Las Vegas was never my kind of town.

You’d think it would be. I have the right reputation for it, after all. Fucking, drugging, drinking, all that shit’s been my thing at one point or another. I still like fucking and drinking, but the drugging’s not my style anymore. I like working and living too much to keep going down the heroin path.

Give me Chicago, give me Philadelphia, hell, give me parts of New York. I’d take an unpretentious little city over this gaudy, neon-lit hellscape any day. I mean, we’re in the middle of the damn desert and for some reason some assholes decided it was a great idea to build a goddamn city. It’s hot and it’s brutal and everyone wants something from you at all times. It’s exhausting, but I need to keep a good face on, a nice smile. I’m Jace Morgan, after all, popular bad boy chef and all that fucking shit. My agent keeps hammering it into my head, this is my comeback show, this is my last chance, if I fuck this up then I’m pretty much out of the business. I know he’s right but it doesn’t always make it easier.

I’m not going to fuck this up. I want to work. That’s something I doubt many people know about me, or at least they probably think I’m just some lazy playboy that wants to snort coke and fuck hookers. Truth is, I just want to work, to keep busy and keep my fucking mind out of the gutter that’s been my existence. This last year has been the hardest year of my life, living in relative obscurity at some fancy-fuck rehab center, detoxing and doing yoga. I kicked the shit and feel better for it but I still miss it every day, just because it gave me respite from my own damn brain.

Here I am, though, in the city of sin, clean and working. Feels fucking strange.

The stripper shoves her ass in my face. It’s rude, shoving her ass in my face. I didn’t ask for an ass right in my nose, and while I do like me a good asshole, a nice tight little puckered dimple waiting to gape for my cock, I didn’t ask for this one. It’s almost jarring. One second I’m sitting here, getting lost in my thoughts, and the next there’s an asshole in my face.

I guess that’s what happens when you’re famous and you let your fucking crew drag you out to a strip club.

“Look at that one!” Eric yells over the booming music. “She sure does like you, Jace!”

I smile at him and politely place five dollars in her G-string. “Get a degree,” I call out to her.

She smiles and winks at me. I doubt she heard me over the music, which is probably for the best. I have no problem with strippers. It can be empowering, and they make a fuckton of money. I’ve just always wanted to convince one to go back to school, mostly because it’d be a great story.

“Food’s not bad, either.” Calvin cuts into his second steak. For a skinny guy, he sure can eat. “I might get thirds.”

Grant looks blissful, disgusted, and sublime, all at once. He’s the oldest of the group, probably in his fifties, with a pretty average build and a dad-gut. His hair is graying and long and pulled back into a tight ponytail. I’d guess he’s from Colorado and loves smoking weed, but I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, or whatever the fuck. Grant’s even taller than Calvin, taller than me by just about an inch, and I’m pretty damn tall.

“Oh hey, Jace, check this out.” Eric pulls something from his pocket, a huge grin on his face. “I got this for you. I guess you can call it a gift, a little starting gift, since we’ll be working together.” He pushes the paper toward me and I take it.

I frown as I unfold it. “What’s this?”

“Just read it,” he says.

“I wouldn’t take anything from him,” Calvin cuts in. “Probably poisoned.”

“Oh, shut up, you railroad spike.”

“Railroad spike? Funny coming from a toadstool.”

I’m ignoring the two bickering camera guys as I scan the paper, my eyes going wider by the second. When I’m finished, I look at Eric, the beginnings of laughter starting and dying in my chest. I’m not sure if I should be horrified or excited. Probably both.

“Is this fucking real?”

“It’s real,” he confirms. “Bribed the registrar myself, and she signed it.”

I look back at the marriage license and yeah, sure enough, Piper signed it. “How?”

“She never pays attention to what she signs,” Eric says, shrugging. “I worked with her on Edmont High, this stupid high school drama show that bombed real hard, but anyway, she never looked at whatever she was supposed to sign back then, either.”

“So you just give her a damn marriage license, told her to sign it… and she did?”

He shrugs, grinning huge. “She was particularly distracted.” He points to the empty line under my printed name. “Just needs your John Hancock and you two are officially husband and wife.”

I stare at the paper, eyes roaming it, trying to find some flaw, but I can’t. It’s a real marriage license, no bullshit, signed and witnessed by Elvis himself. I can’t imagine how much Eric had to spend to bribe these people.

“Why would you do this?” I ask him.

“It’s fucking hilarious!” he says.

Calvin rolls his eyes. “He always does something stupid like this to start a production cycle.”

“Pranks bring groups together,” Eric says, and it sounds like a mantra.

“I feel really close to you guys now,” I say, staring at the page. “And way too close to her.”

I go to hand the paper back to him, but he shakes his head. “No way, boss. You gotta show it to her.”

“I don’t think so. She hates me enough as it is.”

Eric raises an eyebrow. “Hate’s a strong word?”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Calvin says.

“She does.” I shrug a little bit. “We have a past.”

“She doesn’t, as much as I hate to agree with that violin bow,” Eric says, cutting in. “The girl doesn’t look at you like she hates you.”

I frown a little bit, looking between the two feuding camera guys before turning to Grant. He’s happily watching a woman contort herself against a pole, fake breasts exposed to the world, two nipple rings clanging up against the metal. “What do you think?”

He slowly looks at me, cocks his head, and gives me a thumbs-up. I wait for him to elaborate but he looks away, back to the stripper.

I look down at the paper and back at the camera guys. They’re already bickering about something else, the prank all but forgotten. I rub the paper between my fingers and it’s thick, heavier than normal paper stock. The seals all look official and I’m trying to find some kind of flaw, some proof that this isn’t real, but I can’t.

I get up and nod at the guys. “I’ll see you folks later.” I give them my best smile. “I should be getting back to my wife.”

Eric cheers and Calvin just rolls his eyes. I don’t think Grant heard me, or if he did, he doesn’t care. I leave the strip club, slipping the marriage license into my pocket.

I remember Piper. I know that doesn’t seem like much, but here’s something I’m not proud of. For most of my life, starting around my senior year of high school and right through college, I was pretty much always fucked up. Drunk or high or whatever, I had something in my system. I only lasted for one year of college before I dropped out and became a chef where my drinking and drugging and fucking didn’t really stand out at all, and I made a damn good career of it. Climbed high and fast and ended up getting headhunted for a little cooking segment on local TV. From there it was more phone calls, more segments, and finally my own show.

And then that afternoon, the heroin slipping into my veins, the instant recognition that fuck I took too much and the world going black before waking up again, groggy and alone in a hospital bed.

So I was fucked up a lot of the time, and the truth is, I don’t remember a lot of the women I’ve slept with. I’m not proud of that fact but I’ve tasted a lot of pussy and a lot of it wasn’t worth remembering.

But I remember Piper. She was quieter back then, less sure of herself, but still Piper. She’s always been beautiful, fucking drop-dead gorgeous, with thick, auburn hair, a slim frame, full breasts, and an ass that goes on for fucking miles. I want to run my tongue down her hips and I wouldn’t be upset if she shoved her asshole against my nose.

Unfortunately we never slept together. I don’t remember why, but I can probably guess. She wanted a real relationship and all I wanted to do was fuck her. Well, I found someone more willing and moved on, but I never forgot about Piper. She’s whip smart and funny as hell. We used to talk about her dream of becoming a writer for TV. I’d tell her she’s hot enough to be on-camera, but she’d just laugh at me. I still think she’s easily gorgeous enough to be an actress, but clearly that’s not her thing.

Well, now she’s stuck with me. I’m not sure how it happened, but when she showed up at pre-production one morning, I had to go to the bathroom to calm myself down. I recognized her right away, even if it has been years since I last saw her. I wanted her right away, but as soon as I found out she was going to be my producer, I knew she’d be off limits.

This little fake wedding thing, or well, this real wedding thing, maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I smile to myself in the back of the cab, watching as the city ticks by. Piper only agreed to get in front of the camera today because the actress we planned on using dropped out at the last minute. Always the consummate professional, I suggested she step up, and she did it. Now though, we might actually be married, which I’m betting she didn’t plan on.

I get out at the hotel and head inside. I notice a few people glancing in my direction, but I ignore them and get in the elevator. That’s the downside of who I’ve become. I can’t walk through a lobby, into a restaurant, down the fucking street without someone recognizing me and saying something. I’m always nice and gracious because these people are the reason I’m alive and working, but it gets old. It gets real fucking old.

I get out on our floor and head down the hall, eyes on the doors as they flip past. I stop in front of Piper’s door and for a second, I wonder if maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I shouldn’t fuck with her. Maybe I should just go to my room, burn this marriage license, and go to sleep. I don’t have to push her buttons. For once in my life, I can be a decent guy.

I knock. She answers a second later wearing a big sweater and a pair of cotton shorts, her hair a little messy.

“Were you asleep?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Working. What time is it?”

“A little after midnight.”

“Shit.” She bites her lip. “Is this a booty call? Because seriously Jace, I’m not interested. I just want to go to—”

I laugh at her, leaning up against the wall. “Not a booty call,” I interrupt. “Not at all. Look at you, Miss Conceited.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re acting like that’s such a huge stretch, like you wouldn’t fuck anything that moved.”

“Fair point.” I smirk at her, leaning closer. “I’ve gotten a little more discerning in this last year, though.”

“Good for you.” She crosses her arms, steel strong, whip smart. I’m half-hard already and wondering what she looks like under that big sweater. “What do you want?”

“I need to show you something.” I arch an eyebrow. “It’s important.”

She hesitates. “Work related?”

“Work related,” I confirm.

“Fine. Come in.”

I follow her into the room. She kicks aside a pile of clothes and shoves a pair of panties under the bed as I pull a beer from the mini bar.

“The show isn’t paying for that,” she grumbles, but I just ignore her and unfold the paper from my pocket. I put the beer down at the top to hold it in place as I find a pen.

She looks over curiously and I beckon her closer. She hesitates but creeps over, clearly her curiosity is wining out over her common sense. “What is that?” she asks.

“Our marriage license,” I say simply.

She stares at me, eyes narrowed. “Good joke. Seriously, is that why you’re here?”

I grin at her and let her get a better look. She stares for a second before letting out a little huff.

“It’s real,” I confirm. “You signed it.”

“That’s not…” She trails off. “Shit, that is my signature. I don’t remember signing this.”

“Eric tricked you into it,” I say.

“That bastard,” she grumbles, but doesn’t seem surprised. I’m betting she’s used to his shit already since they worked together. “He has to cut this crap out.”

“It’s real,” I say again. “Googled the names on it and the signatures, and they all look legit. The paper itself is legit. Eric said he bribed them to get it done but… it’s done.”

She looks up at me. “You haven’t signed.”

“No, I haven’t.” I cross my arms, head cocked. “Give me a reason not to.”

She gapes at me. “A reason not… to sign? Our marriage license?”

“Yep. Give me a reason.” I uncross my arms and move my hand toward the paper. “And quick. I’m feeling very monogamous tonight.”

“We’re practically strangers, for one,” she says.

“We’re not strangers,” I say. “We’ve kissed.”

“That didn’t count.”

“Before today.”

She groans. “You don’t love me. I don’t love you!”

“True,” I conceded. “But marriage doesn’t always involve love.”

“This is insane. I don’t want to be married to you. Seriously, you better not sign that.”

I bite my lip and look at her. “Would being married to me really be that bad?”

She stares at me for a second, her face screwing up. She’s so damn pretty it almost hurts. I remember one night, a few days after we met, lying on the grass behind the business building, holding hands. She talked a lot about getting into this industry, about her hopes and dreams, and I just listened.

I thought back then it was because I liked the sound of her voice, and that’s true. But now I realize I had no hopes and dreams.

I reach down to the license. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not empty, I can’t be. I can’t just be some empty womanizing asshole. I’m trying to get my life turned around.

“Jace, don’t,” she warns. “This is so messed up.”

I sign my name. When I’m done, I stare at the paper for a second before she lunges for it.

I grab her wrist and pull her away, wrapping her up into my arms. I pull her tight against me. “When does the honeymoon start, wifey?” I whisper in her ear.

“Get off me,” she says, and I laugh as I let her go. I snatch up the license before she can grab it.

“Well, it’s official,” I say. “In some cultures, you’d be my property now.” I don’t know why I say it, but I’m trying to get a rise from her.

It works. “You asshole.” She comes at me, snatching at the paper. I hold it up, out of her reach. I’m over six feet and she’s barely five-three, so it’s not really a fair fight. “Let me have that. I’m going to destroy it.”

“Nope. I’m going to have it filed with the county, make it really official.”

“God damn it, Jace.” She stops jumping and steps away, arms crossed over her chest like she’s hugging herself. “I thought you were getting better.”

“I am better, wifey,” I say. “But when I’m given an opportunity to make a woman like you all mine, well, I guess I can’t help myself.”

She shakes her head, clearly annoyed. “We have to shoot early tomorrow,” she says softly. “You should get out of here.”

“What, you don’t want to consummate this?” I cock my head, still smirking. “Let me strip that sweater off, wifey. I’ll make you more than happy to be all mine.”

She looks away, biting her lip, and for a second I think she might take me up on it. “Get out, Jace,” she says. “I can’t take this shit right now.”

I shrug and walk toward the door. “Your loss, I guess.” I pull it open and hesitate there on the threshold to her room. I don’t know why I did that, why I signed it right in front of her and pushed her buttons the way I did.

But then she looks up at me again. “Still the same old Jace,” she says, and turns away again.

I let the door swing shut. That’s why I did it. I’m still the same old Jace, empty and alone and fucking pathetic. All those drugs, all that pussy, all this fame, none of it fills the hole.

Maybe I think she can fix it for me, but I know she can’t. I know nothing can. This little marriage thing is just another in a long line of bad fucking ideas.

But I guess if I’m making a bad choice, I might as well go all the way. Piper’s my wife now, and she’s going to stay my wife until we’re finished shooting this show. Maybe then I’ll give her an annulment.

Assuming she still wants one. If all goes well though, she’ll be begging me to let her stay my wife, and I just might let her.