Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (10 page)

"
W
ait
, I'm confused: you're mad because he gave you a new phone?"

Elle takes another sip from her strawberry margarita and fiddles with the sleek, gray contraption. It's definitely a step up from my old flip phone. And of course it's gray. Dammit, soon every single thing I own will remind me of my…
husband.

"No, I'm not mad he gave me a new phone. I'm mad that he is suddenly in control of my life." I subtly nod at Dacko, who's sitting at the bar watching us. "I'm mad I have a babysitter."

Elle glances up at my bodyguard, then smiles and waves. His mouth drops open before he can collect himself.

"Elle," I moan.

"I know, I know, don't tease the bodyguard. He just looks so young and adorable. I mean, his face is an absolute mess, but what a cute little mafia member."

"He probably weighs two-hundred pounds and has a gun, Elle."

She shrugs. "Still cute!"

I put my new purse on the chair next to me. It was close to two-thousand dollars. Insanity. Then again, once I get out of town, I could sell it and probably pay rent for a month or two.

Elle giggles and hands the phone back to me, "Who Let the Dogs Out" blaring.

"I don't know. I think that's maybe more a ringtone for Gray rather than me. Wait—wait! That one's for your dad! The dirty dog. Have you heard from him, by the way?"

I shake my head. "No, Gray says he sent him down to Florida. Just to be safe, in case Solonik changes his mind."

Elle nods. "Gray should've sent his ass to rehab." She flings her long, blonde hair behind her back, completely oblivious to the fifteen guys behind her who can't stop staring.

She giggles and fiddles with it some more. "
This
one is for Gray."

Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" is surprisingly loud at 4 p.m. in this fancy bar.

"Oh my God, give that to me!" I grab it, mute that darn thing, and stuff it in my purse.
Bag
. Whatever.

"The disadvantage of you being banned from O'Malley's is no more free drinks," Elle sighs. "The advantage is,
damn
, these are good drinks! And I gotta say, the clientele is a little more upscale, too."

I look around at the Financial District bar, where an absurdly large number of men in suits are already drinking. I guess it
is
a Friday. But still.

"True, we don't do margaritas at O'Malley's. But I could change that.
If I still worked there
."

Elle smiles and pats my hand. Instead of my schlepping all the way to Brooklyn, she had offered to come into the city. She works in Brooklyn Heights, which is just one subway stop out from Manhattan. She's still wearing her adorable kindergarten-teaching outfit: pink leggings covered with photos of cats; a white-and-blue oversized striped shirt, and silver-glitter tennis shoes.

I'm sure the outfit alone would garner her more than a few looks, but she also happens to be absolutely gorgeous. Like, if the girl were six inches taller, she could be a supermodel. As it is, she's got naturally tan skin, long blonde hair, and blue eyes that always seem to sparkle. Oh, and giant boobs, a great ass, and a teeny-tiny waist despite the fact that she can eat anything she wants. Her metabolism is a gift from the gods.

If she wasn't my best friend, I'd hate her.

She's also
super-
nice. And has been a faithful friend to me since we met senior year of high school. Elle was a military brat, and I couldn't imagine transferring to a new school—hell, a new
state
—during your senior year. But she did it with aplomb. Of course, everyone wanted to be the beautiful new girl's friend, or boyfriend.

Somehow, she chose the weirdo in her English class. Moi. We'd been besties ever since.

"Kat, I hear you. I do. I mean, my head's spinning from all the craziness that's happened to you in the past 24 hours."

"And the two margaritas."

"Not yet. We'll do shots next,
then
I'll be spinning for a different reason. But seriously, Kat, do you really
want
to work at the bar? You hate working there! I'm saying this with love: get a clue! You've bitched and moaned about that place since high school."

I take another sip of my Seven and Seven. I don’t normally drink, probably because my dad drank enough for our entire extended family, but since the drinks are on Gray, I'm imbibing.

"You know what I want." She's heard all about my great plans to start a pastry shop ever since I was in high school. "But, I mean, I didn't have the money for cooking school before. I sure as hell don't have it now."

Elle raises her eyebrows and holds up the black AmEx that I'd shown her earlier.

"Girlfriend, I understand your life currently resembles a
Lifetime
made-for-TV movie. But did you or did you not say Gray's apartment is totally expensive?"

I take another sip of my surprisingly strong drink. "I did."

"And he gave you the very latest phone."

I nod. "Yes."

"And he gave you a mother-flipping black American Express credit card, and basically ordered you to just try and wreck his credit?"

I groan. "But that's the problem, Elle! Yes, he's rich. Yes, he told me he doesn't want me to work, and that he'll pay for anything I need—"

"Like chef school!"

"No way. I don't think he meant for me to put forty-thousand dollars down on one fell swoop."

Elle shrugs and hands the card back to me. "Black card. No limit, man. But I hear you. You don't want to be indebted because…you think he'll leave you? Once the whole thing with your dad blows over?"

I bite my lip, then remember Gray's finger there, pressing down.

"Maybe. Or, I'll leave him."

"Wait, Kat, why are you blushing?"

I groan and hit my forehead on the table. "I may have…" I whisper what happened this morning. In detail, of course, because she's my girl.

My
drunk
girl.

"HE ATE YOU OUT?" Elle screams. Every single man in the place is staring at us now. Dacko turns bright red.

"Elle, shut up!"

"But…TWICE!" Elle begins kicking her legs, raising her hands in the air, and dancing in her seat. "I. Cannot. Believe it! You let him go downtown, and twice no less."

"Please stop talking," I moan.

"Yeah, I totally get it now. Hot body, unlimited funds, wants to buy you anything you want, saves you from an arranged marriage with a Russian thug, treats your pussy like it's made of gold and
doesn't even ask you to touch him
. Now I totally get why you want to run away: because you're crazy."

I laugh and pull the phone out. 5:38 pm. "Honestly? Elle. I think I still love him. But that's crazy, right? We were just friends, and that was a long-ass time ago."

Elle puts her empty glass down and reaches across the table, grabbing my hand. "Sweetheart, seven years doesn't mean shit in matters of the heart. The sad fact is you haven't let any man in, not since Gray. And given your fucked-up father and general trust issues, I totally get it. But I've got to tell you: don’t you think there's a
reason
you let him touch you? Beyond the fact that he looks like a hot-as-hell cage fighter?"

I take another sip of my drink. Damn, it's sweet but strong. Kinda like Gray…oh no. I did
not
just think that. I am officially drunk.

Or officially falling for him.

"Elle, what if he leaves again? I just can't handle it, not a second time. He wouldn't just break my heart. He'd rip it to fucking shreds."

Elle nods, still holding my hand. "I get it. Kat, I get it, I really do. But what if he doesn't leave? What if he's in it for the long haul, and you're the one who runs? What's worse: never getting hurt, or never falling in love?"

I press my other hand against my heart. "I am not drunk enough to answer that question yet. And when did you turn into a philosopher?"

"We kindergarten teachers have to have many talents," Elle grins.

My phone beeps. It's Gray, though he's entered his name simply as "G" on my phone.
Where are you
? The text reads. It takes me a second to figure out how to use the touch-screen; it's so different than my former, ancient phone.

Bar in Financial District
, I type.

Name?
Gray's message appears immediately.

…Kat
? I text.

Name of BAR

"How poetic. Remind me not to sext with this guy." I show Elle the texts.

She grins. "He's checking up on you. Give him a break. He is, after all, a newlywed."

I roll my eyes and check the menu before typing.
Maiden Lane Bar
.

Working late. Have Dacko walk you home.

Elle scoots her chair over and watches the messages.

No need
, I type.
Your apartment is like 20 minutes away
.

The cursor blinks for a moment, and Elle explains it means he's typing.

Finally another sentence:
You will not walk by yourself at night.

Pretty sure you're not my Dad,
I type.
You can't tell me what to do.

I throw the phone in my purse, but see a new text light up the screen. I can't help myself. I look at the new message:

I'm not your fucking father, but if you walk home alone and I will spank you.

"Holy shit," Elle breathes. "That is—"

I gasp. "Messed up!"

"Hot," she says.

Another message dings.

And you'll like it
.

I throw the phone in my purse like it's on fire.

"What are you doing?" Elle says.

"Ignoring him. I already told him he can't boss me around, even if he bosses everyone else in the world around." I finish my drink, glance back at Dacko, and lower my voice. "Elle, I think I need a favor."

Elle downs the last of her margarita. "I'll do anything for you, girl. Especially if you buy me another drink."

"Get me a passport application."

Elle spits out the last sip of her drink. "What! What are you—where are you—Kat, what the hell?"

"I'm not saying I'm going anywhere. Yet. But I think I should be able to get out of town, or out of the country, at a moment's notice. Don't you? I mean, Gray says he sent my Dad to someplace safe in Florida. But who knows where he is."

"Where would you go?" Elle says. "I mean, why don't you just come and live with me, if you want to get away from it all?"

I grab her hand and squeeze.

"I love you and thank you so much for offering, but if I'm honestly in danger like Gray says, I would never want to place
you
in danger. Plus, I'm pretty sure Gray would find out your address and hunt us both down."

Elle giggles. "Think he'd spank us, like he promised?"

I flash back to his text:
and you'll like it
.

"He's hot, Elle. But this is serious. I can't let myself get distracted by his huge arms and his thighs like tree trunks and his—"

"Really big gun? Gimme details, girl. How big
is
it? Are talking revolver? Pistol? Shotgun?"

I giggle. I must be more drunk than I realize. "I guess closer to shotgun."

"Call me crazy, but maybe the safest place for you is with the six-four mobster who's got a hard-on for protecting you? And, a plain ol' hard-on for you." Elle throws her head back and laughs.

"I'm glad you're cracking yourself up."

Elle straightens up, but she's still giggling and hiccupping. She whips out her phone and messes with it for a couple minutes. "You can't apply online, but you can download and print out the forms. The one thing you'll need is your I.D. and your birth certificate. Oh, and photos!"

I groan. "How the heck am I going to ditch my bodyguard and then stand in line at a post office to get my photo taken?"

"Sweetheart, you have a smartphone now. You can do anything. Say cheese!" Elle directs me to stare straight at her phone, and she clicks a few shots. Then she has me look to the left, and takes some profile angles.

"Easy. I'll Photoshop out the background, and I can print out your photos and forms all at once. Now all you need is your birth certificate!"

I cover my face with my hands. "Great. It's in the files in my dad's office at O'Malley's. The one place in the world Gray definitely doesn't want me to be."

* * *

A
fter three more bars and
two more drinks, I'm buzzed. I'm happy. I've decided that anything is possible! I'll bust into O'Malley's tomorrow—or whenever I know Gray won't be there—and find my birth certificate.

But for now—I'll dance on a table. I scoot a chair over to one of the tables and gingerly climb up. Whoa. I'm a lightweight since I don't normally drink; I know in an hour I'll be totally sober. But for now, my head is spinning and I'm going to enjoy the temporary, alcohol-infused ride.

Elle's already on the table next to me. In fact, there are an awful lot of women, and a few guys, on the bar and tables. There's crazy-loud pop music playing, and the bartenders don't bat an eye as drunk customers clamber up to join the waitresses who are shaking their asses.

"God, the tips must be
amazing
here," I shout up at Elle. "Where are we again?"