Colorado 03 Lady Luck (7 page)

“My man isn’t a confetti type of guy.”

And this I knew to be true. Earlier, he’d
returned to our hotel room while I was in the bathroom getting
gussied up for the big event. When I came out, he barely looked at
me even though I was coiffed, made up and had the dress on (but my
feet were bare) before he passed me and went into the bathroom
saying, “Delivery will come. Accept it. Tip. The boxes on the bed
are for you.” Then he disappeared in the bathroom.

No, “Honey, you look fabulous,” which I
wasn’t expecting but his eyes didn’t even flare. Nothing. My dress
was fantastic, it fit like it was made for me, it was sexy yet
elegant and my hair had totally behaved for once and it looked
amazing, all this but nothing from Ty Walker. I could have been
wearing a potato sack.

So definitely not a confetti guy. I was
surprised he wanted pictures.

After he went into the bathroom, I’d gone to
the boxes on the bed but the minute I spied them, my step had gone
hesitant.

That was because the boxes on the bed were a
very distinctive color and they were tied by white, satin ribbons.
And there were four of them.

I’d sat on the bed and slowly opened the
first one, finding it hard to breathe.

It was a set of earrings. Diamonds clustered
in the shape of a flower. Gorgeous. Not huge. The sparkle and
setting saying it all. The fact that the post was screw in laying
testimony to how expensive they were. They were not earrings you’d
want to lose because the doohickey fell off the back.

The second box held a necklace, a delicate
white gold chain on which was suspended a flower cluster of
diamonds that matched the earrings. The pendant was larger than the
earrings, eye-catching but not ostentatious.

The third, a diamond bracelet made up of the
same flower clusters. It was extraordinary and it had to be at
least five times as expensive as the earrings and necklace because
it was all diamonds linked with thick, white gold links.

I put the first two in and on but couldn’t
do the clasp on the bracelet one-handed because it was too
complicated.

Then I turned to the last.

The last box I knew what it was by the size.
And when I opened it, I saw I was right.

A diamond engagement ring, princess cut,
stone not even close to small, white gold, the stone elevated,
double rows on an open curve guiding up to it set with an array of
much smaller diamonds but a whole lot of them.

I stared at it thinking that Ty Walker was
not fucking around.

I held my breath as I slipped it on, lost my
breath when it caught on my knuckle, deep breathed as I panicked
that it would be too small then it slid over my knuckle and down
where it sat at the base of my finger snugly. It wouldn’t ever fall
off. Perfect fit.

“Shit,” I whispered, staring at the
beautiful ring that looked really fucking great on my finger.

Then a knock came at the door. I jumped then
hurried to the door to find a man stood there holding a hanger on
which was a zipped-up suit holder and he was balancing four boxes
in his other hand.

“One hour tailoring,” he announced.

There you go. In Vegas, you could get
anything.

I smiled at him and let him in, he put down
the boxes on the top of the cabinet unit, hung up the hanger in the
closet, I gave him a ten, he smiled and hustled out. I went to the
boxes, white cardboard sides but clear plastic top. I sifted
through them. Four dress shirts. One deep gray, one deep lavender,
one deep blue and the last a light, dove gray.

The shower went off but Walker didn’t come
out so I stopped sifting through his stuff and went about my final
preparations, in other words, perfume, deodorant, lip gloss and
shifting things I needed from my purse to my new satin clutch with
the rhinestone clasp that matched my shoes.

I was sitting in a chair putting on my
spike-heeled, deep blush, satin, open-toed sandals with the wrapped
heel and ankle strap that had a rhinestone buckle when he came
out.

Then my fingers arrested on the buckle when
my head came up and I saw my new fiancé wearing nothing but a
towel.

I was right. All muscle. Lots of it, all of
them big.

I was also right. Perfect skin as far as the
eye could see.

That was, the skin not inked but even the
inked skin was perfect because the ink was awesome. He had a lot of
tats. Lots of them. Or, more to the point, he had two tats but one
that curved, slanted and swirled doing all of this while covering a
lot of space, from the top of his left forearm, up, covering his
upper arm, up, curving over his shoulder and up his neck, curling
around his shoulder to his back and across his left lat, at the
front snaking across his chest, pec, midriff, abs, most of this
halfway across his massive, muscled torso, some of its awesomeness
slithering even further to invade the right side of his upper body,
more going around his left side to lead to more on his back and
even more meandering down to disappear tantalizingly into the
towel. The other tat was a line of intriguing symbols that ran from
his inner right wrist curving around to end at the top of his outer
forearm.

The big tat was amazing, a work of art. The
smaller tattoo was not as cool but still fascinating. That said, I
was too overwhelmed by all that was him and how beautiful every
inch of it was to pay discriminating attention to the tats.

He was digging into the bag Shift packed and
pulled out a pair of black underwear.

When the underwear appeared, my head dipped
straight back down to my shoe. It took awhile to get them fastened
because my fingers were trembling. By the time I looked up, he had
on a pair of dark gray suit pants and was shrugging on the dove
gray shirt.

“I need your help with the bracelet,” I said
and my voice sounded funny, scratchy.

His eyes came to me and he jerked his chin
up but kept buttoning his shirt.

“Uh… just wondering,” I went on as I stood.
“What’s with the bling?” Then I lifted a hand and touched the
diamonds at my neck.

“Man in the lobby?” he returned.

I nodded, knowing who he was referring
to.

“Watchin’ me. Watchin’ you.”

I nodded again. I knew this though his
confirmation of it still made my gut get tight. I also figured it
explained the circuitous route we took to Vegas. That man was
tailing us, Walker knew it and was either trying to shake him or
play with him.

“Knows me,” he continued.

I nodded again.

“Knows how I am with my women.”

I nodded again but at this news I felt my
chest expand so much I was finding it hard to breathe.

“He’ll expect bling,” he finished.

Learning this, for the first time in my life
I had to make a conscious effort to suck in air.

I searched for then found my voice. “This is
a lot of bling and I don’t know –”

“Signing bonus.”

I blinked then asked, “What?”

“Yours to keep. Signing bonus.”

My chest deflated but I felt a strange
warmth invading my insides.

“Ty,” I whispered.

He finished buttoning his shirt, went to the
bed, tagged the bracelet and came to me. He bent low, grabbed my
wrist and lifted it. I held it up as he clasped it on, all business
and he did it like he’d done it before. Often.

Then his hands went away but his eyes came
to mine.

“My business is important to me. You’re
facilitatin’ me gettin’ on with that. I appreciate it. Signing
bonus.”

Then, without another word, he walked to the
desk and rifled through a bunch of bags there that I hadn’t
noticed, what with diamonds and impending nuptials and all. He
pulled out a glossy, distinctive colored bag, the same as the boxes
still scattered on the bed and out came two more boxes. One, he
opened then unearthed cufflinks and put them in his cuffs. The
other, he opened, pulled out whatever was in it and then put it in
his trouser pocket. I would find out later that was our wedding
bands.

Then he went to the duffle, pawed through it
and pulled out socks.

Five minutes later, he was adjusting his
collar under his suit jacket as we walked out the door.

Twenty minutes later we were at the Liberace
chapel of love.

A little over five minutes after that,
Walker was handing over cash for a wedding, a bouquet and
photos.

One minute after that, his hand came to my
elbow, fingers curling around, that strange, intense heat hit my
skin where his fingers touched and he led me to an open corner, a
small space but the only space void of happy, soon-to-be linked for
eternity (maybe) lovebirds.

His hand dropped and my mind centered on the
touch that still burned the skin around my elbow. Then my eyes
caught on something and I forced myself to focus.

Across the way, there was a silver gild
framed, full-length mirror and in it, Walker and I were
reflected.

I was wearing a blush-colored, silk crêpe,
to the knee, snug fitting, sleeveless dress, the bodice a wide vee
that showed lots of chest and hints of cleavage, the material
skimming over the points of my shoulders to dip into another vee
that exposed my back to the bra-line. My hair was down and I’d
curled it in chunky curls so there was a lot more of it than normal
and normally there was a lot of it. My shoes were fantastic. My
diamonds, more so. Much more.

Even being such a big guy, he wore his suit
well. The one hour tailors had done a good job. The suit wasn’t
shit, not at all. And it fit him perfectly. It was fabulous, it was
expensive. Maybe not top-of-the-line Italian but nothing to sneeze
at including the shirt, the material of which was very fine, the
tailoring, for one hour, spectacular.

My heels were four inches. I was five nine
so my heels put me at six foot one. He still towered over me. I had
ass, I had tits. I was not petite or slender, not even close. His
mass still dwarfed me.

The bouquet I held looked like it was made
for my dress. The shoes I’d found, the same (I had a sixth sense
when it came to shoes – it took me an hour and a half to find the
dress – the two pairs of shoes I found, tried on and purchased in
twenty minutes).

I couldn’t help but think we looked good
together. If you had showed me his picture and told me to build his
perfect mate, I would have said, first, lithe, graceful
African-American with a long neck, slender arms, elegant hands and
a short-cropped afro that exposed her perfect skull. Second, I
would have said a California girl, tan, blonde who looked like she
spent her days surfing and her nights fucking his brains out.

But seeing us, we worked. And seeing us in
that mirror, I couldn’t help but think we not only worked but we
worked in a big way.

I turned to him and tipped my head back.

“Thanks for the signing bonus,” I whispered.
“And the bouquet.”

His eyes dipped to mine. Then he jerked up
his chin. Then he looked over my head and scanned the room.

Thirty-seven minutes later, we were in the
chapel with Liberace.

Ten minutes after that, Walker was rumbling
at Liberace to stand aside as the photographer angled for our
picture, a picture he wanted Liberace to have no part in. Liberace
looked crushed. I gave him a dazzling smile to help with his
despondency and was pleased to see this worked. Then Walker yanked
me into his side with an arm around my shoulders and pointed his
blank stare at the camera. I wound my arm around his waist, tilted
the front of my body, pressed it into his side and aimed my
dazzling smile at the photographer. Then the photographer snapped
our photo.

Ten minutes after that, rhinestone lady
handed us the folder with our photos and our marriage
certificate.

A minute after that, we were in my car.

Which brings me to now. Married. With a
bouquet in my hand and wedding photos and a marriage certificate
resting on my thighs.

And I was thinking, the minute Ronnie had
his scholarship yanked and copped a plea; I should not have been
the girlfriend who stuck by her man.

I should have dumped him and moved on.

But I didn’t.

And now I was married to a man I didn’t know
who had a gun, a history where he was in the position for Shift to
owe him big and was the kind of man who casually bestowed what had
to be very expensive diamonds on “his woman”.

But even though all this was irrefutably
true, there was also no denying Ty Walker and I just had one
kick-fucking-ass wedding.

The Charger growled up the front of our
hotel, we did the valet gig then I followed Walker into the hotel.
I clocked the bag of bones guy the minute we entered. He was
hanging around, waiting, watching and he clocked us about two
seconds after I clocked him.

That tightness took hold of my gut and
instantly, without me telling it to do so, my hand transferred the
folder, envelope and my clutch to press them between my arm and my
body, freeing my hand so I could take hold of his. I shoved my
fingers between his, lacing them together and I edged closer to
him.

His chin tipped down even as he carried on
walking and his fabulous, arched eyebrows went up half a
centimeter.

“Bag of bones,” I whispered, pressing into
the side of his body even as we moved.

“Come again?”

“Bag of bones dude. Your shadow.”

His fingers tightened in mine and he stopped
us in front of the elevator, leaning forward and hitting the button
but not looking around.

He came back and I got even closer.

He stared at the elevator doors but
muttered, “You tagged him.”

“You didn’t?” I muttered back.

“Yeah. Just surprised you did.”

“He’s hard to miss.”

“Part-idiot,” he mumbled.

“Hmm,” I mumbled back.

You’ll be my wife, you’ll act like my wife
and you’ll do it until this is done.