“Oh shit.”
The papers.
Amanda has the papers.
The coffee maker beeps but I am too busy pacing the floor to care about it right now. I am sober. My head is clear. And I am panicking.
Because if he was ordained, and those papers were legit, it wasn’t pretend.
I am married to Amanda.
Amanda who?
Suddenly, my phone rings. Noah.
“Hey,” I wipe my hand down my mouth as my mind races in a thousand different directions.
“He lives! Jesus, brother, you had me worried. I was blowing you up all night.”
“I was with Amanda.” I reach for my coffee, trying to sound casual. Like it was just a post auction date. Like we went to an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet at one of the hotels and used our voucher. Like we kissed but aren’t gonna tell and I came back to the hotel and had a long, peaceful, sleep ALONE in my king-sized bed.
Like I didn’t accidentally marry a girl I don’t even know all because we both like music and hate shallow people.
“All night?” he asks but I don’t answer so he goes on. “Well, I take it that went well. Cheers bro! But also, where the fuck are you? Our flight boards in less than two hours.”
“Fuck,” I let out, scrambling to get my shit together.
I don’t even have time to shower so I just grab a clean pair of slacks and another button down and head for the door.
Then I stop.
The photo and the panties are still on the counter.
After teeter-tottering for a second, I grab both and shove them in my bag.
“I love the smell of poker chips in the morning.”
Noah grins as he evaluates the cards in his hand.
It’s 9am and somehow I managed not to miss the flight to Charlotte. Before, I thought it couldn’t come soon enough. Now, as I nurse the worst hangover I've had since I was 29, I'd rather be buried in the hotel sheets. Or six feet under. And yet here we are, playing a game of poker on the plane trays because the man gets fidgety if his hands aren’t busy. He’d pull a Les Paul out right now if it was allowed.
I look down at my cards. A pair of deuces. Perfect bluffer’s cards. The way this goof is YOLOing through the game, I might have a chance. The dude should be wearing a JUST HAPPY TO BE HERE shirt instead of the same clothes he had on last night, disheveled from the evening's events, whatever those were.
Not that I can say anything.
“You sure are a wet mop considering we are in Vegas, and you just got laid,” he says, laying down a card.
I follow suit and trade in one of mine. A seven. What is it with sevens?
“Not only that but we are signing a good artist right now. Kid’s got potential. Even if he does sing through his nose.”
He’s referring to the artist we signed only hours before our crazy night out.
“Do you know how old you sound right now?” I ask.
It’s funny because Noah is younger than me by about ten years. We just celebrated his thirty-fifth. By the amount of alcohol he consumed, you’d think it was his twenty-first. Either way, he’s my closest colleague at Hardin Records and that’s saying a lot considering I work with my twin brother, Avery, as well.
“Seriously, Callum. Music is riding a wave of trend and dollar signs right now, all gassed up on boys who don’t enunciate and girls who think sing-talking about sex in the backseat of a car is classy. It’s all about shock factor. But if we do a little gardening, we can find some real roses in the weeds. Show me your cards.”
