Chapter Twenty

Brayden

The Rio entrance, the casino, the throng of people – everything is a blur. Freshly showered, wearing clean clothes, and with some food in my belly – at Trey's insistence – I am starting to sober up. Finally. Which is a good thing, given that I need to have my mind clear and my wits about me, since I'm here to discuss our marriage and what the hell we're going to do about it.

Once in the elevator, I press the button for Holly's floor. Leaning back, I close my eyes and try to focus. To get my head on straight. Which isn't easy since it continues to pound like somebody inside my skull is whacking it repeatedly with a sledgehammer. Jesus Christ, I never want to get that drunk again. Ever.

Aside from the hangover and drunken marriage, everything else about my time with Holly - everything that I'm able to remember – is nice. Very nice. More than nice, if I’m being honest with myself. I'd probably even put our time together in the amazing category. I honestly wouldn't mind seeing her again. Seeing her more often. But, the idea of being married to someone after knowing them for only a few days fills me with an ominous sense of dread.

Being so hammered that you think having an obese Elvis officiate your wedding is a great idea - is not the best way to start a long-term relationship.

The elevator dings as the doors slide open, letting me out on her floor. Stepping quickly into the hallway, I look at the signage, figure out which way I need to go, and then run down the corridor, heading toward her room. When I get there, I stand outside the door and take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts one last time. Trying to figure out what I'm going to say and how I'm going to say it. I know I need to be delicate about the situation. I can't let her see how much I'm freaking out - so I need to maintain my calm and control. Things I'm normally good at.

I go to knock on the door when it suddenly swings wide open in front of me. I step back, in a daze, and nearly trip over my own feet in the process. The woman who steps out of the room isn't Holly or her friend, Gabby, either. It's an older Hispanic woman, who is staring at me like I've lost my mind. It takes me a minute to process the fact that she's wearing a Rio uniform and her nametag announces that she is part of the housekeeping crew.

“Do you need something?” she asks me.

I stare blankly for a minute, every coherent and logical thought disappearing from my head. I stare at her wide-eyed, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no words coming out. The woman looks uneasy, as if I'm some chainsaw-wielding maniac or something.

“Sir?” she asks, her voice filled with concern. “Do you need me to call somebody for you? Do you need help?”

Yeah, I must look like an absolute head case or escaped mental patient to this woman. I force myself to stand up, take a deep breath, and slowly let it out. When I feel sufficiently gathered, I open my eyes and clear my throat.

“The girls staying in this room, are they here?” I finally ask, lowering my voice just in case they're inside and can hear me.

She shakes her. “They checked out about an hour ago.”

Her words are like a kick to the gut. I struggle to fight the wave of nausea that rises within me once again. My jaw clenches tight and I feel a burning rage slowly starting to fill me. I know it's not this woman's fault that Holly took off, but I can't help it. The anger continues to rise in me like some horrible, black tide and I feel powerless to stop it.

“Where the fuck did they go?” I growl.

“Sir, I wouldn't know,” the housekeeper says.

She inches her way over to her cart, never taking her eyes off me. I can see the fear and uncertainty on her face and I know she's worried and keeping an eye on me because my temper is obviously flaring.

“Fuck,” I cry out, pacing the hallway. “Fucking shit.”

I run a hand through my hair and try to think of anything I can do. Not knowing if they flew to Vegas or drove, getting my ass down to the airport isn't a sure bet. For all I know, they packed up a car and drove back to Colorado.

Or hell, maybe she's trying to avoid me by checking out of the Rio, knowing I know she's staying there, and checking into a different hotel. I'm a resourceful guy, but with dozens of different hotels in Vegas, I'm never going to be able to figure out which one she's at.

All I know is that she's not here, and we have a lot of shit to talk about and sort through. I drive my fist into the wall, shaking the picture hanging on it.

“Sir, please don't make me call security,” the woman says.

Realizing there's nothing for me here, and I'm doing nothing but scaring this poor woman, I turn and head back towards the elevator. I need to get my head clear and figure out what my next steps are going to be. I need to find Holly. We need to talk.

The anger is bubbling up inside of me. My fists are balled up at my sides. And honestly, I am in the mood to punch something, anything. Part of me is just looking for an excuse to lash out. I can't believe she just left like that. Just up and left without so much as a goodbye, a go fuck yourself, or talking about how to fix the mess we’re in.

What a coward. What a fucking coward. And it leaves me in a bind since I hardly know the first thing about her. Though, given what I do know of her, I never would have expected her to be the sort of person who slinks out of town the way she did. Never in a million years.

Well, fuck her. That's about all I can say right now. Fuck her and I'll be more than happy to have this sham of a marriage annulled as soon as fucking possible. I'm going to have my lawyers get the papers drawn up the second I get back to Austin. I'll make it as easy for her as possible. Since she obviously prefers taking the easy way out.

I'm pissed off. I want to hate her. But, the fact that I still like her keeps nagging me. It’s clawing at my mind and my heart like a wild animal. I think I like her a lot. And I hate the fact that I do. But, the truth of the matter is that I can see myself with a woman like her. Not married right away, of course, but I can see being in an actual relationship with her. Maybe even one that winds up in marriage. She drives me crazy in ways that no one else ever has. Holly has turned everything I've ever thought or felt upside down, and despite how pissed off I am, I desperately want to see her again.

But, she left. Without saying a word about the last few days or the fact that we got married the night before. She just up and left. Snuck out of my hotel room before I woke up without the courtesy of a goodbye. And as I think about it and process these feelings, I realize that what she did hurts. It hurts badly.

The elevator chimes, the doors slide open, and I push myself inside amongst what looks like a bachelor party. Drunk guys surround me, the air in the elevator saturated with the stench of alcohol and weed. The guys are rowdy and obnoxious, yelling and screaming at one another even though they're standing two feet apart.

I can’t deal with it. Not this early in the morning, hungover like a motherfucker, dealing with everything on my plate right now. One of the guys elbows me in the side, laughing and practically yelling at his friend who's standing – literally – six inches from him. I cringe, my temper flaring, but somehow manage to hold it together.

Two of the men – a meathead-looking guy and a smaller version who could be his brother – start playfully beating the shit out of each other. The rest of the crowd is hooting, hollering, and urging them on as they laugh hysterically, pushing and shoving, punching the shit out of each other.

The elevator is too small and crowded for this shit. And as my anger bubbles up and I start to redline, the smaller guy gets pushed into me. He steps on my foot and knocks me into the wall of the elevator, the handrail driven into the small of my back.

“Watch out, asshole!” I shout.

The guy blinks a few times and gives me a dazed look, “Who are you? Where did you come from, man?”

It's an innocent question from a guy that is so fucked-up, he probably thinks I'm part of their posse. Maybe, a friend of a friend that he doesn't recognize, but in my current mood and emotional state, I can’t help but take it entirely the wrong way.

“Who am I?” I seethe. “I'm the guy who's going to fuck you up if you bump your drunk ass into me again.”

Meathead, who I'm guessing is this guy’s brother, steps in front of him, total indignance on his face.

“You have a problem?” he says, puffing up and doing his best to look intimidating.

“Yeah, about ten of them,” I snap. “And they're all stuffed in this elevator with me.”

The elevator doors slide open to the main floor, and the group of guys stumble out like they're climbing out of a clown car, falling all over themselves, wasted off their asses. I am the last one out of the elevator and when I step out, I find Meathead standing there waiting for me.

“I think you need to apologize to the groom,” Meathead says. “You're ruining his special day.”

“Someone's marrying that guy?” I scoff. “I guess it's true what they say, there's someone for everyone.”

Meathead's face darkens, and he throws a hook at me. I step back, and his big paw misses me by a mile, mostly thanks to his inability to stand up straight. I know that I should be the bigger man and walk away. The logical part of my brain is screaming at me to do just that. But, when I look at the clown, I feel my insides twist with the anger festering inside of me and my blood runs hot. No one fucking swings at me and gets away with it. No one.

Stepping forward, the man reaches back, obviously trying to throw another punch at me. But, I'm too fast for him. I throw three quick jabs, smashing him square in the face. Blood erupts from the fucker’s ruined nose as I hit his face a few more times for good measure. A moment later, I feel two pairs of hands clamp down on my shoulders with an iron-like grip. I struggle for a moment, but they pull me away from the man who'd fallen to his knees, clutching his bruised face. I smile as I see blood pouring out from his nose and hear him wailing like a baby. I know without even turning around that the hands on me don't belong to Meathead's friends.

“Security,” I hear them say, as they drag me away. “Cut it out and stop fighting us, asshole.”

I pull myself out of their grasp and allow them to walk me outside. I know the drill and go willingly. The last thing I need to do is get arrested while I'm in Vegas. Married and arrested within a twenty-four-hour period? That would be one hell of a cliché, if you ask me. And one that I have no desire to be part of.

I don't listen as the guards speak to me. I just keep walking forward. The fight helped to diffuse some of my rage, but I'm still filled with so much anger and regret that I can hardly see straight. I just know I need to get the hell out of the Rio. Holly isn't here, so there's no reason for me to stick around. The only thing I'm going to find here is trouble. Well, more trouble.

Now in the parking lot, I find myself pacing, trying to burn off some of the negative energy inside of me. That, and figure out what my next move is going to be. And then it hits me. I do the next logical thing that pops into my head – something that I should have done earlier, honestly. I hadn't though, because I thought we should have this conversation face-to-face.

But, since that is obviously not going to be an option, I pull my phone from my pocket and call her. It rings several times before going to voicemail.

I try again. Same thing.

When it clicks over to voicemail for the third time, I leave a message.

“Hey Holly, it's Brayden. Umm, you know, your husband?” I laugh, trying to hide the tension in my voice, and probably not doing a very good job of it. “Anyway, we should probably talk about that. Give me a call back as soon as you can.”