“Agreed. I really think you should do this, Amie. You need this. Time away. Armstrong was such a wet blanket for you.” Her smile grows. “Let Anarchy Amie out of the cage for a few weeks. Get reacquainted with your wild side. Hook up with some random island hottie. Hook up with more than one. Life will still be waiting for you to sort out when you get back.”
She’s absolutely right. Making what I thought was the right decision backfired completely. Whether I deal with the consequences of this failed wedding now or later is irrelevant. There’s no way I’ll be able to gain any kind of perspective if I stay in New York. There are just too many things to worry about.
“I guess it’s decided. I’m going on my honeymoon.”
Alone. But it’s better than being here, with another one of my mistakes hanging over my head.
*
The next day I reschedule my flight, cancel Armstrong’s, confirm my reservation for the hotel—which is in my name, but paid in full by Armstrong, which I think is still reasonable since he’s the one who messed this up.
Two days post–wedding humiliation, Pierce comes by Bane’s condo to start the paperwork. He’s come straight from work, fitting me in between meetings, his gray suit jacket still buttoned. His forest green tie almost matches his eyes. His sandy hair is the only thing about him that isn’t perfectly put together. The cowlick at the front has succumbed to the elements, curling over his forehead. Of my two brothers, he’s the most buttoned up.
While he’s not generally a big hugger, I find myself wrapped up in his embrace for several long seconds, enough that I’m at risk of crying again.
I push away, and take a deep breath, hoping to keep my emotions in check while he’s here. The last time he saw me cry was after the Mexico fiasco when Dad needed his legal advice. I’d like to avoid that now. “Thanks for coming, I know you’re busy.”
He regards me with affectionate sympathy. “Never too busy for my little sister. I’m just sorry I wasn’t the one who broke that shit stain’s nose.”
“I think there might be a line for that, and I’ll be at the front of it.”
“I would hold his arms and get you a set of brass knuckles.”
“That would qualify you for the Brother of the Year Award.” I gesture to the dining room table. “Why don’t you have a seat and we can figure out how to get me out of yet another mess.”
I pour him a glass of scotch and myself a glass of red wine, despite it barely being noon.
Pierce pulls a bunch of papers out of his briefcase, and separates them into piles. “We have a couple of options.”
“Whatever is easiest and quickest, I want this over with as soon as possible.”
“Divorce could be quick.”
I flinch—divorce is such an ugly word in our world. “He cheated on me less than twelve hours into our marriage. It hasn’t and won’t ever be consummated.”
He clears his throat and taps his pen on the table. “Right. Okay. So we’ll proceed with the annulment, which is option two. We’ll cite it as fraudulent, since he entered the marriage without the intention of upholding fidelity.”
I snort. “That’s a nice way of putting it. Is there an option three?”
“Hire a hitman and dump the body in the river, but there’s a lot of loose ends there and it’s sort of a legal nightmare.”
I smile at his horrible attempt at legal humor. “Let’s go with option two, shall we?”
It turns out to be fairly straightforward, so I’m able to sign before I leave.
His team just needs to get the documents into Armstrong’s hands so he can sign and then it will be done. I won’t be married anymore. I’m not sure he’s going to make it that easy though, considering the number of calls and texts he’s sent since I left him in the parking lot.
Most of them are requests to speak, a few cite his frustration with being ignored, and a voicemail details his experience waiting to have his nose set by a plastic surgeon. He also expresses his displeasure at finding out his flight was canceled and says that he would like his passport. Not once does he apologize. No I’m sorry. No Please forgive me. Well, fuck that and fuck him.
So it’s with very little in the way of remorse and all the middle fingers in the world pointed in his direction that I head to the airport a few days following the freak show that was my wedding. Bane and Ruby accompany me, but I’m still paranoid that Armstrong is going to magically show up, so I’m sweaty and distracted by the time I’m finished checking all but my carry-on.
They hug me and send me through the security checkpoint. Alone. On my way to my dream honeymoon destination half a world away. Without a husband. No one here knows that my husband got blown at my wedding by someone other than me. As far as they’re concerned I’m just a single woman going on vacation.
I lift my carry-on onto the belt and watch it move down the line. I start daydreaming about relaxing in the VIP lounge, a perk of flying first class, since they serve alcohol no matter what the hour. I plan to order a bottle of champagne and drink the entire thing on Armstrong’s dime as I’m still in possession of one of his credit cards. I don’t think it’ll take much to get a solid buzz going considering my lack of sleep or food over the past few days.
I step into the full-body X-Ray, noting commotion at the carry-on conveyor belt and hope someone hasn’t brought something they shouldn’t. That’ll delay my champagne plans. The rules and regulations are clearly outlined on the website. Armstrong reviewed it at least three times and crosschecked his luggage at least three more. His meticulousness was endearing at first, but now I can admit that after a while it became frustrating and annoying. I don’t need to be reminded a dozen times that I can’t bring scissors on a plane.
I smile at the well-built, attractive security guard when he motions me through. I wouldn’t mind having this one frisk me right about now. I have plans to get frisked repeatedly on this honeymoon of mine, but not because I’ve broken the law. I’m going to let my wild side out just as Ruby suggested.
“Carry-on check!” another guards yells.
Security guy doesn’t return my smile. He seems rather unfriendly. Instead, his somber expression grows even more somber as he looks to the yelling guard.
I step toward the line of people putting on shoes, collecting purses and phones, and do the same, but my carry-on isn’t on the belt. I look around for it, worried someone has taken it by accident. I’m relieved when I spot it over on a separate bay where a serious-faced guard stands with his fists on his hips, engaged in a conversation with the unfriendly one who didn’t return my smile.
I make sure I have the rest of my things, including my passport, and wave at them. “Hi, hello!” I tuck my hair behind my ear and smile again, hoping Serious Face is friendlier, and that I come across as sweet and unassuming. “Um, can I just—” I reach for my carry-on but they both put up a hand to stop me.
“Is this your bag, ma’am?” Unfriendly asks. They’re both attractive in an authoritative, uniform-wearing kind of way. Or maybe it’s the only reason they’re attractive. That and the fact that Unfriendly has a sleeve, which immediately puts him in my Anarchy Amie Bad Boy Fuckable category.
I really need to get laid on this trip. A lot. A year of polite sex is more than anyone should have to tolerate.