Communion (On My Knees Series Book 3) Page 14

  She holds up a Polaroid camera, and I laugh as she snaps the shot.

  “We’ll have to do before and after. See how these vows change you.” She wiggles her brows, and Luke chuckles. I can tell he’s nervous, but as we face one another, clasping hands and looking into one another’s eyes, I feel him settle.

  “Like the boat,” I tell him quietly.

  “I know,” he mouths.

  We’ve already done this. We’ve already said our private vows and made our promises. Still, it’s kind of fun to do it in a Vegas chapel. I try to stamp the precise tenor of Luke’s voice as he says, “I do” into my brain. So I can remember it forever.

  When I say it to him, I squeeze his hands.

  We kiss soft and deep, but not too long, and when we pull away, the officiant snaps another picture.

  Then she fans herself. “That was just pure romance,” she says.

  Luke looks slightly embarrassed, but he grins, and I do, too.

  “Flowers for each,” she says, turning around. Turns out, the paper flowers on the wall are ones she pins on dudes’ lapels.

  Luke’s is pale blue. Mine is purple.

  She takes one more picture. “Just a backup,” she laughs.

  Then she leads us to another wall, along the right, that’s lined with…bubble gum machines?

  “You each get a ring.”

  She hands us each a quarter, and I’m laughing my ass off as Luke feeds his into a red machine, and I put mine in a yellow one. We open the plastic eggs together and hold up our rings. Luke’s is a yellow band, topped with a flat, rubber smilie emoji. Mine is more bendy, like the Halloween spider rings, but with roses on it.

  “That’s romantic.” He gives me a crooked little grin. Then he brushes his lips over my temple.

  That’s when I hear whispers.

  Sky and I turn around in tandem, and my first thought is whose ass do I need to kick?

  The back of the room—the area that opens to the outside via two wide, double doors—is packed with people, craning over each other’s heads to get a better look at us.

  A big guy in an Elvis-style suit, clearly chapel staff, waves the crowd back. “Step outside,” he says gruffly. “Limited capacity.”

  As he sets up a velvet barricade rope to keep them away from us, I hear someone hiss the words “McDowell” and “drunk.”

  Luke looks up. "Never been more sober,” he says loudly. “Or more happy.”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Take a picture,” he says, smiling like he means it.

  I kiss his cheek, and everybody cheers, holding their phones up to get pictures. Then Luke’s leading me toward a countertop I hadn’t even noticed, hidden behind a partial wall. The crowd murmurs in disappointment as we move behind it. I blink at the wall’s neon tiles, wondering if Luke is safe here. They seemed happy. Festive.

  “V, you okay?”

  I blink, finding Sky’s hands cupped around my upper arms.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “I’m great.”

  “Don’t be worried,” he murmurs.

  “I’m not worried,” I say softly.

  I wrap an arm around him, and the man behind the counter passes us some paperwork. We sign it—marriage sorts of stuff—and when we’re done, he bangs a plastic gavel on the countertop, giving us a jovial grin.

  "I now pronounce you…husband and husband!" He waves his arm with flourish. “Hey, are you that pastor?” he asks quietly, widening his eyes.

  Luke cocks an eyebrow, giving the guy a deadpan look. “Who’s asking?”

  The guy mimes the Home Alone scream, with both hands to his cheeks. “Oh my god, can you sign something? My arm?” He holds out a permanent marker, and Luke slips into poker-face mode—which means he thinks this guy is nutty.

  “I can sign a sheet of paper if you’d rather,” Luke says.

  “That, too! Please and thank you.”

  Sky does both.

  “My boyfriend’s gonna die! I hope you’ll welcome him in heaven,” he teases. The guy laughs—an excited cackle—and Sky’s eyes widen in response. “I’m hoping I’m not there for a while longer.”

  We say bye to the paperwork dude, and he shows us out a back door. Luke takes my hand and half jogs down the narrow alley. His fingers squeeze mine so hard it makes the plastic ring pinch my skin. When we’re in a dark spot between two lights, I push him up against the wall and kiss him like I’ve wanted to since we said “I do.”

  “Married,” I breathe, between kisses.

  He pulls away, breathing hard.

  I’m reminded of another alley on another night—the night he said he loved me in that club we’d gone to. I smooth my hand over his strong neck. “Hey, my buddy. You okay?”

  He nods. He kisses my jaw gently, and his eyes feel wet against my throat. “I’m good.” His voice is soft and low and sends a trill of pleasure through me. He looks up and grins. “You regretting this yet?”

  “Fuck no I’m not, Skywalker. Not even a little bit. You worried someone’s gonna get me?”

  He bows his head, his shoulders rising as he breathes deep.

  “Lightning never strikes the same spot twice, Sky. Also, this is Vegas.” I wrap my hand around his coat’s front, tugging lightly. “It’s queer as shit here. Let’s go get a funnel cake and then blow this joint.”

  I’m being corny, trying to make him laugh, and it works. He smirks, and I can see him composing himself again, doing the fake-it-till-you-make-it thing. I wonder why we didn’t bring baseball caps, something to ensure we’re not recognized…

  We have to face the music sometime.

  Tonight, though?

  “C’mon,” he says, looking solid again. “Let’s find a shop and grab me a hat. A rainbow top hat.”

  I laugh, and Sky laughs, and our gazes lock, and for a striking second, I feel lit up by a rush of we-just-fucking-did-it. Then he clasps my hand, and we walk to the alley’s mouth. We find the sidewalk crowded, but no one calls us out as we cross the street, in search of a hat shop. We find one after just a few blocks. We end up with sequined pink, purple, and white beanies—topped with pink fluffballs—that might be even gayer than we are. But it’s magic.

  Sky looks ridiculously good, and happy—now that he’s worked through his nerves. He keeps squeezing my ass in the shadows as we wait in a short line for rainbow daiquiris someone’s selling in mini-milk-jug-type bottles at a walk-thru in an alley.

  “This is probably a bad idea.” He smiles after gulping from his.

  “If by bad idea you mean you need to drink more.”

  “What?” He screws his face up in surprised amusement, like the golden boy he is.

  “Sometimes you gotta relax, Sky babe.”

  “Like wandering along the Strip in a gumball machine wedding band, drinking-food cart alcohol that’s one-tenth straight food coloring?”

  That makes me laugh my ass off. I tap my head. “Gotta have an estimated ratio for the harmful additives, mm?”

  He snorts. “I’m not wrong.” Then he takes another long swig. He makes a face and does sort of a shiver, and I press my arm against his. “Couple of lightweights.”

  “Just as long as it’s a couple,” he says quietly.

  We finish the drinks fast, toss the bottles into a trash can, and Sky’s about to call for our car when we come across a mini golf course. I think he sees my eyes light up, because he says, “We should do it.”

  “Not too tired?”

  “Never too tired to see you lose.”

  I snort. “They got mini golf up in the Ivy League?”

  “Mini golf is everywhere, V.”

  He takes the challenge seriously, and I’m not thrilled to find he’s pretty damn good.

  “Business golf,” he tells me smugly, looking like some kind of buff snow bunny with that beanie on his head as he leans on his golf club. He took his coat off and hung it on a hook in the front office of this place, as if it’s not worth more than most sedans.

  “Yeah, y
ou put a lot of balls in holes for business?”

  He gives me an oh-no-you-don’t look. “You wanna see what I can put in that hole?” He putts his damn golf ball under a moving windmill arm, and I run mine into it three times.

  He’s got his arm around my neck, doing this move where he ruffles my beanie like you’d ruffle someone’s hair, when someone whistles.

  “HAWK! I FUCKIN’ FOUND ’EM!”

  I turn around, and there’s a crowd behind the chainlink fence that frames the golf course.

  “FUCK YEAH, BABY!”

  “Look at that ass.”

  My heart’s pounding as my eyes move over them, searching for threats. I step in front of Luke, and someone boos. Another murmurs, “That’s who I wanna see.”

  That’s when I realize—all of them are guys.

  14

  Luke

  I get a burst of adrenaline so heady my skin tingles and my pulse hammers behind my eyes.

  “Get behind me.” I grab Rayne’s sleeve.

  The group catcalls us, and Vance turns toward me. “They’re all dudes.”

  “They followed us here,” I tell him in a low voice.

  His hand touches my hip. “Sky, listen.” Rayne’s lips twist in a grin, and my heart beats harder. “Listen,” he smiles. “They’re saying ‘kings.’” Rayne leans in closer. “Luke, I think they’re gay. I think they’re fans. They’re not here to throw tomatoes.”

  I lift my head and look over his shoulder, and it’s true, the group looks mostly male.

  “Did you get married,” one shouts.

  I lift my hand in an acknowledging wave and turn back to the golf course.

  “You’re not gonna answer them?” Vance asks me.

  I grit my teeth as I lock my eyes onto his face. “Why would I?” I ask quietly.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, keeping his voice low to match mine. “Could be fun. Or not.”

  “Experiencing the public is rarely fun.”

  He shakes his head. “McD in the ivory tower.”

  “Yeah, where no one will fuck with us.”

  “McD with the F-bomb,” he hisses.

  I shut my eyes and let a breath out. I want Vanny happy. If he wants me to tell them we just tied the knot, maybe I should.

  “I see a ring,” someone says. They’re maybe twenty feet away from us—so, close enough to see.

  “Dude, let’s call Casey,” another one says.

  “You wanna tell them?” I ask V, at the same time he says, “Doesn’t matter, man. Let’s just not.”

  “No, I think you’re right.” I squeeze my golf club’s handle. “This is Vegas. If not here, where?”

  “We do live in San Francisco.” I look at Rayne’s face—his sparkling eyes and buoyant, teasing grin. He doesn’t care what we do; I can see he really doesn’t.

  So I turn toward the crowd—it’s grown since I last looked up—and I cup my hands around my mouth, and I say, “YES!”

  I hold my left hand up, and then I pull Rayne in for a kiss. I try to make it look straight out of Disney: my arm slung around his neck, my other arm around his mid-back…and my lips crashing down on his—a gentle crash—before I slip my tongue into his mouth and kiss him like I want to take him—hard and rough but with some tenderness, because I love him so much.

  I hear cheering, and I realize he was right. They’re not haters.

  “Can we play too?” someone shouts.

  Rayne and I pull apart, and he smiles like a concession, telling me with just his eyes that we don’t have to do that.

  “What do you think?” I murmur.

  “You just said the public sucks, McD.” His hand cups my shoulder. “We’re going home soon, right? So you can get some rest for—”

  “Would you mind?” I ask him.

  “If we let them putt-putt with us? Hell no. You wanna do it?”

  I look at them out of the corner of my eye—at their clothes and hats and faces, at two of them draped around each other. Stereotypes aside, these guys are gay. I can just feel it. They’re in Vegas; they’re probably drunk. They want to play putt-putt with us and cheer us on.

  It would be the outest that I’ve ever been. The gayest. It might feel good.

  “It’s okay, girls,” one of them says.

  “We don’t want to fuck your night up,” a green-haired dude offers.

  “It’s okay.” I shrug and then wave. “If you can catch us on the course, we’ll play you.”

  The guys look at one another. I spot a couple who look more femme, and I count about twelve as they murmur to each other and a black-haired guy says, “Fuck yeah.”

  “Don’t cuss!” another guy says.

  “Freck yeah!”

  They take off toward the check-in building, and Vance chuckles. “You wanna fuck them, Sky babe?”

  “What?” I frown.

  He waggles his brows. “We’ll play you.” He says it like a phone sex operator, and I roll my eyes.

  “Do you want us to do that,” I ask.

  “I just want you,” Rayne says.

  “But you’d be down if I wanted to bring another person in?” I’m honestly curious.

  He shrugs. “Whatever you wanted.”

  I wrap an arm around him. “Only you, V. Only you and me, forever.”

  I look up to find a dozen or more guys jogging toward us, looking queer as queer, holding neon putt-putt clubs.

  “So much speed walking,” Rayne says, grinning.

  “Lots of gym rats,” I murmur.

  He chuckles.

  “Welcome to The Queer Team, Sky babe. You think you’re drunk enough for this?”

  I lean my head against his shoulder for a second. “I hope so.”

  “I love you.”

  That’s the last thing my husband says to me before we get a bunch of company.

  It’s four and a half hours before we hobble up the plane’s stairs, laughing, smelling like a bar, and holding hands marked by big, black Xs. I’ve never felt so happy. I’ve never felt so married…or so gay.

  We go straight to the bed—the bed where I proposed—and lie down. Rayne urges my head onto his shoulder.

  “Popped at least one cherry,” he says. I can feel him grinning against my hair.

  “Yes, I know.” My gay bar cherry.

  “You still good about it?”

  I swallow before I whisper, “Yes.”

  His hand sifts through my hair, making my eyelids drop shut.

  “I’ll be here with you,” Vance whispers against my hairline.

  “I know. But this is what I want. I’m okay.” I hug him hard, and when the plane lifts off the ground, I peel his clothes off and then mine and I do what I’ve wanted to do all night. I bury myself in him, taking all Rayne’s strength, smelling his skin, tasting his throat, and then we fall asleep wrapped up together like we always do, and things are okay.

  This is what I tell myself.

  That it will be okay.

  There will be pictures—I’m sure there will be. Some people will be upset. It’s not pastoral, and it’s okay. I knew all this, and I made my choices tonight. This is who I am, and I did nothing wrong. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just find another way…

  That’s the last thought I remember before waking up in Rayne’s arms. He’s smiling down at me, looking tired but serene—not like we spent three hours dancing and tossing back shots at a bar.

  “You ready to head home, cowboy?”

  I quirk a brow up. “You smirkin’ at me?”

  “Never.” He grins.

  But he looks like he’s amused by what a lightweight I am. Tonight was one of my first nights out since college, I realize. I guess it’s pretty sad.

  Vance’s fingertip smooths between my eyebrows. “Don’t be doing that now.” He pulls me up, and we hug with my head against his shoulder—which is what I need, although I’d never have asked.

  I feel better by the time we’re in the car. Strangely apathetic about what might happen
when I turn my phone off “silent.”

  “Whatcha thinking?” he asks as he drives us home.

  “Not much.”

  I run my hand through his short, soft hair, trying not to touch the scar at first and then running my fingertip gently over it, saying a prayer of thanksgiving.

  “Ring feels good,” I tell him.

  “Mine, too.” He holds his hand up so I can see he’s got his real band on, and he’s also still wearing the gumball machine ring.

  "Any nerves going?" He takes my hand, bringing it up to his lips so he can brush a kiss over my knuckles.

  "Somewhat."

  "About bar pictures?"

  I shrug. "All of it.” I picture Rayne and I in our beanies, shaking my head at the memories. Which are amazing and also so very gay. “But if they can't swallow this pill on the front end, then I'm going to need to go. If this whole Vegas thing was too gay, then…" I shrug.

  "I don’t think you’re going to have to wait long to see. Because…photos."

  I smile, so Rayne won't think I’m overly worried. "I know that. I know a dozen people took our picture last night. Let them find out. Let them know I'm so in love with you we flew to Vegas, because we couldn't wait another second. Mine," I murmur, leaning close so I can brush my lips over his warm cheek.

  "And you're mine,” he says. “Forever. Look at my face.” He takes my hand in his and presses it to his cheek. "Nothing anybody like that says is going to matter to me. Let them do what they will."

  I'm in awe of Rayne's strength. With his short hair and his fresh scar and his pretty eyes and dark, dramatic eyebrows, he looks like an actor—beautiful and vital.

  "I'm so glad we did this,” I say. “Can't imagine not telling the world that I love you."

  He holds my left hand with his right one, tracing over my ring. I relax against the seat, tired but happy. Vance keeps stealing glances at me, giving me these little cat-like smiles, like he's so satisfied.

  "You know I'm looking at you thinking ‘how'd I score that as a husband’?" He smirks.

  "That." I feign offense.

  "That piece of ass."

  I reach over and grab his ass, then cup his crotch, where he's half hard. "Mr. Rayne with the boner while he’s driving."