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22

Brendon

P reston and Jeremy are leading the way down the street toward some restaurant that I already forgot the name of but apparently has good chicken. I don’t know.

“Let’s ditch them and grab burgers on the way back,” I whisper to Paul before checking the time on my phone and doing a quick search for places to get married near me. The amount of red dots is mind-blowing. “We have time.”

“We can’t just disappear.” Paul eyes our friends. “What are we going to tell them?”

“I have a stomachache.” I shrug.

He looks between them and me, then nods.

“Hey, guys.” I groan and stop walking, holding my stomach. “I don’t feel good. I’m going to go back.”

Jeremy and Preston turn around with concerned expressions, but Preston holds his arm up to keep Jeremy from getting too close.

“What’s wrong?” Preston asks with suspicion.

“My stomach.” I moan again.

“Probably all that candy on the bus.” Paul shakes his head and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take him back and just Uber Eats some dinner.”

“We can bring you back something,” Jeremy offers, but Paul waves it away.

“That’s all right. Thanks, man.” Paul turns me back toward the hotel. “You guys go ahead. We’ll be fine.”

I amble along, groaning and complaining for a few more minutes until we turn a corner and no one will see us.

“Don’t go into acting; that was atrocious.” Paul rolls his eyes at me.

I pull out my phone and find the closest place we can get married.

“Five-minute walk that way.” I point down the street the way we’re going, shove my phone in Paul’s pocket, then jump up onto his back.

“What the fuck?” he yells but catches me and holds on to my legs.

“Hi-ho, Silver, away!” I yell, shoving one fist in the air while wrapping my other around his chest.

With a sigh, he starts walking in the direction I pointed, and my phone gives directions from his pocket, which makes me laugh.

“In a hundred feet, turn left,” the animated female voice says from his hoodie pocket.

“I think your dick is talking.” I nip at his neck and lick his ear. Paul shudders and tries to hide a moan, but I hear it and smile into his skin. “We need to find a way to switch rooms.”

Paul’s stomach grumbles, and I pat it. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll feed you soon.”

“With what? Cum?” Paul scoffs, but honestly, it’s not a bad plan . . .

“I mean, it has calories and, like, protein or something.” I shrug. “There’s worse things you could put in your face hole.”

“I’ve already put your dick in my face hole today,” Paul says over his shoulder to me as he turns us to face the mock chapel.

The building is covered in red and pink lights, has a steeple, and what looks like wood doors with stained-glass windows like those super old churches. But there’s also neon rose, ribbons, and wedding rings. It’s a really classy place.

“You really want to do this?” Paul asks while letting me down. I stand shoulder to shoulder with him, staring up at the sign that reads FREE ELVIS PICTURE WITH WEDDING PACKAGE.

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re wearing slides and basketball shorts, none of our family or friends are here, and there’s an Elvis impersonator.” Paul ticks off each item on his fingers, and disappointment settles in my stomach.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to do this. It was a crazy idea.” I shrug and try to keep the hurt from my voice. I want him to be mine. Only mine. Is that too much to ask? He’s said he loves me the way I am, that I’m not annoying or too much.

Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I clench my jaw to give myself something to focus on and cross my arms to pinch my inner arm where he won’t see. Pain makes the spiral stop.

Paul grabs my chin and turns me to face him, cupping my cheeks in his palms.

“I want nothing more than to make you mine in every way I possibly can,” he breathes, pressing our foreheads together. “But I don’t want you to look back and regret the way we did it. I can wait if you want to do it the traditional way.”

A painful knot is in my throat, and no amount of clearing my throat will get rid of it.

“What part of me is traditional?” A tear falls down my cheek that he brushes away, and I give him a shy smile.

He laughs and kisses me quickly. “You do have my teeth marks tattooed on your neck.”

“It was really my way of proposing.” I chuckle and wrap my arm around his waist, glad to have the tension broken. “Surprised you didn’t realize that.”

He kisses me again, just a soft press of his lips on mine, before the smile falls again and that serious expression takes over. My poor Pauly is always so serious.

“And you’re okay keeping it quiet for now?” He brushes his thumbs over my cheeks. “I’m not ashamed or embarrassed of you, but I’m not ready to come out yet. To have to explain myself to everyone.”

“I’ll wait as long as I have to. You’re worth it.” I turn my face and kiss his palm so he smiles at me again.

“Let’s do this.”

When we get inside, there is a line of couples waiting to fill out paperwork with a woman with very fake blonde hair, a skintight red plastic dress, and those super tall clear plastic shoes that strippers wear.

I want to be her best friend. I can only imagine the stories she has to tell.

One couple is a man and woman, him in a lime green Speedo while she’s in a white-and-red striped string bikini top and denim shorts so short I’m betting her flaps are out. Both are covered in tattoos that were probably drawn by a toddler, and I’m betting neither of them have been sober in a decade. They are all over each other, and I’m pretty sure I just saw her nipple.

Vegas is amazing.

I slide my hand into Paul’s hoodie pocket, and he slides his in from the other side, holding my hand and sending me a knowing smirk. While I can’t imagine any of our teammates coming in here, I’m still hesitant to hold hands with him in here.

Out on the street, he kissed me. He made that move, not me. If someone saw us, that would be on him, and we would deal with it, but I don’t want to be the reason he’s outed before he’s ready.

Our relationship has moved really fast, I know that, but at the same time it’s been so slow. We’ve known each other for years, have been roommates for months. We know all the bad and good parts of each other and love each other anyway.

Despite it all.

And I have his teeth tattooed on my neck. If that doesn’t say I’m committed to this, I don’t know what does.

The lady calls us up—Ashley, according to her name tag—and looks between us.

“You marrying each other or just filling out the paperwork for the lucky lady?” She snaps her bubble gum, but I don’t get any judgment from her either way. I’m sure she’s seen it all.

“Each other,” Paul says, and she hands over the paperwork for us to fill out, checks our IDs, and processes the payment.

“Do you have a witness, or do you need one?” She clicks something on her computer.

“Uh.” We look at each other. We didn’t think of that. “We’ll need one,” we say together.

“No problem.” She inputs something into the computer, checks the paperwork, then hands us an “unofficial” marriage certificate to use until we get the real one in the mail, and gives us the one for the officiate and witness to sign.

Holy shit. This is really real.

Excitement swirls in my stomach, and the urge to do something weird is so fucking strong, but I don’t want to embarrass him, so I hold it in.

“Chapel two.” She points over her shoulder. “Elvis will be with you in about fifteen minutes along with a witness. Congratulations.”

Paul grabs the papers and my hand, leading me inside the room with a big smile on his face and love shining from his eyes.

With the door closed, he turns on me and pulls me into a deep, demanding kiss.

“I love you,” he whimpers against my lips before fucking my mouth with his tongue. It’s urgent and erotic, a sensual dance that is driven by instincts and hormones. It’s intoxicating, and I want so much more. I’m hard and aching in a matter of seconds, and it doesn’t matter that I came an hour ago. I want him again. Here. Now. He grinds his cock against me, desperate, needy sounds coming from him.

I would give anything to be in a private room right now with him, let him take everything he needs from me until he’s weak and sated. He can have every part of me. I have no walls anymore, nothing to hide. Not from him. Never from him, never again.

“All right, let’s get this done.” The gruff voice of a man who is done with life and has been smoking a pack a day for twenty years scares us, and we jump apart, panting. Both of us hard as fuck, and my shorts offer no protection. I turn my back and tuck my dick into my waistband while Paul pulls his hoodie down farther.

“Up at the altar. Come on, boys.” He waves toward the front of the room where there’s a raised step and an arch with very fake, old flowers I think are supposed to be roses. Maybe. And white Christmas lights, to give it that romantic vibe. I think.

It doesn’t matter. It’s terrible, and I love it.

There are old church pews in the audience, and as I walk past, there are some suspicious stains on some of them. I guess we aren’t the only ones who got a little carried away in here. I try to hide my laugh at the idea but end up snorting into my hand, and my body shakes.

Paul turns a very confused face to me. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he whispers.

“Pretty sure there’s cum stains on those benches,” I say out of the corner of my mouth as we take our spots on the floor that have been worn away from all the people who have stood here before us. Paul’s face twists into disgust, and he eyes the benches in question like they’ve personally offended him.

The door opens again, and a woman dressed very similar to Ashley strides in. It’s honestly impressive that they can walk in those shoes. I would probably fall and break my nose or something.

She takes the papers from Paul, and our officiant, who looks nothing like Elvis, sighs and starts the vows while Paul takes both my hands in his.

“Do you take, uh . . .” He trails off, and the woman says “Paul” from the front pew.

“Right, Paul. Do you take Paul to be your husband, to have and to hold, through sickness and health, good times and bad, forever and ever, amen?”

“Amen,” I say on instinct, and Paul laughs. “Wait, yes. Shit. I do.”

He chuckles, and the officiant starts again.

“And do you take—”

“Brandon,” the woman says.

“Brendon,” Paul corrects.

“Brendon to be your husband to have and to hold, through sickness and health, good times and bad, forever and ever, amen?”

“I do.” Paul’s eyes are locked on mine as he says the words, and my smile is so big my fucking cheeks hurt.

“By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss your husband.” The man could not sound any more bored, but I don’t give a shit. Paul is mine. Legally. Officially. No one can take him from me.

I jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, and kiss the fuck out of him.

“You’re mine,” he says quietly against my lips.

“Forever and ever, amen.” I beam at him.

“Sign here, please.” The woman’s no-nonsense words break into our bubble, and I drop my feet to the floor. Paul takes the pen and signs, then hands it to me to do the same.

“Smile.” She lifts one of those old Polaroid cameras that spits out the picture at the bottom, and we stand next to the worst Elvis impersonator on Earth but with the biggest grins on our faces.

She takes the picture and hands it to us with our temporary certificate.