She Woke Up Married (3 page)

“Foil me. I’ve been bad.”

“You don’t have to tell me, I’m reading it loud and clear.” Anton teased Paris’s long red locks into strange forms and put plastic clips here and there to emphasize the oddness. “Where the heck have you been? Did you know that Venus went into your seventh house while you were gone—
on your birthday?
I mean, last time it did that you almost married that senator.”

“Well this time I married Elvis.”

“Get
outta
here.” Anton’s rattail comb paused in midair.

“Actually, his name is Turner Pruitt.” Paris smiled weakly at Anton. He was going to give her
so
much shit. She might as well tell him and
get it over with, because he was the only person on the planet who would understand.

She’d hidden out in her apartment with some sort of nasty flu since she’d returned, watching
Days of Our Lives,
eating cheese puffs and drinking Mango Madness Snapple.

She’d only been on one cattle call, for a headache commercial, and that had been some kind of nightmare. Usually she didn’t even have to audition, so that had been humiliating enough. She’d had trouble getting something to fit her, no doubt due to her slothful ways and nasty diet of late.

When she’d arrived they’d already cast it to some snot-nosed brat of an eighteen-year-old model from California named Sweet and she just so
wasn’t!
She’d looked like Barbie’s bad younger cousin, or one of those Bratz dolls, and Paris had known for a fact those boobs hadn’t been the genuine articles. She knew silicone when she saw it. No bounce.

When her hair had gone dull, she’d known it was time to spark up and face Anton.

She reached in her leather bag and pulled out the photo of her supposedly legal wedding.

Anton let out a shrill shriek. “
Satin!
Were you drunk?”

“Apparently.”

“Oh this is a do-over. You had planets. You
were drunk. Just tell the Pruitt you want a full wedding with a nice Vera Wang and we’ll do a tiered dessert thing, a little white chocolate ruffled cake from Sylvia Weinstock, and some Roederer Reserve champagne. I mean,
really
.” Anton gestured wildly.

“I left him back in Vegas.”

“You know, honey, you really look like hell. And hot pink is not your best postmarital color, sweetie. You look Grace Adler pale today.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, I heard you. You’ve misplaced your new husband. Don’t worry. He’ll turn up. Hmm, something is just not right. We’re going for the cap today, honey. You need highlights, not chunks.” He took all the plastic clips out and slapped a rubber cap on her head, then started pulling strands through the holes with a crochet hook.

“Ouch. I do know him, you know. We went to high school together at St. Mary’s our senior year.

“St. Elvis.”

“He’s very good looking,” Paris said.

“This is true. He looks like a complete stud muffin in that picture. Is his hair that black for real, or is that Elvis hair?”

“It’s for real. But when you’re up close it’s got brown highlights, not blue. He also sings really well.”

“Now we’re defending the missing bride
groom? And where’s the ring?” Anton did a combination Brooklyn/Bronx twang on that one.

“I left it with him in the hotel. Did I mention he’s a reverend?”

“Let’s see now—a little overview. Paris James went on a bender and married Turner Pruitt the singing preaching Elvis—on accident—as my baby sister used to say.”

“So what’s your point? I told him to get it annulled. It was just a mistake.” She made a face.

Anton studied Paris’s twisty features in the mirror for a moment—a long moment—without batting an Anton eyelash. That made her squirm. He then resumed pulling strands of her red hair through the rubber cap. “There was that solar eclipse in Gemini. That might account for it. Something is just way weird, girlfriend, I can’t tell you what, but hang on to your garters because all will be revealed as soon as that damn Mercury goes direct again.”

“You and your planets. I just made a little itty-bitty mistake, that’s all. I’m going back to work, Turner will get this annulled, and that’s all there is to it. Now make me pretty and shut up.”

Anton raised one eyebrow at her and pulled on her hair again.

“Ouch!”

“Beauty requires sacrifice, you cranky bitch.”

“Fine. Sacrifice me.”

“Grab that jar on the table and slime some of
that green stuff under your eyes. You look like you didn’t unpack the bags.”

“I haven’t been feeling well. I’ve got a flu bug that just won’t leave me alone.”

Paris leaned forward and grabbed the jar, twisted it and inhaled the soothing mint scent. She took a few fingersful and smeared it under her eyes—and on her temples. That damn headache was coming back.

She leaned back and endured Anton and his hook. He was muttering to himself now, his full sleeves billowing over her. She closed her eyes and rested. She was still dog-tired for some reason. You’d think months of rest would have helped. Or maybe it was the fine diet she’d been on, or the late-night documentary shows on UFOs and the true story of Courteney Cox’s life. Why did she watch this stuff?

“Excuse the interruption. Is that you under there, Paris?” a deep voice boomed from behind her.

Anton and Paris both jumped like rabbits. Paris stared into the long studio mirror in front of her and could not believe her eyes. Turner Pruitt. In cowboy boots, jeans, a sheepskin-lined suede jacket, and…the hat.

He took off the hat.

“Wow. That explains a lot,” Anton said. He turned to look directly at Turner. “Forget the
planets, you’ve roped in the real McCoy, Paris!”

“Turner!” Paris shrieked into the mirror. “What the
hell
are you doing in New York?”

Turner tried to keep a straight face as he gazed upon Paris in her rubber cap with strands of hair sticking out like sprouting long grass, along with the blobs of green stuff on her face. He tried. He failed. He started to smile.

“Did you come all this way to have me sign something? Because that’s the only reason I can imagine.” Paris put her hands on her hips, the silky black salon cape flapping around her elbows like bird wings.

“I figured you might have had enough time to change your mind, darlin’.” He couldn’t stop smiling, and he knew he was going to laugh out loud soon, so he figured he’d better cover up his mouth—with her lips.

He strode over, grabbed her chair, spun her around to face him, and angled his head so as to miss the green spots and just get those luscious lips. He did good. She melted against him for a moment. Then she shoved him away.

“I didn’t change my mind, and no big Nevada kiss is going to change it for me, either,” Paris sputtered. She wiped her mouth. She got green goop on her hand and tried to wipe it on her cape. Then she slowly turned the chair back to her re
flection in the mirror and screamed again. She ran from the room like an Irish banshee, shrieking little short shrieks all the way out of the room.

“Women,” Anton said.

“Yeah. What’s that about?” Turner said to Anton.

“I knew it was a bad day to mess with her hair. This just proves it.”

“Mercury is retrograde for another two days anyhow. Maybe after that I can talk some sense into that woman,” Turner responded.

Anton looked at him like he’d cursed or something.

“What?”
Turner scratched his head.

“I’m reeling from your comment about Mercury, my fine cowboy. Can I call you cowboy?” Anton said.

“Turner would be fine. Turner Pruitt.” He took a step over to Anton and shook his hand. “Sorry about that, my roommate Millie, back in Vegas, does astrological charts on the side. I guess her planet talk just rubbed off on me.”

“Oh, no apologies necessary. Cowboy Turner, I think you could use a little trim. Saddle up the chair there, I seem to have an opening. Is that your natural color?”

Turner thought about it for a minute, and figured he might as well get a haircut. “Yup. I have a touch of Native American in my ancestry
somewhere way back there. Just a little off the sides, please.”

“That explains it. Are we keeping those sideburns? Because here in New York they’re a little passé.”

Turner shed his big rancher’s coat and sat in the chair. “Sure, take them off. My Elvis days are over for a while anyhow. I think. I’m just not sure which end is up these days. Paris and I need to talk.”

Anton whipped a black cape around Turner and snapped it closed. “Paris showed me the wedding picture. Love that sequined white jacket.”

“You can get stuff beaded in Vegas for very little money.”

“No kidding. I’m Anton, by the way. Confidant of the beautiful girls here at the Rita Ray Agency.”

Maybe Anton could give him a hand with a few things. “Pleased to meet you, Anton.”

“So tell me everything. How long are you here for, where are you staying, and how do you think you’re going to get wildcat Paris to climb back in your wagon?”

Turner laughed. “Slow down there. Let’s see. I checked in at the YMCA at West Sixty-third yesterday. It took me a day to find this place.”

“The Y.” Anton paused. “Primitive, but decent.”

“I grew up on the Cook Islands in a native village.
That’s
primitive.”

“I should say. All
righty
then. How long, and what’s the plan?”

“As long as it takes, and I’m hoping a miracle will occur with Paris so we can get this all straightened out. Also I’d like to pick up a little spending money if I can get a quick gig doing Elvis, or singing or something.”

“Miracle with Paris, huh? Okay, so you’ll be here a few months maybe.” Anton ruffled up the dark curls on Turner’s head. “You’ll need a guide. You could pass for Irish, you know. I’ll have to take you around to all the various districts and show you the ropes. We’ll have to tour all the Irish pubs, starting with Dolan’s. I know Stephen would love to hear you sing. Paris says you’ve got the voice of an angel.”

“She did?” Turner was surprised to hear that Paris had said anything about him. “I’d be extremely appreciative to be given a tour of the city. I don’t know why people think New Yorkers are so rude. I’ve met nothing but friendly people so far.”

Anton switched on the clippers. “You’ve seen Paris in the morning?”

“Yes. Well. There is that.”

“Exactly.”

“She has her good moments, and I’ll have to catch one. I’ve caught one before. I’m going to
stay till the job is accomplished. I married her. I came here to settle things with my wife, so I’ll just have to deal with whatever comes up.”

Anton stared into the mirrored eyes of Turner Pruitt and saw a brave, brave man staring back at him
.

Not only did Turner Pruitt have some nerve but also he was a complete fool to think she’d change her mind about this little marriage thing. However, she did have a very important question about condoms to ask him, so in some ways it was fortuitous that he had arrived in New York. It saved her the trouble of tracking him down in Vegas, which she’d been considering over the last few weeks.

After wiping off the green mint mud, Paris brushed her hair out with gusto, thinking bad thoughts about Turner at every stroke. Didn’t he know she’d make a terrible wife? She was a bitch, plain and simple. She had terrible PMS, she didn’t sleep well or eat well, she drank too much—before she’d reformed on that habit, and that made her even bitchier, because a nice glass of wine would sure take the edge off for an hour or two. She was also lazy and self-centered.

For heaven’s sake, how could he even have considered marrying her?

And worst of all, he knew all this about her from before. He really was a fool, plain and simple. He’d been a romantic-headed songwriting
geeky-looking preacher’s kid in high school, and now he was a romantic-headed Elvis-impersonating preaching, great-looking
man.
Someone better talk some sense into that man.

Paris’s brush stopped in midair. She stared into the mirror at her thirty-year-old face and wailed. It was kind of involuntary. A sobby sound just rose out of her middle and escaped through her mouth. She sat down on the dressing room chair, in front of the mirror, and bawled. Big piles of Kleenex started forming on the counter as she mopped up the waterworks and blew her nose repeatedly.

She’d never planned on getting married ever. Ever, ever, ever. She was not the marrying kind. She could not be any man’s wife. Besides that, her PMS was just beyond horrible today. She just had to start her period, right now, today, this minute. She was seriously overdue, and every time she thought about what might be the real reason she felt so rotten lately she just freaked out, so she’d stopped thinking about it.

The door to the dressing room flew open. Through her blurry eyes she saw Turner and Anton staring at her.

“Are you okay?” Anton asked.

“Shut up and shut the door. Leave me alone,” Paris sobbed.

“Paris, honey.” Turner took two steps in her direction.

“Don’t you honey me, Turner Pruitt. Damn you for marrying me! Get
out.
”

Turner wisely backed out of the room. Anton was already out. They closed the door quietly behind them.

“I’ve never seen that girl cry in all the years I’ve known her. Ever. She usually just yells at people when she’s got PMS.”

“Wow.” Turner scratched his head, puzzled. He’d been doing that a lot lately. ’Course he’d just had his hair cut, and it felt odd. As odd as being married to Paris.

Turner resumed his seat in the salon chair. Anton resumed his position behind him, scissors in hand, and got back to work on Turner’s trim. This was some setup—a hair salon right in the modeling agency building. It made sense though, with all those high-maintenance models to deal with. And it was starting to look like Paris James…Pruitt…was on the top of the high-maintenance gal list. She really was a she-devil, just like in high school. But Turner knew more. He knew Paris’s deep secrets. He knew her heart. Underneath that nasty exterior was a real woman. He was going to figure her out and get this mess of a situation sorted out. Talk about a challenge.