Page 3 of The Pucking Fake Marriage

Just before I reach the steps, a flicker of hesitation pulls me back. I glance over my shoulder at Ken’s door one last time. And that’s when it happens—I don't see them in time. Ken’s dumbbells, abandoned at the top of the stairs. My foot catches, and before I can react, my world tilts violently. Suddenly, I'm airborne. Time slows to a crawl. I hear a scream—my own—as my hands grasp frantically for something, anything to stop my fall. But gravity is merciless.

I tumble down the stairs, a rag doll at the mercy ofphysics. Each impact sends shockwaves through my body, but it's the final, sickeningcrackthat freezes my blood.

As I lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, a horrifying realization dawns on me, even before the pain fully registers. Before the thundering of footsteps and panicked voices of the Edwards family reach my ears. Before I see Ken's face, pale with shock and guilt.

I know, with gut-wrenching certainty, that my dreams of dancing are shattered. And worse—the person I trusted most in the world might be responsible.

The last thing I see is Ken's anguished face, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to look at him the same way again.

ONE

THE VEGAS GAMBIT (CHARLIE)

Ten years later…

It's a prettysolid indicator that you're making a mistake when you have to persuade yourself that what you're about to do won’t land you in jail.

Wiping my clammy hands on my short skirt, I tell myself that I’mprobablynot committing a federal offense.

I should’ve researched this a bit more thoroughly.

Still, when I glance around at the bustling club, I quickly note that everyonehere has a drink in hand. Half of these people are making out with reckless abandon. The online review listed this as one of the most exclusive clubs in Las Vegas. No doubt tonight’s going to end in drunken marriages for a lot of them. Las Vegas is famous for it, anyway. Which is exactly why I’m here.

Stop thinking, Charlie,I chide myself.Just do it.

I look down at my outfit. I’d picked it out with a lot of thought. A black halter top fitting snugly to my chest, a skirt just long enough to cover the most intimate parts of mybody, and four-inch heels to give my petite ballerina body enough height to garner hungry stares.

But I’ve only got eyes for one man tonight.

He’s easy to spot… When isn’t he? Even in this dark bar, Kenneth Edwards glows like the club lights overhead. His wavy black hair is brushed back smoothly, framing the sharp angles of his face. He has his head thrown back as he takes a swig of his beer, and his lush, full lips are set into a grin as he listens to the man sitting next to him.

Classic Ken. Something’s always funny to him.

My stomach contracts, and a wave of resentment floods my gut. The feeling is so intense that I physically stagger. I’m surprised. I spent the last few weeks bracing myself for the moment I’d see him again in person, and it doesn’t seem to have made much of a difference.

But then, no amount of preparation can make it feel okay, seeing him after this long.

That he is the spitting image of Kali doesn’t help one bit.

Pulling my thoughts from my ex, I try to focus on Ken. He’s sitting in a booth tucked in the corner of the room, surrounded by friends. I recognize most of the guys from the pictures I’ve pored over for the past few months—they are Ken’s teammates on the Philly Titans. Some of them, I’m pleased to see, seem to have brought their wives and girlfriends along, and Ken is one of the few sitting alone.

Good,I think, feeling my bitterness dissipate. It’ll make things easier.

I look down at my outfit again and take a deep breath. I’m ready.

As ready as I can be, anyway.

More stares follow me as I saunter across the club. I keep my chin up, my eyes focusing on my target. Myobsidian black hair cascades down my back, swaying with each step, a glossy curtain catching the pulsing lights of the club. The silken strands whisper against my skin, a constant reminder of my carefully crafted appearance.

All the while, my heart is banging in my chest and beads of sweat pool on my forehead. I ignore my nervousness, taking one step after another, being careful not to slip and fall on the glossy floor.

Finally,I think, as I stop in front of Ken’s booth. There are two velvet couches in the small space, a table in front of them cluttered with bottles of alcohol. Ken is on the farthest edge of one of the couches, separated from me by a half-wall.

“Hey.”

He turns around to look at me. Half of the group follows his gaze. For a second, it’s hard to breathe.

“Thanks, we’re good with drinks,” someone says. It’s a blond man with blue eyes—Blake White, the Titan who recently got married to Faye Strummer. He looks surlier than the rest. He’s the only married one of the bunch whose wife isn’t with him tonight.

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