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“State of Nevada, what the heck?” My eyes widen and I look up at her.
“You’re asking me? Why would I know. I don’t have X-ray vision.”
I slide my finger to open the envelope and peek inside then my mouth drops open.
“Oh, oh, wow.” I whisper before handing over the envelope to Quinn. She pulls out the thick paper and unfolds it.
“Your marriage license.” She looks up at me and whispers.
“I do not remember any of this, how is any of this possible?”
MAXWELL
“Sir, I’m nearly done with my investigation and I truly want to thank you for this opportunity for a change in pace.”
“Yeah, no problem. What did you find out?” I ask him impatiently.
“Well, it’s rather quite a tale of your time in Las Vegas. I have to ask, you truly don’t remember any of this happening?” He looks up from his folder and asks.
“I’ve gotten flashbacks or memories, but I’m not sure if they’re real or not.”
“This isn’t nearly as entertaining as those Hangover movies, but let’s see, where do I begin.” He says to himself flipping through his folder of paperwork.
He pulls out images from security footage and spreads it out in front of me.
She’s breathtaking. She’s wearing a short dress with killer legs and her hair is long and straight. She has high cheekbones and a straight nose, with a slight upturn, but not one to make her look snobby. She has curves that are easy to grab onto, from the looks of my hands on her and it would appear that we are quite cozy.
She is dancing on a table with a bottle in her hand. I’m standing in front of her holding out my hand to her with a smile.
Another image is with the very same woman, sitting on my lap and my head snuggling into her neck.
The other has the two of us walking out of the club hand in hand.
“This is you and the woman—”
“Does she have a name?” I ask cutting him off.
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry. Her name is Peyton Manning, she’s twenty-seven and lives in Los Angeles. And no relation to the football player.
“Peyton.” I say her name quietly, liking the way that it rolls off my tongue.
“So, Peyton and you were seen leaving the club alone. After a few dozen phone calls around the city and getting into contact with the company of the town car services, you two went to a liquor store and purchased snacks, then asked to go to one of the cities chapels.”
“Chapels? What?” My head snaps up.
“It would appear sir, that you and Peyton exchanged vows.” He thumbs through his folder and places another series of images in front of me.
The photos are grainy, but I can clearly see myself and the woman beside me leaning toward me looks similar to the woman in the photos from the nightclub. Then more images that appear to be taken from someone at the chapel, such as one of the wedding packages boasting to be professional images with us glassy eyed and looking like we’re posing for prom pictures.
We’re clearly being married by Elvis, and we have a string of witnesses in the room with us, but none of them appear to be my buddies.
What the actual fuck!
The investigator then places a marriage certificate in front of me.
“The chapel had a service where they did the filing for you. Have you checked your mail? You should have received a certified copy.”
“I have my mail held and delivered weekly. I haven’t received it yet. So, this certificate is real and not fabricated?” I ask.
