He’sreallyenjoying this, and not in a sadistic way.
In a Carter way.
He plugs something else into his phone’s GPS, and we resume our journey. Fifteen minutes later, we’re standing in line in the Las Vegas clerk’s office to get our marriage license.
He holds my hand the whole time. When it’s our turn at the clerk’s window, we show our IDs, fill out the paperwork, sign, and he pays. We’re walking now. We stop by a jewelry store next, where Carter peruses engagement rings and wedding band sets and gives me several choices to pick from that are within his budget. We’ll have to hide them from Owen before we pick him up today.
“I can pay,” I softly say.
He lightly smacks my ass. “You’renotbuying your own engagement and wedding rings,” he says. “Pick, pet.”
I feel a little guilty. Yes, of course I ran background and credit checks on him and Owen. Carter ran one on me, too. One of the things we did the other evening after I bought the plane tickets, besides fucking, was go through our finances together. I know what Carter’s budget and savings are, and he knows mine.
Owen’s budget is irrelevant beyond the fact that he’s not in debt. We’re going to take care of our boy, and that’s that. Once we transition him through the next stage, Carter will take control of everything and give him a weekly allowance and extremely tight spending restrictions, at first. Once he’s certain Owen has fully relaxed into the new world order and has confidence in our ability to care for him, Carter will ease those restrictions.
But he wants Owen completely dependent upon us for everything, at first, so that he can see we’ll deny him nothing reasonable. I mean, if he asks for a Lamborghini or something, that’s a hard no, obviously.
I’ve already told Carter what I want to get Owen for Christmas, and after mulling it over for a day, he agreed we’d do it together.
I want to buy Owen a car, get rid of the Subaru his mom gave him.
His last tether to her.
Every time he drives, I want him thinking about me and Carter, and us fucking him in every possible position in whatever car we get him.
Operant conditioning.
I finally pick a modest engagement ring but select a wedding band set that’s toward the pricier end of the stated spectrum. Hey, Carter said to pick.
So I’m picking.
He slides the engagement ring on my left finger before we leave the store and pockets the wedding bands. Twenty minutes later, we’re awaiting our turn in the wedding chapel, and Carter’s already paid for the video package, photos—everything.
Now I’m beginning to wish I’d gone with a drive-through chapel option.
When it’s our turn, the organist starts playing “Viva Las Vegas” as we walk to the front of the chapel—yes, we had our choice of music, too, and that’s what Carter chose—and there’s a fuckinggrinplastered across Carter’s face as the photographer snaps our pics and another takes video while a slightly overweight Elvis wearing a white, skin-tight bedazzled jumpsuit and with muttonchops fordaysmarries us.
Fuck.
Me.
I’ve never seen Carter grin like this before. It reaches the depths of his eyes, takes years off his face, and likely erases horrible memories from his conscious mind for a few minutes.
He’s focused on the here, the now—onme.
I suspect I won’t get to seethisman too many times. At least, not in the beginning.
I silently make it my life’s goal to try to seekthisman out, to do whatever it takes to make him look like that whenever I can.
Thirty minutes later, we leave married.
Daddy’s probably going to fucking kill him.
Benchley?
He’lldefinitelywant to ruin Carter. Although I’m not sure if it’ll be the news that we eloped, or the news that, when we return to Florida, we’re both changing our voter registration from our respective parties to Independent, that will piss off that side of my father more.
Me?
