P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons #3)(8)

"Try a limo. And we didn't get fake-married, Paige, we got-"

"Married for real. Yeah, yeah." I put the edge of an elastic band in my mouth as I gathered my tangled mess of hair into a loose bun, and after I wrapped the band around twice, I opened my mouth to keep denying Dawson's words, but then there it was-the flashes of Dawson, still in his midnight-blue suit, sans jacket, standing next to me in the sunroof in the back of a limo, repeating vows back to a woman with bright purple hair, pink lipstick, and a funny name. 

What the hell was that?

You know that intense feeling of dread you get in the pit of your stomach when you know something's not quite right, and you want to ask because you will go nuts if you don't know the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but at the same time you also don't want to know because you'd rather stay oblivious, since the knowledge could rip your whole damn world wide apart?

Yeah. I was right about there.

I sucked in a lungful of air, and when I exhaled, I said, "Um. There wasn't a … Sally something Tit … ball … was there?" Please let me be hallucinating. Please let there have been some absinthe last night to account for this fuckery. I promise I'll never drink gold devil dust again.

Dawson snatched the certificate off the bed and read from the top. "'This is to certify that the undersigned, Justice Sally Sue Titball … '"

My eyes widened. "No. No, no, no … "

"' … did on the fourth day of November join in lawful wedlock Richard James Dawson of Los Angeles, California and Paige Iris Traynor-Ashcroft of Los Angeles, California … '"

"Oh God. Nooo-"

"' … with their mutual consent, in the presence of … '"

"Mutual consent?"

"' … and signed by Justice Sally Sue Titball in Clark County, state of Nevada.'"

"Fuuuuuuck, make it stop."

Dawson lowered the paper. "Coming back to you now, isn't it?"

"This isn't happening," I said, putting the heels of my hands over my eyes. Collapsing onto the edge of the bed, I hunched over, my elbows resting on my thighs as I attempted to block out what I knew was the truth. "I couldn't be stupid enough to marry you. I just couldn't."

"There, there," Dawson said, coming around the bed to sit beside me. His hand settled on my back and made what I assumed he meant to be soothing circles, but it only made me think of what I'd done to his back, and moved out of his reach. "Oh, cheer up, love. It could be worse."

"I thought this was the worse scenario you were talking about."

"Nah. You could be married to someone you hate."

I glared at him. "I do hate you."

"By worse I meant more along the lines of some-stranger-after-you-for-your-money-and-you-didn't-sign-a-prenup kind of worse, not 'I married my friend,' which isn't really that terrible in the grand scheme of things."

Another glare. "Not that terrible according to whom? You may not be after my money, but we don't even like each other. And the Tunnel of Love? Do you have any idea how tacky this is? I'm a wedding planner, for fuck's sake. I don't get married in drive-thrus."

"You do now." He didn't even look contrite about that fact.

"How are you so calm about all this?"

"I suppose all those orgasms, a couple hours' of sleep, and a pretty young thing to look at in the morning doesn't sound quite so terrible in my book."

"Dawson … " For once, I was speechless. He'd left me speechless, and I wasn't the type to ever be silent. If what he said, and if what the pieces I could remember, were true, then nothing could've surprised me more. Telling me I'd gone streaking down the Strip? Sounded about right. Telling me I'd had a foursome with England's hottest rugby players? No shock at all.



       
         
       
        

Telling me I got married, though? Unfuckingbelievable.

Even as I tried to comprehend what I'd done, my mind also went into Ms. Fix-it overdrive, calculating how soon this situation could be rectified, whom I needed to contact, how much damage I'd done, and how to make sure it stayed hidden from my parents.

But the biggest problem wasn't any of those things, and it wasn't even the man in front of me.

No, the biggest problem was:

How the hell was I going to tell the girls?





CHAPTER FOUR

Pussycat's Out of the Bag





"I SLEPT WITH Dawson." The words were out of my mouth before I could think of a not-so-jarring way to say it, but let's face it, it's better to rip the Band-Aid off in one quick go, right? It wasn't all the news I had to share, obviously, but I didn't want anyone stroking out on me. Yet.

All three heads turned in my direction so fast that I'd be surprised if Shayne, Quinn, and Ryleigh didn't suffer whiplash later from the move.

I popped my shades on and leaned back in the sun lounger I'd commandeered by the North Pool. It was a warm seventy-five-degree day in November, so we'd decided on some girl time at Glen Ivy Hot Springs-our favorite outdoor spot for spa days and vitamin D. And after getting back from Las Vegas and reeling from the revelations of my drunken shenanigans there over the weekend, I damn well deserved a day of relaxation, and I'd all but forced the girls into taking a few hours off to join me. "Can someone pass me the fifteen oil, please?"

When there was no response, verbal or otherwise, I opened my eyes to see all three staring at me with mouths hanging open.

"You all look like you're trolling for flies," I said, and adjusted the towel behind my head. When there was still dead silence from the girls, I let out an exasperated breath. "Don't act like you're all that surprised. I'm sure Ryleigh filled you in when she heard him in my room, and I know you fuckers placed your bets on our hooking up. So who's the winner?"

"I did no such thing," Ryleigh said, her high brown ponytail going back and forth as she shook her head. "I was waiting to jump on you about it today."

"How sweet of you," I replied.

Shayne's face scrunched up beneath her wide-brimmed hat, an accessory that seemed redundant, since she was sitting in the shade of a huge umbrella. A long-sleeved willowy cover-up protected her fair skin, her wild red curls cascaded over her shoulders, and, I had to admit, Shayne definitely had a sweet and innocent look going on today. But trust me when I say that no one I hung out with could be accused of either of those things. "How do I live with you and I didn't know this?" 

"Surprise."

"But … " Shayne looked at the other two and then back to me. "You hate him. You said he was a wanker on par with Daniel Cleaver in Bridget Jones."

"It's not like a good round of fucking changes that."

Quinn lowered her sunglasses to wink at me. "So it was good?"

Wasn't that the five-million-dollar question, and the only thing I hated admitting, to myself or the girls. But I didn't keep secrets from them, so I said, "I'm positive that if I could remember it, it would be ten fucking stars. On my side, at least."

"You don't remember? What did you do, drink that disgusting gold shit?" Quinn's incredulous tone gave way to laughter, but when I pursed my lips, the laughing stopped. "Oh hell, Paige. You didn't."

I told you. One sip of that stuff and it was hello short-term memory loss, and the girls had been around to see it firsthand on more than one occasion.

I shrugged. "What can I say? I was practically forced."

"Bullshit," Ryleigh said. "You can take down any guy who crosses you, and that includes Dawson. Ladies, I do believe this is what you call 'excuses because I secretly wanted to and so I did.'"

"If I wanted to sleep with someone, I'd damn well own up to it. Oh, and, you know, be fully in my head." I sat up and pointed to the bag of suntan lotion by the lounger farthest from me. "Shayne, the oil."

When Shayne tossed over the bottle, I poured some of the liquid into my hand and then rubbed it over my thighs, as Quinn asked, "When did this happen? How did it happen? Give us some details."

"Well, you know my parents' anniversary party was in Vegas over the weekend, and I may or may not have made a scene when I found out in front of all those people that they're moving to Paris. Liiiiike in a few weeks moving. Without telling their only daughter." I looked up to see the dismay on their faces. "Yeah, I know. So, anyway, a few martinis in my system and I was good and pissed and letting everyone and their mama know they could die by choking on a snail and rot in hell, blah blah blah. Since you bitches weren't there, Dawson decided to play babysitter by hauling me out over his shoulder, feeding me shots, and then apparently making sure I got good and tucked in. Several times."

They sat there, blinking in surprise, and then a low giggle left Shayne. She clamped her hand over her mouth, but the damage was done. The others joined in, their laughter turning into full-on roars that had the other guests looking over at us to see what the hell was so funny.

"Laugh it up," I said, rubbing the oil on my neck and chest. "Glad to see I can still amuse you."

Shayne wiped the tears that had leaked out of her eyes. "Oh, Paige. What are we going to do with you?"

"Other than make sure one of us chaperones you for all out-of-town excursions," Ryleigh chimed in.