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No sex.
No kissing, sex or fornication of any kind with any third party regardless of gender or sexual preferences.
No PDA, unless there’s a recording device pointed at us.
No disclosure of the truth of the utter sham of the marriage to anyone outside the Vegas circle (add to this that Jax shall ensure anyone in the Vegas circle won’t be so ridiculous as to sleep with a puck bunny and give her unfettered access to their phone; in fact, ideally, Jax shall ensure all evidence of the minion wedding has been destroyed or deleted).
The marriage shall last for three months, being the term of Sienna’s working visa, at which time the parties shall file for amicable divorce (aka a conscious uncoupling, citing irreconcilable differences) and the terms of the prenuptial agreement signed between the parties shall be invoked.
Christ, I married Satan. There’s even a signing block for each of us at the end of the fun-sucking rubrics.
“Sienna, while I’m not shaming you for being a domineering, authoritarian micromanager of life, I’m not signing these documents.”
“I’m not domineering! I’m an orderly and mature businesswoman. This” – she gestures between us – “is a business transaction. And I wouldn’t need to micromanage this situation if you took some responsibility.”
I shake my head. Her perception of me gets lower every time we meet. She did well to hide her opinions when I was simply her client.
“Fine, so the prenup, I’ll sign,” I concede. “Not that I actually think you’d try to fleece me. You’re a piece of work, for sure, but you’re not a dick.”
She gasps, then laughs, making me smile. Relaxed looks good on her. I do have a flashback to Vegas now, at least the parts I remember. Having fun with her, sharing cocktails and jokes, me dressed as Elvis Presley and her Marilyn Monroe for one ceremony, a Greek god and goddess for another.
“I won’t sign a piece of paper saying we won’t have sex, though. What if you realize how insanely fortunate you are to be married to someone who’s hench and successful and fucking hilarious, and you want to jump my bones? I’m a red-blooded man, Sienna, I can’t turn down someone who… is as frigid as an ice pop. You’re the ultimate challenge.”
That humor dies, wilting into yet another scowl. Whiplash much.
“Please, even if you weren’t riddled with crabs and chlamydia, I’m sworn off men, indefinitely.”
“Which would account for your prissy mood. And for your information, I’m clean.”
“Sure you are. In any event, sex complicates things and my visa depends on this marriage not being fucked up, at least until I find permanent employment.”
I remember this conversation from Vegas. I told her she was capable of setting up a new business solo, she didn’t need to work for anyone else, and she told me she couldn’t build a new business in the US without a visa.
Her catch twenty-two then is being married to me. I glance around her rental again.
“Couldn’t you rent anywhere less bad than this?”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I need to preserve my savings pot and right now, I’m still paying half of everything on my old condo.”
“The fuck?” I’m out of my seat, wishing I could do the kind of thing that gets me five minutes in the sin bin to her ex.
“I walked out. I can’t leave a two-bed place and all the bills to Carl.”
“Did he think about you and how you would manage when he was screwing someone else?”
She stills, eyes glossing over, swallows deep. Shit.
“Sorry. It pisses me off. None of this is your fault.”
She rubs her neck, uncomfortable, and I notice that emerald on her finger. His emerald. I can’t believe she’d wear it in any capacity.
I drag her list of rules toward me. “Can’t we just pretend like we’re in a normal relationship?”
She leans her head to one side. “How many relationships have you been in, Jax?”
“Fair. Do you have a pen?”
She materializes one from a kitchen drawer and hands it over, the ghost of a smirk about her lips. Our hands connect. Hers smooth, soft. Mine coarse from stick handling in sweaty gloves.
