I stared back at Eric not really believing what I was hearing. Married? To Eric Northman? Me? It was what I’d wanted from the time I was ten years old all the way until I grew the hell up and the phrase ‘Be careful what you wish for’ briefly popped into my brain. But I’d always imagined I would wear a white gown befitting a princess surrounded by my friends and family and looking down at the scarlet red hooker dress stretched across my body with my cleavage nearly spilling out looked nothing like the fantasy visions I’d created in my mind as a child. In my fantasy I would have worn a bra and underwear at least and would have known more about the groom than what I’d read in gossip magazines. Neither was true in this case, so reality was nothing like my fantasy.
My tears from Eric’s harsh rebuke moments earlier were cut off with my disbelief and I looked over at Amelia saying, “Tell me this is a horrible joke.” I scanned the room for hidden cameras praying for Ashton Kutcher to walk out of the closet proclaiming us officially Punk’d and then set my gaze back on her.
Before she could even answer my question I could see from her chagrined expression that it wasn’t a joke as she squeaked, “I’m sorry hon, but you really did get married to this jackass last night,” with her finger pointing at said jackass in confirmation. Amelia knew all about my childhood obsession with Eric, having tortured me relentlessly after tagging along to visit Gran one summer and seeing his posters adorning my bedroom walls. She let me know how much of a loser my choice in fantasy husbands was every time his name came up in the news with yet more proof of his dumbshitness.
All I could see was visions of pink slips raining down on me as Niall Brigant had me blacklisted from ever working in my chosen profession and I ended up running the register at the Grab It Qwik back home, fighting Maudette Pickens for the attentions of every random truck driver that stopped off the interstate to fill up their gas tank. My brain revolted at the idea and kicked into high gear to try and figure a way out of the mess my life had quickly become.
“We can get it annulled!” I shouted. I knew we weren’t the first pair of dipshits to get married in Vegas while being drunk enough to have the entire event blocked from our sober consciousness. “No one has to know it ever happened and we can just pretend it never did!”
The man that had walked into the hotel room with Amelia decided to squash my hopes quickly saying, “Too late for that.” I was waiting for him to elaborate, but instead he opened a laptop that was sitting on the coffee table in between the two couches we sat upon and with a simple click of the mouse my life was flushed down the toilet.
I watched in horror at the video playing on TMZ’s website of Eric and me stumbling out of the casino the night before with each of us rubbing our bodies against the other like two cats in heat when Eric turned to the throng of paparazzi shouting, “You’re all invited! We’re getting married!” The jerks in the crowd actually cheered while my eyes were temporarily blocked by more imaginary pink slips. No matter how much I wanted to shut my eyes and will it all away like a bad dream, I couldn’t stop watching the train wreck playing out before me.
“Was it love at first sight?” one of them shouted back.
Before Eric had a chance to respond, my big mouth opened proclaiming, “I’ve always loved Eric.” I was thankful I’d already emptied my stomach or else I would have covered the table in vomit.
“And I love you!” Eric said before attempting to eat my face with the world witnessing it all. Our sighs from where we sat on the opposing couches were simultaneous, creating a Dolby surround sound effect that would’ve been comical in any other circumstance.
In the next frame, the man sitting next to Eric could be seen approaching us from behind and pulling Eric’s head down as he said something furiously in his ear. Eric’s face became enraged before he turned and punched him in the face causing him to fall back onto the sidewalk with poor Amelia cushioning his fall. I could see her rubbing her backside next me just watching it when Eric said, “What did you say that made me hit you?” to the guy next to him.
My outrage was only tempered by his apologetic glance my way when he answered, “That I wouldn’t let you throw your life away on an easy piece of ass no matter how hot she was.”
Amelia must have missed the look because she stood up in her furious defense of how my ass wasn’t normally so easy. “Is that what you said last night asshole? I’ll have you know that other than fucktard over there, only one other person has had a piece of that ass!”
I usually appreciated that Amelia spoke her mind no matter the occasion, but in this one instance I was completely mortified that she spilled my limited sexual history to virtual strangers and all I could do was say, “AMELIA!”
As usual, she saw nothing wrong with what she had divulged to ‘asshole’ and ‘fucktard’ so her only response was, “What? It’s the truth! Hell Sook, you haven’t even had sex in over a year so you are by no means ‘easy’!”
It was officially the worst day of my adult life and all I could do was bury my head in my hands pleading, “Sweet Jesus, would you please shut your pie hole now?”
The sounds of squealing tires from the laptop caught my attention and I looked up to see there was even more video of my monumental swan dive into the pits of Hell. I sat silently dumbstruck as my wedding played out for the world to see on the internet. Apparently after Eric had punched ‘asshole’, the two of us jumped into a waiting taxicab and the paparazzi followed us to an all night wedding chapel. Eric questioned the cameramen present asking which ones were happy that we were getting married and the first two that raised their hands got to be our witnesses. How touching.
And to cap off every bride’s wish on her most special day, I got to repeat my sacred vows of promising to love, honor, and cherish my intended for as long as I lived, to a man dressed as Elvis, but could clearly be heard at the beginning of the ceremony saying, “Just call me Bubba.” Of course… Bubba. Another quick glance around the room left me disappointed when Ashton Kutcher hadn’t materialized out of thin air. He repo’d Justin Timberlake’s house a few years earlier, so surely, with a little creative computer animation, he could have set this up too, right?
The video changed to us emerging from the ‘Love Me Tender Wedding Chapel’, classy, to the waiting paparazzi who’d been too slow to raise their hands to witness the blessed event firsthand, but Eric was quick to fill them in by twirling me around (ala Dancing With the Stars style, but with an added World’s Dumbest vibe)at his side announcing, “May I present to you, Mrs. Eric Northman!”
I actually squealed in the video. Loudly. Jumping up and down in my whorish white trash dress. The only thing I could be thankful for was that my boobs didn’t come out of the top and say ‘Hi!’ to the crowd.
“Let’s see the ring!” one of the spectators yelled making Eric spin around to face me, kissing my left hand and saying, “She’ll get her ring from Rodeo Drive when we get back home. My Sookie deserves the best.”
I saw Eric’s face rise up from his spot on the couch across from me with a glare in his eyes before the sound of my voice on the video made us both look back down at the laptop. I watched Drunk Sookie grab Drunk Eric’s head and pull him down for another sloppy kiss before saying, “Baby, I don’t need a ring. I just need you.” Maybe I was wrong; I think I had a little bit left in my stomach that could possibly be making an appearance.
“See? That’s why she’s perfect!” Drunk Eric professed. “She doesn’t love me for my fame or money, she loves me for me.” That led to even sloppier kisses with each of us asserting our love was forever. It was like a bad Lifetime movie and after school special all rolled into one. I briefly wondered if the Grab It Qwik was hiring.
It was hard to tell who saw it first, but Drunk Sookie and Eric took off running hand in hand across the street to an open tattoo parlor. It was too small for the crowd to follow us inside, but that didn’t stop them from filming us through the glass storefront as we had each other’s name and claim permanently etched onto our bodies. I found it ironic that Eric was both literally and figuratively under my skin. We were just exiting the tattoo parlor when Amelia and ‘asshole’ came running into view and the looks of disapproval were evident from both of them once they’d learned what we’d done. They pushed us into a waiting limo, jumping in behind us, and the video’s parting shot was of us taking off down the strip.
Seeing the video graphic evidence of the ceremony, followed by getting our matching tattoos and with our tongues stuck down each other’s throats at every
opportunity was humiliating. The ultimate culmination of my one lapse in judgment would be appearing on the Jerry Springer show to learn he was my brother/cousin or some other southern stereotype. I could fight a crack whore on stage for his affections while the audience chanted, “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”
“Maybe no one will see it?” I asked aloud, not believing the wishful words as they left my mouth.
Asshole spoke up saying, “It’s the top story on every news station and the video has gone viral. The news of your marriage is on CNN’s tickertape and if you hadn’t gotten married in the middle of the night, your pictures would be on the front page of every major newspaper in the country today. As it is, you’ll be in tomorrow’s edition.” He looked at Eric adding, “You made Charlie Sheen yesterday’s news, congrats.”
Eric ran his hands through his hair looking utterly defeated before asking, “What do we do now Alcide?”
Asshole/Alcide looked at Amelia and I with his eyebrows furrowed and a distrustful look on his face before he leaned in and began a whispered conversation with Eric. I found it rude, but I had enough problems of my own that I didn’t really care. Turning to Amelia I asked, “What have I done?”
She reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear saying, “We’ll figure it out.” She smiled and attempted to lighten my mood adding, “I’ve been telling you to loosen up for years Sook, but I didn’t mean for you to do it all in one night.”
“God…I’m going to get fired before ever starting my job,” I whined.
“Maybe not,” she responded unconvincingly. I watched her hesitantly reach into her back pocket and pull out my cell phone. As she handed it over she said, “It started ringing nonstop this morning, but I just let the calls go to voicemail.”
I checked the missed calls seeing numerous ones from Gran and Jason, even one from my ex, John Quinn, who I hadn’t spoken to since we broke up a year earlier, but none from The Brigant Academy so maybe I wasn’t fired just yet. Or maybe they just wanted to shitcan me face to face. Niall’s position as Headmaster had me wanting to call him Professor Dumbledore from the first time I’d met him, so the idea of him poofing me out of the school with a wave of his magic wand was easy for me to visualize.
“What job?” Asshole/Alcide asked breaking into my reverie.
I wanted to snap back that it wasn’t any of their business, but seeing how Eric and I were married I didn’t see a way around it. “I’m supposed to start teaching kindergarten at The Brigant Academy on Monday morning, but after this whole fiasco I’ll be lucky if they let me through the doors long enough to give me my termination papers.”
The calculated look on his face made me wary and wondering what on earth he was thinking when he said, “If it wasn’t in your contract that you had to remain single, they can’t fire you for getting married.”
“No, but they can fire me for my questionable lifestyle once our annulment confirms everything on that video was a giant drunken mistake.”
His face remained thoughtful when he looked over at Eric saying, “Maybe we can spin this mess, but it’ll take some careful planning.” He was silent for another moment when his phone vibrated on the table. Checking his messages, he slowly shook his head before looking back at Eric and saying, “Prepare yourself, she’s on her way up to the room now.”
Eric buried his head in his hands, his new tattoo displayed prominently, and mumbled, “It’s too early to be Pam’d.”
I was confused…was it a person or an action? A noun or a verb? I was completely fed up with everything and everyone by that point. Just thirty minutes earlier I’d been asleep, blissfully unaware of the shitstorm we’d created the night before, so I rephrased my fucktarded husband’s earlier question and asked, “What the fuck is a Pam?”