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Prologue



Jaymie

So this is the part where I tell you this sweeping narrative about the first time I slept with Nick and how we met and all that and you’re all like, aww, because you think you know where this story is going and you’re picturing the moment when Nick realizes that it’s been me all along and the big romantic gesture and the wedding bells and all that white-taffeta-dress kind of shit.

Except this isn’t that kind of story.

Honestly, I don't think I'd even want it to be that kind of story. I mean, c'mon, how boring can you get? Sex friend becomes wife - yawn, yawn, yawn - talk about a cliche!

I am fucking anything but a cliche. I hate cliches.

I would rather die than be a cliche.

And also, it can't be that kind of story because, second of all, I don’t really remember meeting Nick. Like I’ve got the basics - club, late at night after one of the Backstreet Boys’ shows, a fake ID, too many drinks, a little too much cleavage, a boner, and an offer. The rest is history, only to be commemorated by the used condom in the hotel room waste bin beside the bed on his side. Other than that, the only thing I remember about that night is the hangover. Because, holy shit, that was the Queen Motherfuck of all hangovers.

Oh, and a gold faucet in the bathroom. That was weird enough to cut through the haze of Vomit Fest 1996.

But I don’t remember the sex for a damn.

Which is unfortunate because really the first time you sleep with a Backstreet Boy is kind of something you’d like to remember, you know? At least it wasn’t like a once-in-a-lifetime deal for me, like it was for most of the other girls. I mean I had lots of opportunities to remember sex with Nick. I have opportunities on a nearly daily basis. Sometimes, twice a day, even.

Besides, I don't believe in marriage. And I always thought Nick wasn't into it, either. That was part of why I'd always liked him - even before we were Friends With Benefits-ing it. I thought I'd never have to worry about it becoming that kind of story. Sex is easy, love is complicated, marriage is fucked up.




Nick

I never wanted to be that wants-to-get-married, How-I-Met-Your-Mother kinda guy. Like it was just never in my game plan. I am not Ted. I am Barney fucking Stintson... fuck, I make Barney Stintson look like a stand up guy.

Especially by the time he got to season eight.

Even when I was a kid, I never thought of myself as a knight in shining armor saving the day and winning the princess. I always thought Mario was kind of a tool for going through all that shit for Princess Peach, and don't even get me started on my feelings about The Princess Bride or any of those other sappy romances most guys my age will reflect on. Or Brian, for that matter.

But then AJ got married.

Mother-fucking AJ. AJ was my bro, he was the one person on this planet that had a sex drive as revved as mine, who didn't judge me for my fetishes and rotating door on the bedroom.

And now he was getting married.

I remember standing there at AJ's wedding as he smooshed his face all into Rochelle's and they literally tongued each other in front of the gathering of their closest friends and family. I found myself thinking maybe getting married doesn't have to ruin sex. Then, when we went on tour, AJ was talking and he was telling me about all these terrific sexcapades him and Rochelle had been having since the wedding and how god damn amazing it all was.

"Dude," he said to me one night after Rochelle and him had engaged in God-knows-what via Skype, "You've got to get married. You owe it to your dick, man. Seriously."

That's kind of when I started thinking about it.

But I mean, I'm not the marrying kind of guy. I have a thousand girlfriends all over the world, women I meet up only when I'm on tour, booty calls in every country we frequent. And of course there's Jaymie.

God knows I ain't marrying her.

You don't marry your sex toy.