It all used to look so badass when he was younger. I could remember thinking he was just so cool. He’d flitted in and out of my life, and he always had some magical excuse for it. He was like a superhero to me then.
But now I was grown-up, and Dizzy was just ridiculous.
This was an extremely wealthy man who’d never treated his own daughter with much respect, forget about genuine affection or love. And now he was alone, clinging so desperately to his stoned-out youth that he was screwing chicks who were younger than his daughter and probably had daddy issues of their own.
I just hoped this one was legal.
Shit.
Was Zane gonna end up just like my dad in thirty years?
Didn’t matter, I realized. I wasn’t going to be married to him that long.
I wasn’t going to be married to him at all.
Sure, I’d said my vows and signed the papers and went through the motions. I’d “married” Zane in a super tacky all-night wedding chapel in Las Vegas, in front of my dad and some girl named Maxxi. Yeah, that’s with two x’s. She spelled it for me.
It couldn’t have been any more ridiculous, but apparently Dizzy had bought it. Big time.
Other than Zane being pretty sweet about the whole thing, it was kind of humiliating. I just couldn’t decide if it was more humiliating for me or for my dad.
Zane’s hand dropped to my ass and he gave my cheek a squeeze. He’d done that about ten times since we’d arrived. I didn’t mind. It was pathetic to me, and incredibly hurtful, that my dad thought more of the man I was marrying than he did of me, and his comments in the hotel bar tonight still stung. If this was what it took for him to finally dredge up a modicum of respect for me, then so be it. I wanted him to see my new husband all over me, and for his part, Zane was taking every advantage of the opportunity.
“Get your sweet ass in the limo, wife,” he said, his smoky voice all kinds of suggestive. Then he nipped my neck with his teeth. “It’s time to celebrate.”
“We are not celebrating,” I said coolly, trying to stave off the shiver that pricked its way down my spine. Zane’s idea of “celebrating” was bound to involve his dick in my pussy, and despite the fact that I’d been glued to his side for the last hour, I was not down with that.
I was way too sober—not to mention sane—to be down with that.
“Fucking right, we are,” he murmured, and this time he nibbled on my ear, just scraping his teeth lightly over the curve of the lobe. And damn, I couldn’t keep still. I squirmed a little as I shivered again, pretending to be cold as I burrowed deeper into his arms.
“No,” I said into his shirt. I was putting my foot down on this. No fucking way were we “celebrating” this craziness. I just wanted this whole thing over with.
“C’mon, Maggie.” Zane gripped my head and tilted my face up. “We just got married and I wanna go shake it up before you pop my cherry,” he whispered, his lips hovering so close they brushed against mine. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it low-key.”
Right. Low-key.
And popping his cherry? Pretty sure some other woman had that honor, many, many years ago… his high school music teacher, if I remembered the story correctly.
No one was popping anything tonight, except maybe a couple of Advil before passing out.
“No, Zane,” I whispered back, my voice firm. “Let’s just go back to the hotel.” I only heard how it sounded once the words were out.
Zane didn’t miss it.
“Straight to bed, huh?” He cocked his pierced eyebrow at me, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “That’s cool. We can do that instead, if you’d rather—”
“Forget it,” I cut him off, untangling myself from his arms. “Let’s go shake it,” I announced, loudly enough for everyone to hear, as my dad and his date headed over to us.
Maxxi whooped excitedly. My dad smacked her ass and I followed them into the limo, tugging Zane along behind me as Flynn brought up the rear.
Dizzy was already opening a bottle of champagne that he’d produced from somewhere as I settled into my seat with a sigh… and pasted on my most dazzling newlywed smile.
So much for putting my foot down.
When we arrived back at the hotel almost four hours later, my head was still ringing from the music in the all-night karaoke bar that was the last stop on our whirlwind tour of late-night Vegas.
It was Zane who’d insisted on the karaoke. He’d been going on about popping cherries again while we perused the song selection, and when I realized he was planning to serenade me, I’d hissed at him, “Don’t you dare sing ‘White Wedding’!”
Then my dad piped up, telling Zane with a heavy slur that he should sing “Dirty Like Us,” and I wasn’t even sure if it was an actual mistake that he got the name of Dirty’s most famous song wrong, or if he was just being an asshole getting it wrong on purpose, but neither Zane nor I bothered to correct him. I did slap my hand down over the Dirty songs on offer though, including “Dirty Like Me,” since it would give him away in a dead second if Zane decided to saunter on stage and start singing that panty-wetting, now-classic rock anthem of love, hate, and soul-sucking heartbreak. “And no Dirty!” I ordered.
Instead, my wiseass “husband” chose another Billy Idol classic, “Rebel Yell.” Which he sang arguably better than Mr. Idol himself, and holy fucking shit, who knew that
