Page 9 of Dearly Unbeloved
With a sigh, I yank open the closet again and crouch down to type the code into the safe.
Sierra hovers behind me. “I know you like things in their proper place, but do you really think you’d go to the effort of putting something in the safe when you were blackout drunk?”
The safe beeps and swings open and, sure enough, even blackout drunk, I’m still me. Me enough to make sure important documents go in the safe—not me enoughto make sure I don’t get fucking married in Vegas, apparently.
I grab the folder and hand it to Sierra, not sure I could actually read with my dry-ass contacts in. I can make out the giant pink letters on the outside of the wallet of documents, though:
Congratulations Mrs. & Mrs.!
Sierra blows out a long breath. “Well, at least they’re inclusive, I suppose.”
“Sierra,” I groan.
She ignores my exasperation and flips the wallet open. A purple poker chip flies out and rolls across the carpet, stopping when it hits my foot. I bend down, the room spinning, and pick it up as she scans what appears to be an information sheet.
“It says here that our official marriage certificate will be mailed to us within ten business days, but there’s a temporary one in here until then.” She leafs through the papers and pulls out the temporary certificate, listing two brides:Sierra Kimiko Hayashi and Rose Charlotte Cannon, married on August 21st, at Dearly Beloved Chapel in Las Vegas, Nevada.
Shit.
Sierra sits on the bed, dropping the paperwork on the nightstand and pressing her palms into her eyes.
I sit on the other side, trying to force the wave of panic threatening me to recede. Panic isn’t going to get us anywhere. I unclench my palm, inspecting the poker chip.Dearly Belovedis printed across the center in a pretty silver script, and there’s a magnet stuck on the back. As far astacky Vegas wedding favors go, I can think of worse, I suppose.
Sierra eyes it, and I drop it into her palm. She reads it and laughs, the sound mirthless. “More like dearlyunbeloved. How the fuck did this happen?”
“I’m pretty sure ‘shots sound perfect’ might have something to do with it.”
She whirls on me, her eyes narrowed. “Are you seriously blamingmefor this? I didn’t force you to drink, and I didn’t force you to sign the fucking marriage license. This is as much on you as it is on me.” She laughs, the sound humorless and sharp. “I guess Little Miss Perfect can fuck up like the rest of us mere mortals. Who knew?”
Her words sting, but I can’t let her see that. Mask firmly in place, I roll my eyes—ouch—and ignore her comment. “Pass me my phone so I can figure out how we can undo this.”
Sierra grabs my phone from the nightstand and all but tosses it at me. It’s clinging on for dear life, but eight percent should be enough charge to find what I need to. This has to be a common issue here.
Sure enough, one quick Google search later, and I have the details for a nearby twenty-four-hour annulment service. For five hundred dollars, we just have to show up and wait to be seen, and someone will put an end to this whole ordeal for us.
Sierra goes to her room and we both get dressed quickly, determined to get out of the hotel before we’re spotted by Jazz or Maggie. If all goes to plan, my sister never needs to know that I accidentally married her assistant. Because if Jazz finds out, everyone will findout. She’s a pro at keeping her own secrets, but no one else’s are safe.
I meet Sierra in the lobby, and we drop our bags at the front desk, in case we’re not back for checkout. We still have a couple of hours, but I have no idea how long this is going to take.
I use the paperwork to shield my eyes from the blazing sun as we walk ten minutes in silence to the annulment office. It’s bigger than I expected, and there’s a short line waiting at the desk when we step inside. Thankfully, the line moves quickly, and a smiling elderly woman greets us when we’re up.
“Welcome in. How can we help today?”
I clear my throat. “We’re looking to get an annulment,” I say quietly, like it’s embarrassing. Which it is, but presumably everyone is here for the same reason.
The woman—Cherry, according to her name tag—points to a sign sitting in a plastic frame on the counter. “Do you have everything listed here?”
Temporary marriage license, ID of both parties, evidence to prove a reason for annulment… “What counts as evidence?” Sierra asks.
“Well, that depends on your reason for annulling. Intoxication is a common one?—”
“Yeah, that’s us.”
“Do you have a receipt or credit card statement to show you were in a bar or club prior to the wedding?” the woman asks, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I keep all my receipts, just in case.
I nod, and she smiles widely. “Excellent. Here’s thepaperwork you’ll need to fill in before they see you. You’ll have plenty of time—we’re a little busy today.” She hands a clipboard and a pen over to Sierra. “Your number’s at the top of the page. They’ll call you when it’s your turn. Just head up the corridor. The waiting room is the last room on the left.”
We thank her and head up the corridor. The navy carpet is worn and patchy in places, and there’s a faint smell of tobacco, but it’s not as seedy as I expected from the website.
