Well Hung by Lauren Blakely Page B

whispering to each other. A few seconds later, he holds his arms out wide. “We’re getting married tonight!”
    The cheers erupt, this time like your favorite slugger just knocked in a bottom-of-the-ninth game-winning homerun. Natalie’s shouts are the loudest, and she grabs my arm as she calls out boisterously, “They’re going to the chapel, and they’re gonna get married . . .” She slinks her arm tight around my waist. “Because you convinced them to tie the knot tonight.”
    “When in Vegas . . .” I say, and my voice trails off as our eyes meet.
    Those three words echo.
    Her eyes sparkle, and it’s like we’re thinking the same damn thing.
    I like being daring.
    “Exactly how daring do you like to be?” I ask.
    One corner of her lips curves up. “Exactly as daring as I can be. Why do you ask?”
    “Because of our deal for tonight. To do it all. One night only.” I tip my forehead to the couple, and I swear I’ve never had a better idea in the history of ideas than the one I have right now. It’s fucking genius. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
    Her mouth drops open, then she nods, her eyes wild with excitement. “I’m pretty sure I might be. Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”
    I raise an eyebrow. “I’m thinking there’s one more thing that would make this the full Vegas experience.”
    She clasps one hand to her mouth then lets go. “Oh my God. Are we really going to do what they’re doing?”
    “I don’t see that we have a choice, given the deal we made back at the New York-New York bar. Go big or go home.”
    For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. I don’t have to wait long for an answer, though.
    “Go big, Wyatt,” she says, her voice soft, but her intention loud. Clearly, she thinks my idea is brilliant, too. How could she not?
    Dropping down to one knee, I grab her hand. “Frisky Mittens, want to go to a twenty-four-hour chapel and tie the knot?”
    She hiccups, then laughs and tugs me in for a sloppy kiss that tastes like tequila and fruit mixer. “When in Vegas . . .”

12
    O ne sideburn slides off the man’s face.
    It’s mildly distracting. But nowhere near as disturbing as the officiant’s gold leisure suit. The one-piece has a collar that could double as wings, and is the very definition of skintight. It hugs every inch of his body, and yeah, I do mean inch .
    Sorry, not sorry. He’s wearing a fucking unitard. Hard not to notice shit.
    “Is he Leisure Suit Larry or Elvis?” I hiss to Natalie. When the venue has a name like Larry, Lana, and the King’s Full-Service Quickie Weddings, he could be either.
    She nods at the guy, who’s got a full perm going on, taking kinky curls to new heights, and whispers to me, “Or Richard Simmons got a new gig.”
    Only it’s not a true whisper. It’s a drunk whisper. So she’s not quiet in the least, but I doubt the exercise fanatic double cares, since I’m pretty sure he’s stoned. Looks that way, as he fumbles around for the wedding bands while we stand at the front of the tiny chapel. That’s part of the full service—two gold bands for fifty-seven bucks. What a steal.
    He reeks of pot, and judging from the Bob Marley tune playing as our wedding music this second, I’m guessing he was toking up before the limo dropped us off a few minutes ago, right after we grabbed a marriage license before those offices closed at midnight. The swanky black stretch number waits for us in the lot. I sprung for the best on my wedding night. That’s just the kind of swell fellow I am.
    Fishing around in the breast pocket of his suit, the dude grabs the rings, and holds them up. “‘Got ’em.” One slips from his fingers. “Oopsy daisy.”
    That sends Natalie into peals of laughter, and she grabs my arms, clutching me as she holds on. I chuckle, too, because everything is funny tonight. And everything is awesome, like my life is bobbing on a raft in an infinity pool under the warm sun, drinking a piña colada