True for You(4)

“I’m over eighteen, and Bliss Davenport is my real name.”

Thank God for small favors. “Wanna get out of here?”

Her eyes search my face, then she leans in and brushes the lightest of kisses on my cheek. “Yes.”

I set her on her feet, turning my back so she can get dressed and grab her bag. I grab my wallet, the half-empty bottle of whiskey, and the keys to Everett’s car. He’s here tonight, and I know he’s raising cain over Violet’s impromptu set change, so that gives me time I normally wouldn’t have.

“Let’s go.” We sneak out into the hallway, walking fast, with her hand tightly gripped in mine. “Can you drive a stick?” I ask once we’re outside.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you need a purse or something?”

“Everything I own is in this bag.”

That’s going to have to change. “Get in.”

She drives, and I drink. By some miracle, we make it through all the security detail without incident. Once on I-85, she glances at me.

“Where to?”

I point the bottle at the sign that reads: Charleston, next two exits. “Know a real good bar down there. Place we can stay too. Right on the beach.”

“You sure?” she asks, as if she’s having second thoughts.

“Completely.” I close my eyes and smile as she changes lane. “Wake me up when we hit the city limits.”



Chapter Two



Jackson

My head feels as though it did battle with a jackhammer and lost.

I have to blink a couple of times before my vision properly focuses. I recognize the room, pale blue walls, lots of window, all of which are wide open and letting in a cool ocean breeze. There’s a club chair near the set of French doors that lead out onto a private balcony, complete with its own pool.

At least I know we made it to Charleston, South Carolina. At least we’re in my beach house. Beyond that, I have no clue how we got here, to my private island.

A small sound catches my attention, mostly because it’s magnified times three in my hungover state.

Slowly turning my head, I’m not exactly stunned to find Bliss lying in my bed, but I am pretty surprised, because despite offering herself up on a platter, she has never struck me as a drunken hookup type of girl.

Her back is to me, the sheet coming only to her waist. All those curves, right there for the taking. Or I had already partaken?

Either way, I can’t remember exactly what happened last night.

Bliss turns over, on her stomach, exposing more creamy skin and curves I want to touch and lick. Of course my morning-wood semi thinks now is the perfect time to turn into a full-blown hard on.

Grimacing, I try to rewind the night’s events, but all I can see in my blurry mind’s eye is a man talking to Bliss and me. We’re standing at a… I actually close my eyes tight and try harder to make out the sign.

Twenty-Four Hour Bait and Tackle Shop.

Some good time I had shown Bliss.

I flop down on the pillow—a mistake of epic proportions—and a sledgehammer cracks me in the back of the head.

I scrub my face with my hand and rub at the pressure points.

Damn it. I screwed Bliss last night, but not before taking her fishing, and don’t remember shit about it.

Maybe she will when she wakes up.

Automatically my hand goes to the chain at my neck. Maybe I had sense enough to—

My eyes pop open. “Where the hell is my ring?”

A small hand touches my shoulder, the unmistakable feel of metal hitting my skin. I look down.

My ring is on Bliss’ finger, on her left hand.

“Oh shit,” I mutter.

“Good morning to you, too.”

My gaze flies to Bliss. She’s all pink cheeked, the sheet covering her body as she sits up. Unfortunately.

But I’m not going to let that, let her, distract me. “Why are you wearing that ring?” That’s my ring. It was supposed to be Violet’s ring. Only our plans were interrupted. Our entire future had been interrupted.

She frowns. “Because you gave it to me during the ceremony. You’re wearing one, too.”

I check my left hand. Sure enough, there’s a ring, simply designed and the color of silver. “What ceremony?”

She leans over me, dark curls brushing my face as does the rest of her body. Too bad the sheet’s between us.

“Here.” She hands me a piece of paper and my cell phone.

I glance up at the paper, read it, and nearly lose it. Then I look at the picture on the phone.

It’s a damn good thing I’m lying down.

The man I had remembered from last night? He’s holding a Just Married sign made out of fishing lures and wood.

“Oh shit.” This time I gulp the word. Irrefutable proof of my stupidity is probably making its way through every gossip site imaginable.