Becoming Mrs. Lockwood

By: K.I. Lynn

His eyes squeezed shut, and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. I don’t know why, but his reaction made my chest tighten. I needed to leave, get away. Now.

Using the hand on his chest, I pushed up, lifting my body from the bed and his warmth.

“I . . . have to go,” I whispered.

He opened his eyes at my movement and his hand reached out, grabbing mine as I tried to remove it from his chest. “Wait . . . What the hell is that?”

My gaze followed his down to the large diamond ring I was sporting.

“I don’t know. It was there when I woke up.”

Quickly, he jerked his other arm out from underneath my body, his eyes widening when a white-gold band reflected in the light.

“Oh my God!” I gasped. “Did we . . . I . . . how . . .”

“I don’t know, but I think so,” he said in reply to my incomplete and incoherent questions. The same thoughts probably running through his own mind.

Jumping up, he staggered and grabbed his head, quickly stumbling back to the bed. Trying again, slowly, he walked out of the bedroom to the large dining room table and picked something up from the glass top.

He picked up another item, and then began mumbling and chanting “fuck” over and over.

“What is it?” I asked from the doorway, though, I had a feeling I knew what it was already.

“Well, Mrs. Lockwood, it’s our marriage certificate.”

Fuck. Me.

My stomach turned as I stared down at the tile floor that seemed to be disappearing from beneath me.

The night returned in bits. Fuzzy images, but I remembered fun. I remembered Weston and how good his body felt pressed against me. His lips on mine, his hands roaming and lighting up my skin.

I reached up to my rat’s nest of hair and remembered the feeling of his fingers tangling, knotting it up as we made out. Probably from dry humping and on the cusp of sex.

“I asked you to marry me, in the elevator after dinner,” he recounted as he stared down at the items on the table. “We went and bought rings, and we found a chapel on the strip.”

He was right. Vague memories surfaced, filling my mind with images of diamonds sparkling and walking down a short aisle to him. Though, I mostly remembered his body pushing mine against the wall inside that elevator. I stared down at the ring on my finger, entranced as I watched it sparkle under the light.

I lived in the dream for the smallest of minutes, wondering what life would be like with him. Because I knew that I wouldn’t be wearing it much longer. Soon, he would be returning it to wherever we picked it up.

And then we would go our separate ways, our next contact in the form of papers to annul our drunken decision. Nothing left but memories of the beautiful being, his magical lips, and the most wonderful day of my life.

A quiet sigh slipped from my lips.

“Annulment is probably best,” I said, taking one last gaze at the ring before looking up to where he was standing across the room.

His gaze shifted to mine, and I was shocked to see surprise in his features.

“Annulment?” He glanced back down to the table. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Best.”

He appeared saddened, not quite the reaction I was expecting. Turning, he moved past me and into the bathroom. I moved from my support and went to get a look at the certificate. It wasn’t the only thing lying on the table. There were a few photos of Weston and I, looking happy, excited, and in love as we said “I do.”

Did I just think we looked in love? No, it wasn’t possible, but sure enough . . . it showed in the pictures.

Oh God, my head was spinning, along with the light pounding.

Weston came out a few minutes later and stood next to me as I stared at the photos.

“Can I have one?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.

“As many as you want, as long as I get one,” he replied.

“Whichever one you want,” I said.

I watched him grab the one of us smiling like fools for the camera. The rings sat on our fingers, and I was holding a small bouquet of white roses. It was the best one.

The room was quiet, neither one of us knowing what to say or do. It was suffocating, something I’d never felt with him . . . not that I’d known him that long.

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