Chapter one
ELIZABETH
Las Vegas, Nevada
Love Inc. Ranch
“So I’m going to wear my white jeans and this really cute, funky, white denim jacket, and Hunter’s wearing his favorite AC/DC shirt, and—”
“No.” Suri, perched on the rim of the tub in the cottage where Hunter and I are staying, waves her hand at me. “Lizzy, as your friend, I cannot let you get married in an Elvis chapel on The Strip in white denim. Just one of those things, and it might be okay, but all of them…”
“I agree.” I glare at Merri, swathed in bubbles, through the mirror.
“It’s my wedding. I think this sounds like fun.”
“That’s all you want from your wedding? That’s your wedding ? Lizzy. Really ?” Suri, wearing a navy and white polka-dotted one-piece, sits up a little straighter. As if she’s judging me. She is judging me.
“What do you suggest, Miss Perfect?”
“Something else. Anything else.”
It might be easier to ignore her if her voice didn’t echo through the bathroom like it does. If we were out by the newly poured, heart-shaped Love Inc. pool, drinking strawberry daiquiris and watching the stars twinkle.
But there are workmen—and women—out there ’round the clock, working to get the brothel up and running again, and with the guys in town tonight, at Hunter’s poker tournament, and us girls trying to be safe and cautious, the bathroom is the easiest option if we want to soak our stress away.
And we do.
For different reasons, we all do.
I’m sitting at the counter with my tweezers in hand, trying to tame the vicious unibrow my pregnancy hormones are trying to give me. I lower the tweezers and look into the mirror again.
“Merri. Full agreement on all of Suri’s points?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. Even here would be better than The Strip. It’s just not very personal. And a white denim jacket? Lizzy, you’ll regret that.”
I pluck a few more eyebrows out and wince.
Even though my entire forehead is throbbing, I have this sudden vivid image of Hunter and me, standing in the field between the cottages, right about sunset one warm, Nevada evening. I can hear the wind moving through the oak trees’ leaves, hear the faint sound of the pond water lapping somewhere in the background.
It would be unconventional, but no more unconventional than an Elvis chapel. And definitely prettier. Suri and the Love Inc. crew have knocked themselves out with the re-build. The buildings are pristine on the outside, and close to being finished on the inside, too. Suri has been talking about paint colors since we got here, yesterday.
“I’m going to have to second the ranch,” Suri says. “Good call, Merri.”
And that’s how I let my two besties twist my arm into getting married at a brothel.
A WEEK AND A HALF LATER
Being pregnant sucks. The heartburn, the gas, the way your hands and feet swell like party balloons if you eat just one measly little salted cracker. The way your growing gut makes all your favorite pairs of underwear too small…
But the sex…
The sex is absolutely incredible.
I’m thirteen weeks now, which means my baby is about the size of…something small, but not super small. Say, a ping-pong ball.
Which means this baby is way too small to know what’s going on when the tide gets rough and happy hormones soak through everything.
It’s taken a lot of convincing to get Hunter to do me properly again, without fear of brain-damaging the baby, but now that he has…
We’re in our very own cozy little cottage, and I’m spread out on the kitchen table with my legs hanging off the side and Hunter standing between them, driving deep into me as I scream his name.
Naked, with his eight-pack abs and his head tilted slightly back as he rams into me, he looks like a god. My god.
“Fuck me harder!” I cry. “Harder!”
One thing I’ve learned in the last little while is I like dirty talk. A lot. Who knew?
He thrusts harder, gently squeezing my hips. Just as I’m
ELIZABETH
Las Vegas, Nevada
Love Inc. Ranch
“So I’m going to wear my white jeans and this really cute, funky, white denim jacket, and Hunter’s wearing his favorite AC/DC shirt, and—”
“No.” Suri, perched on the rim of the tub in the cottage where Hunter and I are staying, waves her hand at me. “Lizzy, as your friend, I cannot let you get married in an Elvis chapel on The Strip in white denim. Just one of those things, and it might be okay, but all of them…”
“I agree.” I glare at Merri, swathed in bubbles, through the mirror.
“It’s my wedding. I think this sounds like fun.”
“That’s all you want from your wedding? That’s your wedding ? Lizzy. Really ?” Suri, wearing a navy and white polka-dotted one-piece, sits up a little straighter. As if she’s judging me. She is judging me.
“What do you suggest, Miss Perfect?”
“Something else. Anything else.”
It might be easier to ignore her if her voice didn’t echo through the bathroom like it does. If we were out by the newly poured, heart-shaped Love Inc. pool, drinking strawberry daiquiris and watching the stars twinkle.
But there are workmen—and women—out there ’round the clock, working to get the brothel up and running again, and with the guys in town tonight, at Hunter’s poker tournament, and us girls trying to be safe and cautious, the bathroom is the easiest option if we want to soak our stress away.
And we do.
For different reasons, we all do.
I’m sitting at the counter with my tweezers in hand, trying to tame the vicious unibrow my pregnancy hormones are trying to give me. I lower the tweezers and look into the mirror again.
“Merri. Full agreement on all of Suri’s points?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. Even here would be better than The Strip. It’s just not very personal. And a white denim jacket? Lizzy, you’ll regret that.”
I pluck a few more eyebrows out and wince.
Even though my entire forehead is throbbing, I have this sudden vivid image of Hunter and me, standing in the field between the cottages, right about sunset one warm, Nevada evening. I can hear the wind moving through the oak trees’ leaves, hear the faint sound of the pond water lapping somewhere in the background.
It would be unconventional, but no more unconventional than an Elvis chapel. And definitely prettier. Suri and the Love Inc. crew have knocked themselves out with the re-build. The buildings are pristine on the outside, and close to being finished on the inside, too. Suri has been talking about paint colors since we got here, yesterday.
“I’m going to have to second the ranch,” Suri says. “Good call, Merri.”
And that’s how I let my two besties twist my arm into getting married at a brothel.
A WEEK AND A HALF LATER
Being pregnant sucks. The heartburn, the gas, the way your hands and feet swell like party balloons if you eat just one measly little salted cracker. The way your growing gut makes all your favorite pairs of underwear too small…
But the sex…
The sex is absolutely incredible.
I’m thirteen weeks now, which means my baby is about the size of…something small, but not super small. Say, a ping-pong ball.
Which means this baby is way too small to know what’s going on when the tide gets rough and happy hormones soak through everything.
It’s taken a lot of convincing to get Hunter to do me properly again, without fear of brain-damaging the baby, but now that he has…
We’re in our very own cozy little cottage, and I’m spread out on the kitchen table with my legs hanging off the side and Hunter standing between them, driving deep into me as I scream his name.
Naked, with his eight-pack abs and his head tilted slightly back as he rams into me, he looks like a god. My god.
“Fuck me harder!” I cry. “Harder!”
One thing I’ve learned in the last little while is I like dirty talk. A lot. Who knew?
He thrusts harder, gently squeezing my hips. Just as I’m
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