Page 9 of Vegas Love (Love 1)
"So, Mrs. Sexy--I assume you're taking my name, right?"
"Yes, of course," I reply.
He drags me into the bathroom. "After they deliver our champagne, we're going to get naked, get in this amazing tub, and toast to our good fortune. I'm going to fuck you in the bathtub and then I'm going to dry you off, lay you on this ottoman here, and eat your sweet pussy until you beg me to stop. Then I'm going to carry you over to the bed and fuck you silly."
"Sounds like you're taking your vows seriously, Mr. Sexy," I say, swooning in his arms.
"Oh, I am."
I wake up with a start, wondering where the hell I am.
A sexy, muscular arm is wrapped around me. It's attached to an equally sexy guy, who is sleeping soundly. I gently extricate myself from his arms, slide my legs out from where they are snugly tucked between his, and get up.
I find the dress I wore to the wedding balled up on the living room floor.
I slip it on--not bothering to look for my bra or underwear--grab my handbag and shoes, and silently sneak out.
When the door is safely shut behind me, I lean against it and whisper, "Bye, Sexy."
Hurts So Good
Ashlyn
I get a cab, go to the airport, fix my makeup and wig, and catch a quick flight to L.A.
When I'm safely back home, I strip everything off and hop in the shower. I'm in hangover hell, but my body hurts so good in all the right places.
I'm shampooing my hair when I notice something different.
I hold my left hand out in front of me and am shocked by the huge, gorgeous diamond ring on my finger. But then I relive the moment when those brown eyes gazed into mine as he said, I promise to make life fun, to help you live out your crazy dreams, and fuck you silly.
Visions of our hot sex, drunken laughter, club dancing, and wedding, plague me all day.
Much like my headache.
I stare at the ring. A ring like this had to cost a pretty penny. It can't be real.
But I remember him telling me that it was when he proposed.
He must have been lying.
I gaze into the sparkling facets. This is so my dream ring, but I know I have to give it back to him.
Especially if it's real.
I stop and think, wondering what he did when he woke up and realized I was gone.
Did he care?
Was he relieved?
Is it what he expected? I remember telling him quite a few times that it was a no-names night. Which, in retrospect, was pretty stupid of me. Because I know he knew who I was.
I guess if he wants the ring back, he can come find me, right?
Well, that should be my answer, but it's not.
I cannot stop thinking about him and wonder if he's as dreamy in real life as he seemed.
I've been pacing around, feeling unsettled. I have to find out if this ring is real. So after I order some Thai for delivery, I call my stylist, Zoey. She works with all the top jewelers for my red carpet events.
"Hey, Zoey, how are you?"
"I'm good. How are you, girl? I never would have thought that Luke would do something like that. His last album was a bit of a bust. Maybe he thought bad publicity is better than no publicity?"
"It was a shitty thing to do. My agent is working with a bunch of lawyers, trying to get it off the Internet, but I don't think it will ever go away."
"I saw the press release about you and Zach breaking up too. I'm sorry. Did you end up going to the wedding?"
"Get this--he broke up with me by press release at the wedding."
"That really sucks."
"Yeah, but looking back, I think all the amazing things he did for me were really to make him look romantic and dreamy to his fans. His tight family is very strategic when it comes to their image."
"So, do you need something amazing to be seen in?"
"I may never leave my house again," I chuckle. "Actually, I called you because I need a favor. I have this ring that I, um, found, and I need to determine if it's real. If it is--I um, really need to, like, find the owner. I thought you might know someone who could help me."
"You could just take it to the jewelry store tomorrow when they open."
"With the crazy paparazzi, I was hoping for something more discreet."
"Like a house call?"
"Yes. Exactly like a house call."
"Is there something you're not telling me?" she demands. "Did Zach secretly propose in Vegas last week before the news broke?"
"No, he didn't. I really just found this ring. Like I said."
"Fine. Then I'll get in touch with Tristan, my contact at the jewelers, and we'll meet you at your home in an hour. Will that work?"
"Yes, thanks, Zoey."
Now I'm sitting across the kitchen table from Tristan, watching him study the ring with a little scope attached to his finger.
"Definitely a diamond," he says. "Excellent quality. I'd estimate the value at around a quarter of a million."
"The fuck?!" I blurt out. Then I compose myself. "I mean, I'm sure whoever bought it--I mean, lost it--is freaking out."
"One would assume it's insured," he says. "But most rings have a sentimental value that insurance can't cover."
"Can you tell me anything else about it?"
"Well, yes, it was designed by Christophe Panelli and there is a serial number on it, so it will be easy to track down the owner. This brand is exclusive to a particular jeweler in Las Vegas. You can call their business office tomorrow morning."
"I'll do that," I say. "Thank you so much."
After Zoey lets Tristan out, she marches back into my kitchen. "Ashlyn, what aren't you telling me? Where did you find the ring?"
"At the airport," I lie, leading her to the door. "Thanks so much, Zoey. I'll let you know what I find out on Monday!"
I put the ring back on my finger, where it belongs, and wonder what it all means.
Dying Here
Ashlyn
I'm up bright and early Monday morning, pacing until I can call the jewelry store's business office at nine.
When someone finally answers the phone at a quarter after, I word vomit on her. "Hi! I found a ring that I'm told was purchased at your store, and I want to return it to the owner. I'm hoping you can help me. It's a very special ring. It's numbered and should be easy for you to track. It's a Christophe Panelli. Serial number is N24589. Can you please look it up for me and give me the owner's name and address?"
"I'm sorry, miss, but our client records are confidential."
"But, I need to get him this ring."
"If you want to do that, please ship the ring to us and we'll take care of it."
I haven't taken it off my finger since he put it on me, except to show Tristan. No way will I send it back to the store.
"Could you please transfer me to a manager?" I ask politely.
"Sure," she says with a huff. "But he's going to tell you the same thing."
I wait on hold about five minutes before the manager answers and says, "How can I help you?"
"Look, I know you have confidentiality and all that, so I'm going to tell you the truth
. I didn't find the ring. I got married in Vegas on Saturday to a guy I just met. The ring is way extravagant, and I snuck out of our room and I didn't find out his name. I need to do the honorable thing. Find him and give the ring back personally." And maybe fuck him again a few more times. "I know this is an unusual situation but, please, can you help me?"
"Actually, your situation is not that unusual, other than the cost of the ring. It is Vegas, after all. Where was the ceremony?"
"At your hotel."
"You had to sign a marriage license. That will have both your names on it. Why don't you call the county and request a copy of it."
"Oh, okay. Thanks."
I hang up, then remember signing my fake ID name on the paper they put in front of us. What if he signed a fake name too?
God, it was hot with him. I dreamed about him all night and woke up so freaking horny that I dug out the vibrator I got as a gag gift from Harper, hoping it would do the trick. But it couldn't even compare to him.
Sure it could stimulate, but it doesn't have his soft lips, roaming hands, or muscular shoulders.
And it couldn't pin me beneath its weight.
Or pick me up and do me against a wall.
I'm still not completely sure how he did that. I didn't tell Harper this when she brought it up, but Zach and I tried to once and miserably failed when I fell to the ground pre-fuck.
I glance at the clock, realizing I need to get to the studio.
As I transfer my wallet from my clutch to my handbag, a piece of paper falls out.
I pick it up and realize it's our marriage license.
Ohmigawd! He signed it.
I look at my name and then his.
Ben, is it? His signature is barely legible. But then I see our names printed in a neat block print across the top.
BEN SMITH.
I grab my phone and call the jewelry store back.
"I know his name!" I say to the person I first spoke to. "It's Ben Smith. Will you please just look through your records and tell me if a Ben Smith bought a four-carat diamond on Saturday night?"
"But, earlier, you said you found it?"
"Oh yeah, whatever--do you have someone by that name?"
"I'm sorry," she says again.
"I'm not asking for information, nothing personal. Just a simple yes or no answer. I'm dying here."
"I don't have anyone by that name making a purchase here in the last thirty days. Are you sure you have the right store?"
"You're next to the dress shop, right?"
"Yes."
"Then I have the right store. Shit. I'm mean, thank you."
