WAKING UP MARRIED
© 2019 Lisa Suzanne
CHAPTER 1: ADAM
“Oh my God!
You’re Adam Wilson from MFB!”
I give her a
humble smile and tip the pint glass filled with Guinness to my lips. “I am,” I affirm
before taking a sip.
“I’m Blair. You have
to let me buy you a shot,” she says. Her blonde locks swing around her
shoulders. “I just saw you up on that stage playing guitar and holy shit I
would just die to do a shot of sex on the beach with you.” She leans in
close, and I can smell the peach schnapps from the shots she’s already done
tonight. “And more, if you know what I mean.”
I know what she
means.
It’s this part of
the business I’m least comfortable with.
“Oh my God, it’s
Rascal!” she says when she sees who’s sitting beside me. Her friend is already
chatting up William Rascowicz, MFB’s keyboardist and the guy I’m sitting
with—the only other single guy in my band, for the record. “This is insane!
We literally just watched your show. It was amazing.” She’s gushing as she
presses her tits to my arm.
I know where this
is leading. I glance over at Rascal, who nods to let me know he’s interested in
pursuing the friend, and then the bartender places four shots in front of us.
I toss back the
shot with the girl whose name I’ve already forgotten.
This really isn’t
my style. I’m not planning to do another shot, and I’m certainly not planning
to go back with her to her place.
Except it appears
one of my buddies is trying to hook up with her friend, so I’m probably doing
another shot and I’m probably going to her place because that’s what wingmen
do, isn’t it? I’m here to help him get laid even if I’m not getting myself laid
tonight.
I’ve been told
I’m a rare breed. I’m much more of a relationship kind of guy versus a
one-night stand kind of guy. I’m more likely to sit with a Guinness for an hour
talking with the guys in my band about how we can get MFB to level up even
higher than to sit in a bar trolling for hook-ups.
The same can’t be
said for most guys in my line of work.
I guess I’m just
not used to the single life yet even though it’s been six months. I’m free to
do whatever I want—including hooking up with this gorgeous woman who clearly
wants me—but it just doesn’t feel like the right thing to do.
I hate when my
morals get in the way. My stupid, self-loathing morals.
A second shot
burns down my throat and warms my chest as those morals find themselves moving
up to a dusty shelf.
Sober Adam has
pinned down why this isn’t his thing. When I was with my ex, the sex was good
because I loved her. Feelings were involved. I knew she’d be there the next day
and the day after and the day after that. I was comfortable and content.
I wasn’t lonely.
I didn’t feel
like my ex only wanted me because I’m a celebrity. She was with me before stardom
found our little band. She was along for the ride even if it’s what ultimately
tore us apart.
I don’t feel that
same sentiment with this girl.
She doesn’t know
who I am except for how I’ve been portrayed by the media and on the reality
show we starred in a year ago, Rock on the Road. She doesn’t care who
I am, either. She just wants a night with a rock star. She doesn’t want it to
go any further than that, and knowing what I know about her—that she’s the kind
of girl who will buy a rock star shots in a bar and offer to bring him home
before she even said four complete sentences to him—it all tells me that I
shouldn’t do this.
But three sex on
the beach shots plus some beer has turned Sober Adam into someone who really
doesn’t care about being comfortable or content or lonely or not.
He just cares
about having a good time.
And Claire is a
really fun time.
Claire, right? Or
was it Cher? Blair?
Whatever. I’m
laughing at something she said and I don’t even remember what it was. I
might’ve if I hadn’t been three beers deep before the shots came out. She’s
fun, and Rascal looks like he’s having a good time, and it’s just one night,
right? I’m not drunk, exactly, just toasted enough to not feel bad when
she leans in, presses her tits to my chest, and smashes her lips to mine. We’re
making out in the middle of the bar and it’s all good.
I can’t even
remember what city we’re in, but when the fog clears in the morning, I’ll
figure it out.
A few minutes
later, I find myself with Blair in the back of a Lyft and Rascal and
Blair’s roommate are going after it in the third row behind us. This is a
typical Monday night, I guess. Her name came back to me when her friend asked
her if she wanted to get out of the bar and used her name to get her attention.
When we get to
their apartment, Rascal disappears with the roommate into one bedroom while
Blair leads me down the hallway to another.
She kisses me
again once the door shuts behind her, but the Lyft ride over here was a little
too sobering.
I don’t want to
do this.
It isn’t me.
I helped my
friend get here, and he’s getting whatever it is he’s getting in another room,
so my job here is done.
“I’m just going
to go freshen up.” Blair disappears to the bathroom, which was the exact cliché
I’d banked on.
When she returns,
I pretend to be passed out.
She straddles me
anyway as she tries to wake me up, but I don’t budge.
She sighs in
annoyance, but she moves away. I almost crack an eye open to see what she’s
doing when I feel her breath on my cheek. “I love you, Adam Wilson,” she
whispers. I hear the camera on her phone as she presumably clicks a selfie of
the two of us, and then I feel her lips on my cheek before the room goes dark
and quiet.
My heart thunders
in my chest.
She’s going to
post that on social media. People will think we had sex when we didn’t.
But I don’t
really care what people think of me. If she wants to portray herself a certain
way, that’s on her.
I know the truth,
and that’s all that matters.
I’d like to say I
got a great night’s sleep after that, but between listening to Rascal and the
roommate through the thin walls of the apartment and worrying that the (snoring)
chick in bed next to me is gonna go all Fatal Attraction on me, I
basically lay awake all night.
When I hear Blair
get out of bed in the morning, I finally open my eyes. I scroll my phone and
find out I’m in Cleveland, and I’m thankful it’s a travel day and we don’t have
a gig to get to tonight. Instead I can sleep on the bus.
I don’t feel too
bad all things considered. I didn’t sleep with Blair but managed to get my
friend laid, and I don’t have a hangover.
The morning seems
to be going fine until the door opens and Blair walks in with a tray. “I made
you breakfast in bed.”
I raise my brows
and I’m about to thank her because that’s such a nice thing to do for a hook-up
when she says, “And you can eat just as soon as we have sex.”
My eyes widen,
and I’m about to come up with some retort when I hear some commotion from the
room next door. My eyes meet Blair’s, and her brows shoot down in some
combination of confusion and curiosity.
She steps back
out into the hallway, breakfast tray still in hand, and I use the distraction
to get the fuck out of this bed. I move beside her, the smell of the omelet and
potatoes on the tray wafting to my nose and making my stomach growl.
“Get the fuck
out!” the roommate screeches, and Rascal seemingly is literally thrown from her
room before her door slams shut.
He glances over
at the two of us standing there watching, his red curls bouncing like some sort
of caricature of a human being. He knocks on the door a little timidly, and
when there’s no answer, he yells through the wood. “Can I, uh, have my shoes?”
The door doesn’t
open, the shoes aren’t returned, and Rascal looks over at me. “Ready to head
out?”
I laugh, but
yeah...I’m ready.
CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE READING
No comments