"This is really nice," she comments as we head up the walkway to my front door.
"Yeah, it is," I answer, unlocking the door. "I've lived here for about three years."
Once inside, she scans the condo with a small frown, probably because it's a bit of a mess. But hey, two single guys live here, and Mikah is kind of a slob and just throws stuff anywhere and everywhere.
"Sorry for the clutter… We had a maid, but she was stealing our stuff to sell on eBay."
"Oh, wow. That's terrible."
"Yeah, some people will buy anything. Like my dirty socks. Do you believe that?
Her face scrunches up. "That's pretty gross."
"It is," I agree. "So, me and my brother Mikah live here. He's the drummer in the band. Not sure if you remember him from the wedding." She shakes her head. "But I don't think this would be a good place for us to live, for obvious reasons."
"Why not? I'm a great fucking roommate." We both turn to see Mikah coming down the stairs from the second floor where the four bedrooms are. His long, dark hair is a tangled mop on his head, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, with dark circles shadowing them. He looks completely hungover.
"Dude, did you get drunk at my wedding last night? You're a fucking mess."
He opens the refrigerator and grabs a soda. "I did." He narrows his half-opened eyes at us. "What the hell are you two doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be on your honeymoon? Or is this game over already?"
"It's not a game," Asia tells him with a hint of defensiveness in her voice, and it kind of makes me proud of her. I like a chick who won't take crap from people.
"We're going on the honeymoon later," I say. "First, we need to move in together."
He chugs some of his soda. "Not here, I hope?"
"No. We're going to get a house."
He nods and shuffles back toward the stairway. "Good idea. You'll probably want to get a new bedroom set." He focuses on Asia and grins. "His bed has seen a ton of pussy. I wouldn’t want to be sleeping in that."
She visibly cringes, her cheeks reddening as her eyes meet mine awkwardly across the room. "Good to know," she says, her voice strained.
I shove my asshole brother up against the wall, and Asia jumps back away from us. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I seethe, my face inches from his. "That's my wife now, not some band slut."
He pushes me back. "What's your problem, Tal?"
"She doesn't need to hear that shit." I shove him again and then back away from him.
"She better get fucking used to it. We fuck chicks. That's what rock stars do."
The sound of the front door slamming makes us both turn. She just walked out.
"Thanks a lot, asshole," I growl. "Did you hafta fucking say that?"
"What's the big deal?"
"I'm trying to gain her trust, Mikah. This isn't exactly easy for her."
He smirks. "Well, maybe she should divorce you now, then, if she can't fucking deal with who you are."
I run my hand through my hair, hoping Asia isn't running away right now. "Whatever, bro," I throw back as I run to the front door to catch her. Thankfully, I find her sitting on the sidewalk out front, twirling a dandelion in her fingers.
"Hey, I'm sorry," I say when I reach her. "He's a sarcastic asshole."
"I guess we won't be living here," she mutters, then closes her eyes and blows on the dandelion, opening them again to watch its little seeds floating away in the breeze with a wistful expression on her face. I think she wants to float away too. Away from me.
I hold my hand out to her and pull her up when she puts her small hand in mine. "Definitely not, babe. Let's go visit your place."
"Can we just skip that? There's really no reason for us to go to my place. You're not gonna want to live there."
"No, I want to see where you live. And it’s in the guidelines. We're supposed to visit each other's homes."
She blows out a frustrated sigh. "I don't understand why we have to do this. It's a waste of time," she argues as we walk back to the truck. "Can't we just look for our own place?"
I lift her up into the passenger seat again. "You don't want me to see your house, do you?"
Her eyes dart away from me nervously. "It's an apartment."
"House, apartment, whatever. You don't want me there. Why not?"
"I never said that."
"You don't have to. You're transparent as fuck. It's written all over your face."
Her eyes shoot daggers as I lean against the truck door, not budging.
"Let's just go, then," she relents. "And get this over with."
As she gives me directions to her apartment while I drive, her reasons for not wanting me there become clear. She lives in the ghetto. Like, I used to buy drugs here when I was younger, it's that kind of shitty neighborhood.
I glance over at her as I park in front of the run-down apartment building. She's just staring out the window, her fingers making circles on her jeans. "Are you okay?" I ask her.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
She doesn't sound fine, though. She sounds distant.
"Asia, it's okay. No big deal."
"You don't belong here."
"Neither do you. Not anymore."
Her eyes shift down to the floor. "Yeah, I do. Marrying you doesn't change who I am."
"No, but it changes who we are together," I grab her hand to stop her fingers from nervously circling on her leg. "Together, we're supposed to be better."
What the fuck just came out of my mouth?
Her hand squeezes mine. "That's very sweet. Thank you for saying that."
Wow. I actually said something right, even though I was momentarily possessed by Hallmark when I said it. Score.
As luck would have it, the elevator is broken, so we have to walk up the three flights of trash-infested stairs to her apartment. The hallway smells like the pit of hell. I can't believe the team put me with someone who lives like this. We could not be more different in every possible way.
As she digs her keys out of her bag and unlocks the three locks on the door, I worry about my truck parked out on the street in this neighborhood. If someone breaks my windows or spray-paints graffiti on my truck, I'm going to be pissed.
An unexpected pang hits me when we finally walk inside. Her apartment is incredibly small. So tiny I feel like I have to go outside just to change my mind. And it's suddenly painfully clear to me—my new wife does not have much of anything. I feel bad now for taking her to my huge condo in a gated community and whining about the clutter in the 2,500 square feet of space Mikah and I share, and mostly wreck. I can't help but wonder if one of the reasons they put us together is because I have money and can get her out of here. And I also wonder if she did this for the money we'll receive and not to find a life partner. She doesn't seem like the using type, but damn, fifty grand has to be tempting for her. If that's true, so would my multimillion-dollar inheritance and my music royalties. Thankfully, we signed a prenup, so my assets are safe if she turns out to be a gold digger. But a part of me was actually hoping this would turn into a real marriage like my parents have. I don't want to be standing here like an asshole in six months, watching her walk away with a fat check and flipping me the bird.
Fuck it. If it happens, it happens. I'll take my own fifty grand from this and party my ass off with every big-titted blond I can find.
Somehow she has managed to transform this tiny, run-down space into a cozy little home that screams her. It's colorful. It smells like candy. It's clean and organized. Above all that, it reflects her unique creativity and ability to turn something plain, broken, and old into something pretty cool—giving it new life with her touch. What little furniture she has is hand-painted and distressed to make it appear antique. I don't even have to ask her; I already know she painted it all herself. Instead of typical curtains, gauzy fabric in a rainbow of colors covers the windows, hanging from birch branches. Not metal or plastic rods—white birch branches, and I can picture her walking through the woods looking for the perfect little branch.
Colored plastic boxes, which must hold the supplies she uses to make the clothes and soaps she mentioned, are stacked in a mock stairway leading to the ceiling.
As I stare around at all the little details she's added to her apartment, my interest in her kicks up a few notches. She's definitely not lazy or an airhead. She's driven and talented and completely self-supporting.
"You've made this place pretty cool, Asia," I say, slowly walking around the small space.
"Thank you… I'm kinda really into crafts."
"It shows. You've got a gift."
"I'll be right back." She disappears down a short hallway to what I assume to be her bedroom and comes back a few minutes later holding two things. One is the smallest cat I've ever seen in my life—that's also wearing a little sparkly tiara on its head—and the other is a black scarf with white X's randomly dyed into it.
"No one said a cat was part of the deal." I'm only partially kidding.
She holds the tiny silver creature with huge green eyes against her chest. "Well, she is. I've had her for three years. I'm not about to part with her. I love her."
"Three years? That's an adult cat?" I swear this cat would fit in one of my hands.
"Yes. She has a form of dwarfism. She hasn't grown since she was eight weeks old."
"Shit. Why is it wearing a tiara?"
"Her name is Princess Pixie. I dress her up and post pictures of her on social media sites. She has a huge following, over eighty thousand likers and followers."
This cat has more fans than my personal fan page. "Are you fucking kidding me?"