State of union, p.8
State of Union, page 8
“Don’t you have some debutante named Buffy willing to marry you?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee. Her blue eyes peer over the cup at me waiting for a response. I can’t help but chuckle at her question.
“That’s not what I want.” I level my eyes on her.
She shakes her head in disgust. “I don’t even like you.”
“Even better. I don’t need a romantic entanglement,” I tell her. “Love has a way of complicating things. Don’t you think?” I notice as she swallows hard and makes a noise deep in her throat as if she’s agreeing with me.
“You’re a professional,” I clarify, grabbing a toothpick from the container at the end of the table. Rolling it around on my tongue, I ask, “Are you not?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back.
“This is the contract.” I drop my eyes to the paper in front of her. “One million dollars to be my wife.”
Her pale blue eyes widen, the black iris’s turning to pins as she stares at me in disbelief. I don’t think she took me seriously when I’d asked her outside the bar last night but she’s taking me seriously now. Looking down at the contract, she pulls it towards her and I watch as her eyes scan the document. I wish I knew what she was thinking at this moment and wondering if she knows that she’s my only salvation. I was serious when I said I don’t need romantic entanglements. This arrangement is a means to an end, to get my money, and move on with my life.
“For how long?”
“For it to be legitimate - one year.”
“And this marriage,” she says with trepidation. “Would include,” she pauses as if she’s trying to find the right words. “Everything?” she asks.
I cock an eyebrow, my eyes settling on her perfect pink lips and I wonder if they feel as soft as they look.
Smiling, I settle back in my chair. “You fuck men for money,” I say crassly but she doesn’t blanch. “Would this be any different?” I ask and then add, “Who knows, you might even enjoy it.”
Her lips tug at the corner, the start of a smile that never quite reaches her eyes.
“You can have someone look at the contract before you sign, but it’s a win-win situation for both of us,” I start to say but she stops me, pushing the contract back across the table and my heart stops beating as I hold my breath.
Her eyes snap up to mine, the blue turning dark and angry.
“You made it almost impossible for me to say no,” she spits but I can’t help focusing on the ‘almost’ part which causes a nervous flutter to beat inside my chest.
“It’s the lawyer in me,” I say.
“The asshole part or the contingency part?” she asks and her brattiness makes me hard. If I could, I’d bend her over this table right now and show her exactly how much she would enjoy being my wife..
“Both.” I shrug.
“Two million,” she says, raising a challenging eyebrow.
We stare at each other like a game of who can blink first.
“You said it was for a year. Do you know how much I make in one night?” She asks, running her tongue along her bottom lip.
“And you’re worth every penny,” I groan thinking about the shower.
I look down at the whipped cream on top of her pancakes and then slowly move my eyes back to hers. “Are you not going to eat?” I ask, rubbing my chin. “All those poor hungry homeless people.”
A slow smile spreads on her lovely face as she dips her finger into the whipped cream, scooping up a large dollop and bringing it to her lips. Her tongue darts out pulling a small bit of the whipped cream on the end before sucking her whole finger into her mouth without breaking eye contact. So help me God my cock jumps in my pants, and a groan escapes my lips.
I pull a pen from the pocket of my jacket, scratch out the amount on the contract and write in the new figure. “I’ll have my lawyer make it official and we can iron out the details later.”
“You have a deal.” She licks the rest of the whipped cream from her lips.
As I look at her - young, pretty, and dangerous - I can’t help but think. “Did you know the downfall of every powerful man is a beautiful woman?” I ask.
She signs the contract with a ceremonial flick of her wrist and then sets the pen back down.
“You’re not a powerful man, Darren Walker,” she says, taking a bite of her pancakes. “Not yet.”
12
Evangeline
“You aren’t seriously doing this?” Cleo asks as she follows me into my bedroom where I grab my suitcase from the closet and throw it up on the bed.
“I have no choice,” I tell her while walking back into my closet and grabbing a few things. I wasn’t going to let Darren fucking Walker know that though.
“You have many choices,” she says angrily. Cleo may have brought me into this world but it was my choice. She made it clear from the beginning that all I had to do was walk away, that I had a choice to walk away but I couldn’t.
Now I don’t even have that.
“He took my choice away!” I raise my voice and slump onto the bed.
“So what?” She sits next to me on the bed. “You marry this guy, get your money, and then what?”
“Take my choice back,” I say, turning towards her.
Cleo gives me an understanding smile. She places a hand on my thigh. “Money means different things to different people. You,” she uses her finger to dig lightly into my thigh. “Never struck me as someone who put that much importance on it.”
Cleo is probably the only person that truly knows me and even she doesn’t know everything.
I laugh lightly, because she’s right but here I am taking two million dollars to marry a man for a year. I didn’t need that much. One million would have been fine but I wanted to make him pay for what he did.
“This guy could be a sadist or a psychopath.” Cleo stands up, throwing her arms in the air like a wild woman.
I think back to the alley, and all I saw was a vulnerable man who needed someone at one of the lowest points in his life - the way he placed his face against my neck, holding onto me as if I were a buoy in a rolling ocean. It doesn’t make him a good person, in fact he’s deplorable under the circumstances, but he’s not a psychopath.
“He’s an over privileged rich kid who needs a wife to get his inheritance,” I say absently, having already explained the terms to Cleo. She didn’t like it, still doesn’t but I think she’s more upset because I’m leaving. We’d been living together for a couple years now, and had gotten used to being in each other’s space. In her absence, I won’t have my anchor and maybe she’s worried about the same thing.
“I still can’t believe everything that’s happened. Darren Walker? I didn’t even know who he was until his parents were all over the news,” Cleo says as she sifts through my clothes trying her best to fold them while I make my way into the bathroom grabbing some necessities. “I don’t follow politics,” she adds.
I can’t help but laugh because most of our clients are politicians or men that have high stakes in what goes on in Washington. It’s a world of men with intentions that have nothing to do with what’s good for the world but only what’s good for their interests.
Darren Walker might not be a politician, but he’s a politician’s son. Whether his parents are gone is irrelevant because he’ll always be inexplicably entwined in a world full of war games and here I am walking willingly into the fire.
“I can pay for my half of the apartment for the rest of the year.” I walk back into the bedroom.
She waves me away. “I’m not worried about the money. I’m just worried about you.”
I place the little bag of necessities into my suitcase, tucking it in much longer than needed, smiling at how Cleo has folded my clothing neatly. “I can take care of myself,” I sigh.
Cleo grabs my hand. “I know you can, honey. I just wish for once, you didn’t have to.”
What she says hits harder than I expected and tears well in my eyes that I fight to blink away. I stay bent over the suitcase pretending to organize my clothes until the tears go away. I close the top and zip it up before swinging it off the bed. It’s very apparent that I don’t have a lot. Cleo was right, money never meant much to me. All of the expensive items I have, I’d received from clients. I left them for Cleo - the coveted Birkin bag I never used, the diamond tennis bracelet I never wore, and a pair of shoes that cost more than my rent.
I didn’t grow up with those things and I knew better than to get used to them. This kind of life is hand to mouth, and it could all be gone tomorrow.
I drag my suitcase into the living room and stand next to it when I ask, “What are you going to do?”
“Oh you know me,” she smiles. “I’ll figure something out.” She shrugs, causing her fluffy brown hair to bounce, making me giggle. Especially because she’s wearing a pair of unicorn pajamas.
I reach out and run a hand along her arm. I’ve never been an especially emotional person and definitely not a hugger even though Cleo is, but at this moment, I have an overwhelming need to hug her and hold on for as long as I can.
At the curb waits a black SUV, the windows tinted so dark I can’t see inside but I know it’s for me. No one in this building would be picked up by this kind of vehicle unless it had strobe lights and decorated with penises and the words ‘Fling Before the Ring’ written on the back window. A man dressed in a black suit exits the drivers side and opens the back door obviously knowing who I am. He takes the handle of my luggage and opens the trunk to place it inside.
“Congratulations Mrs. Walker,” he says with a smile and I’m about to correct him when I notice Darren sitting in the backseat with a drink in hand wearing a very nice suit. The white collared shirt is unbuttoned casually and his black jacket is opened at the waist revealing a trim waist with the shirt tucked in nicely. I had only seen him dirty jeans and wrinkled shirts, aside from the casual clothes he had on this morning at breakfast.
But a suit looks…I let that thought hang in the air unfinished.
“What are you wearing?” he asks, as I settle into my seat and the driver closes the door behind me.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask with an annoyed tone, wondering if he expected me to wear a dress but looking back at him in his neatly pressed suit, I’m guessing he was.
The car begins to move and I watch in the reflection of the window as my apartment shifts out of view.
“You can’t wear jeans to get married,” he scoffs, taking a sip of his drink. Nodding in the direction of the bar, he offers one to me but I decline.
“Does it matter?” I ask but Darren smiles, tossing the remaining finger of whiskey back and then sets the glass on the bar next to him.
“Of course it does.” He turns his attention to the driver.
“Bailey, we need to make a stop first,” he says then punches something in his phone that I presume are directions.
The SUV takes a turn and starts heading in the direction of the lights. Like a moth to a flame, the traffic converges on the strip and everything slows to a crawl. I stare out the window and watch as we move slowly past the hotels and all of the people crowding the streets. Vegas is always busy but once the sun goes down, it morphs into something different entirely, like a butterfly crawling out of its cocoon. My eyes begin to focus on the window and in the reflection I can see Darren staring at me, his hand rubbing at his jaw but then the car moves again and the image is replaced with lights from a nearby billboard.
Bailey pulls the SUV down a side street towards one of the hotels and stops at a portico. He gets out swiftly and pulls my door open before I can do it myself. I step out onto the sidewalk not really sure where we are or why but Darren rounds the car and stops at my side. Like a gentleman, he holds out his arm for me to take and I do.
As we walk into the Casino I look over my shoulder to see Bailey pull the car away. We walk past all of the poker tables and the chirping slot machines and into the heart of the casino where the lights are dimmed and roman statues line the walkway. When I look up, a replica of a fresco takes up the entirety of the ceiling. I’ve been here before with Cleo. We used to window shop when I first met her. That’s when everything was new and exciting but the shine of Vegas slowly rubbed off.
Along the walkway are designer shops with handbags and jewelry, art galleries and expensive restaurants. I stumble a little, not realizing Darren has stopped and when I look at the shop we’re standing in front of, my stomach drops.
“You can’t be serious?” I ask him as I look inside at all of the designer dresses.
It’s not that the shop is expensive, because I recognize the name, but it’s the type of dresses that give me pause. When I tilt my head to look at Darren, he has a smug look on his face.
“We’re getting married, Evangeline. You need a wedding dress, don’t you?” he says and I look back at the shop, lifting an eyebrow.
13
Darren
The best thing about Vegas is that nothing ever closes. Bailey pulls the SUV into the parking lot of the chapel, complete with a white steeple. When I look over at Evangeline, I can see she’s rolling her eyes at my choice of venues.
I shrug and say, “How many people can say they got married by Elvis?”
“Apparently over eight hundred thousand people.” She points to the sign bearing the same information.
I can’t help but chuckle and shake my head. Noticing the faint sound of laughter coming from Evangeline, it breaks a little bit of the tension in the car since we left the shop and I like the sound of it. She was quiet but didn’t protest while I had the saleswomen bring out dresses for her to try on. The look of utter annoyance at my choice of dresses made me laugh but settled on one that she didn’t completely hate, although I was enjoying the show.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t have just gotten married in the courthouse,” Evangeline protests, grabbing the filmy material of her dress as we prepare to get out.
“Where would be the fun in that?” I ask with a smirk.
While Bailey parks the car, a convertible pulls away from the drive through window honking its horn with the words Just Married written on the back in white shoe polish. We both turn our heads to watch the spectacle still hearing the honking and cheers long after it pulls out of the parking lot. Bailey opens the door on Evangeline’s side and helps her out. The trail of her white dress falls out of the car and onto the concrete like a waterfall. Her statuesque figure is perfect for the dress - forming to every delectable curve, and plunging to just the right spot that my eyes have trouble moving away so that we can go inside the chapel.
An elderly woman greets us at the small front desk area. “Walker wedding,” I say, and Evangline clears her throat while the woman slides across the sign in sheet.
“I have you down for the Elvis Tribute package,” she says kindly while smiling at us.
Evangeline grabs my arm. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she grumbles.
“What’s a Vegas wedding without Elvis?” I pull a sarcastic face.
“You can wait over there until the chapel is ready.” She motions to a seating area off to the side of the entrance.
I take Evangeline’s hand and lead her to the bench. In front of us are several doors which I presume lead to the different chapels. Wondering how many people are getting married at this late hour becomes evident when one of the doors bursts open and a couple, who appear to be drunk on love or just plain drunk, walk through, along with their wedding party. Music and loud voices fill the small waiting area.
Looking over at Evangeline, I notice how she crosses her legs demurely and the silk material of her dress falls away. I have no doubt she’s good at what she does and God help any man who tries to resist her.
I’m about to say something when the lady from the front desk grabs my attention.
“They’re ready for you now,” she says and ambles through the open door and into the chapel.
There are rows of empty seats on either side of the aisle and at the end is a man dressed like Elvis. Full on sequin jumpsuit, jet black hair coiffed perfectly, and large bejeweled sunglasses that cover his eyes. I glance over at Evangeline and her expression is enough to cause me to laugh at the absurdity. Here she is in a sleek designer wedding gown amidst this gaudy affair and it’s fucking perfect.
When Love Me Tender starts to play from the speakers in the corner of the chapel I swear I hear a little snort coming from her.
The front desk woman whose name I don’t know and don’t care to know gushes, “Ah, such a beautiful couple,” while she clasps her hands in front of her. I’m sure she says this to all the couples who come through here.
“Now I have to ask if both of you are willing participants,” she asks bluntly.
“Define willing?” Evangeline asks.
“I just have to make sure neither of you are drunk,” she clarifies.
Evangeline leans into me and says, “If she asks for a breathalizer you might be fucked.”
“We are not drunk,” I explain to the woman and she raises an eyebrow looking at us critically. “Would you like me to walk in a straight line?” I ask.
“That won’t be necessary,” she says sweetly. “If you’ll give me the marriage license I’ll make sure it gets signed prior to you leaving.”
I hand her the paper and fix my suit. Before the music fades we walk up to our officiator, Elvis, who tells us to take each other's hands and repeat after him. I can feel her hand shake slightly in mine and my eyes snap to hers. Her expression makes me think she’s cursing at me in her mind right now but I don’t give a fuck because as soon as Elvis signs our marriage certificate, we’re taking the first plane back to Washington D.C. so I can take back what’s mine.
But first, I have one stop in mind.
“You’re not going to be a runaway bride are you?” I tease.
She gives me a saccharine smile. “I have two million reasons not to, Darren,” she says in a cunning tone that causes my stomach to tighten.
