nothing. “We’ll be outside.”

He flips the lock to the hotel room door, propping it open as we exit—I assume, in case he needs to get back in there to help my brother—but he doesn’t set me down in the hallway. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I never want to talk about this. In fact, promise me now that you’ll never bring it up again.”

I watch his throat bob and his lips twist together before he says, “This wasn’t your fault.”

“Promise me, Colt. We’re not talking about this now, nor ever again.”

He sighs, and it’s a deep movement that, from my vantage point in his arms, feels like it deflates him. “Okay, Tink. I promise.”