“Actually, you did.”
The urge to get violent is almost overwhelming, but of course I can’t hit a woman. “I was drunk. I don’t even remember seeing you yesterday.”
She sighs and spreads her hands. “Well…sorry.”
“Look, it can be a quick, quiet annulment. I’ll pay all the fees. No harm, no foul. Are we good?” I paste on a friendly smile. A bit of sweetness might work better than screaming.
She shakes her head. “Too late to get cold feet. The contract says no backing out. Didn’t you read it?”
“The contract?”
“Yes.” She squints at me like I’m an idiot who just made a pact to sell my soul for a candy bar. “I really need a husband. I thought I made that clear.”
I open my mouth, then stop. Something about the way she phrased it sounds…
She needs a husband? What the hell does that even mean? I cross my arms. Nobody needs a husband. Unless she’s looking for a meal ticket. Jesus. That has to be it.
But we’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours. There’s got to be some way to get a quick, easy annulment. I’d rather run my tongue down the Vegas Strip than give a penny to some gold digger.
“Your needing a husband isn’t my
problem. We aren’t doing this.” I grind the words out.
Then I storm out, pissed at myself for not seeing that she’s a manipulative bitch.
With or without her cooperation, I’m ending this farce. Then I’ll sue her for entrapment. I’d bet both my balls she approached me in New York to set this up.
Chapter Two
Devlin
–six weeks earlier
Classical music quartet. Check.
Tiny finger food with French names. Check.
Overpriced art that looks like someone threw a bucket of paint at the canvas. Check. Anonymous platinum blonde on my arm. Check.
Private art gallery exhibits and receptions aren’t my jam. I haven’t dressed up since Killian’s wedding, and fit into this scene about as well as a clarinet at a death metal concert.
Max asked everyone in the band—which would be me, Killian and Cole—to come to this event during breakfast. He even used some large words. And that meant this was super important, because he always acts like it costs a year of his life for each syllable coming out of his mouth. If he were in charge of writing songs for the band, all our lyrics would be grunts…maybe with a few growls thrown in for variety.
I didn’t catch why this matters to him so much, though. Maybe I was distracted or something. But whatever. There’s probably a chick he wants to pick up at the reception. He doesn’t share himself as generously with ladies as I do, but he’s not a monk, either. And if he needs my help to score some girl he’s dying to bang, I’m willing to sacrifice a free day in the Big Apple for the cause.
And there is a bright side. This reception being so different from a rock concert, I might run into a woman who’s different from the groupies who usually hang around Axelrod. And a little female variety wouldn’t be bad, even if I have to pretend like I’m a connoisseur of…well, stuff that makes zero sense to me.
I gather from snippets of pretentious conversation that it’s this artist’s first solo show, so it’s a big deal. I still don’t get the paintings, though. They’re too abstract. I like pieces that are more concrete. Easier to understand, and more eye-catching than paint splatters and weird color combinations on the canvas.
Much to my disappointment, the women here don’t seem that much better than groupies. They all seem enthralled by the works hanging on the walls. But how many of them are faking it to look smart?
Fake people turn me off. Killian mocks me for doing shallow girls, but at least they don’t hide the fact that they only want me for my face, dick and fame. That’s preferable to pretending like they’re in love or looking for something really meaningful and deep.
Because shit like that doesn’t exist. When I tried for it, I ended up with a clusterfuck named Ashley, who played mind games and eventually cheated on me.
“Isn’t that seriously the most wonderful thing ever?” the platinum blonde gushes as she loops her toned arm tighter around mine. Her designer dress is garish, and her perfume envelops me in a miasma of moneyed poor taste.
She latched on to me less than a minute after I walked through the reception hall door. It happens when you’re in a successful rock band. And have a pretty mug from a supermodel mom. A few other women tried to dislodge the blonde from my side, but they failed. So I’m still in her clutches.