Dad waits for me in the narthex of St. Philip’s Episcopal Church. Who even gets married here? Admittedly, I don’t go to church much. Okay, I’m a heathen. And I should probably do something about that someday, because I need to. But I had no say in this matter. My wedding, reception, dress, flowers, everything were planned by my mother and Mrs. Balfour. It makes me wonder who’s even getting married today.
Rubbing my hands together—because I’ve already been instructed not to dare touch my couture designer gown, but how in the hell can I help it? I’d have to hold my arms straight out to avoid that—I wonder again, what the fuck am I doing?
“Jenna, you look … um, gorgeous,” Dad says. The pause makes me wonder if he really feels that way or if he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. The truth is, I look hideous. Even Cate had a difficult time holding back a laugh when she saw me.
“Oh, Dad.” I wring my hands, and the pacing begins. Shit! How did I get myself into this mess? I know—Mom. That’s how. I have to do this. I shake myself. Mentally, not physically, because technically it’s not really possible to shake one’s own body. A picture of me wrapping my arms around myself and giving my body a good jiggle comes to mind, and I chuckle. Besides, if I tried to do it now, I’d fall flat on my ass and look like a pile of whipped cream in this epic disaster of a dress.
“What is it?” he asks.
I wring my hands again when the wedding director clucks and brings me my bouquet. When my hand closes around it, it nearly throws me to the floor. It must weigh fifty pounds.
“What’s in this thing? Lead?”
“Miss Rhoades, if you would look at the arrangement, you would see why it is so heavy.”
“I don’t think I can carry it.”
“Well, you must. This is what Mrs. Balfour insisted upon.”
“So, is this her wedding then?” I ask with a sour note.
“She is paying for the flowers, is she not?” she snaps.
“Ladies, hush,” Dad says in his deep, calm voice. “Jenna, I know you have a case of pre-wedding jitters, but honey, that bouquet is, well, it’s really something.”
“It is indeed.” I resume pacing, letting Ms. Wedding Director hang on to that monstrosity for a moment. Let’s see how she does. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shifting it from one hand to the other, and soon she cradles it like a baby. Why the hell did they get something so ostentatious? Christ, I need a valium or a drink.
“Dad, do you have any liquor?”
A deep rumble comes from his chest. Ms. Wedding Director says, “It’s time for you to float down the aisle, Miss Rhoades.” Who the fuck floats? What happened to walking?
“I can’t do it.”
“Jenna? Miss Rhoades?” they both speak at once.
But at that time, Brandon, the biggest reason for my hesitation, my reluctance, my unwillingness to marry Kenneth, bursts through the main church doors. One look at me and he says, “Jenna, you can’t possibly go through with this.” And then he zeroes in on me, his eyes trailing above mine and asks, “What the hell happened to your hair?”
I’m not sure if I want to scream or laugh.
“Brandon, I—I”
“Jenna, we have to go,” Ms. Wedding Director says. The muted tunes of “Pachelbel’s Canon in D” can be heard through the closed doors. Dad’s hand closes on my arm.
The heat of Brandon rolls off him as he stands before me. “Jenna, you don’t love him. You know you don’t, unless you were lying to me when you told me I held your heart. You can never be happy being married to him, and you know I speak the truth.”
“Jenna?” Dad’s tone begs for a response—from me.
“Brandon, there’s more to it than that.” A sigh of frustration escapes from me.
“Then explain it to me,” Brandon pleads. “Even if I’m not the one for you, he isn’t. You know I’m right.”
Dad’s confusion is clear. “What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
“What I mean is, your daughter is marrying the wrong man.” He starts to say something else, but his phone rings, so he digs it out of his pocket. When I think he’s going to ignore it, he answers the call. “What?”
Then his face morphs into a mask of pain, pale and drawn. Briefly, he glances up at me, and it’s as if he’s not seeing me at all. The expression frightens me as the call must have him.
“Brandon? What is it?”
He backs away, mouth open, looking dazed, leaving me mystified.
“Brandon,” I call out again.
“I… I gotta… I gotta go,” he stutters.
He disappears through the doors he appeared through moments before. His footsteps so fast, I thought he might trip trying to get away from me. Desperately, I want to follow him and make sure he’s okay. However, Dad stops me with a hand on my arm. I turn to face him.
“Jenna, it’s time,” Dad says.
In his eyes, I see the fate that I’d been dealt. I’d made this decision not lightly. Kenneth is a good man. Even though I’m not in love with him, the love I do have will have to be enough.
Part One
Past
One
Jenna
When my best friend, Cate, lost her husband—who was also my brother’s best friend—we all went into a massive state of shock. The guy was unstoppable, unbeatable, and undefeatable in everything he did, except for this. Even after his funeral, a part of me expected him to pop out and say something like, “Just kidding.” Only he never did. It’s still hard to take, still after all this time.
Everyone loved him because he was easy to love. Considerate, caring, not to mention beautiful inside and out, the mold was broken when he was created. Cate and Ben are still grieving, leaning on each other. But me, I’m finding it more than difficult to cope not having anyone to lean on, because they both need me. I have to be strong for them. But—as stupid as it sounds—he was my friend, too, almost like a brother to me, and sometimes, I need a shoulder to cry on from time to time.
Cate has gone from the bright and vivacious person I know to dull and emotionless. It’s like someone set a bomb off inside of her and exploded all the fire away. And Ben … there’s no other way to put it than he’s a mess. My brother has turned into nothing short of a manwhore. Scotch and vodka are his best friends now and he’s drinking it up, staying out late, or not coming home at all. It’s as though he’s gone over to the dark side. It’s surprising that he’s able to function at work, but he does. And the one thing I can say is, he’s always there for Cate—day or night.
Me … I’m frustrated as hell. I’m the coil that’s been wound too tight, ready to spring. There’s no one to talk to anymore. I loved the guy, too. Maybe I wasn’t as close to him as Ben, and certainly not Cate, but I’d known him all my life, and when you remove someone as large as him, it’s impossible to fill that hole. With both Cate and Ben up to their eyeballs in their own troubles, they don’t have time to think about me. I don’t blame them. It’s just there’s not a single person I can talk to about it that would understand. The world has taken a shit, and I’m the outhouse.
Living in this situation where I’m continually acting the happy camper sucks. My happy face is beginning to resemble The Joker’s. My hope is for Cate to engage in life again, but I’m not sure if that’s going to happen anytime soon.
As I’m driving to work, thick traffic fueling my inner rant, I run over something in the middle of the lane. It’s impossible to avoid, but soon after I hit it, my car makes a clanking sound. Great, just what I need. Now I’ll be late to work, and my boss is a real jerk. Better give him a call because I need to take this in to get checked out.
After commanding my car’s smart link to call him, he answers right away.
“Jenna? Are you calling to say you won’t be making it in today?”
“I’m on the way in, but I just ran over something and my car is acting up. I need to take it in to get it checked out real quick.”
There is a long, awkward pause, but
I don’t kill it with my voice. I let him do that.
“Hmm. Okay. Get here as fast as you can. And don’t stop anywhere after you get it checked out.”
Really? What am I going to do? Go shopping or something?
“I will.” I head for my dealer, but traffic is at a crawl, and on the way I see an import repair shop with plenty of cars out front. I swing in knowing I need to get back to work ASAP, by the way my boss sounded. As I pull in, the noise has grown worse.
A woman with dark hair and makeup, not to mention ink and piercings, greets me. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah. My car. I, uh, I hit something.”
I’ve never had a meltdown or anxiety attack before, so I can’t explain it. All I know is that in that moment, everything closes in on me and the room starts to shrink. The door behind the counter opens, and a tall guy with jet-black hair and lots of colorful tattoos down both arms walks next to the woman and smiles at me.
“Is there a problem?”
Shaking my head, it must look nutty as hell.
“You okay?”
I clutch at my neck when my lungs suddenly constrict. I wheeze, “Can’t breathe.” What the hell is going on?
The guy runs around the counter and asks me if I have any allergies.
“No.” My face and hands feel like pins and needles are pricking them, so I tell him that.
“Dana,” he says, “grab a paper bag from under there.”
Then he tells me to hold it to my mouth and breathe in. His arm is around me as he explains I’m having a panic attack and I need to take in carbon dioxide. How does he know this? It’s worth a try, because if I don’t, I’ll die, I’m sure. Less than a minute later, I’m already feeling better. But he makes me continue to breathe this way until I’m completely relaxed. Then he takes it away. He crumples up the bag, and the sound it makes alerts me to my surrounding.
And just like that, I break down and cry.
Tears gush down my face as he murmurs soft words while leading me toward the back. We end up in a room, where he has me sit on a couch. The torrent of tears doesn’t allow me to see much, but his weight depresses the seat next to me. Then the warmth and heaviness of his arm go across my shoulders as he continues to mumble sweet things to me.
This goes on for several minutes and I know I need to straighten my shit out, but I can’t seem to stop. I don’t know what started everything, but I need to turn off the faucet. Now. Sniffle snorting until I control myself, the tears finally ebb and I get a good look at where I am. It’s definitely an office because there are a desk, filing cabinets, a computer, printer, and, of course, this couch.
“Hey,” I say, my throat all scratchy from this sob session. “Thanks. Sorry for the meltdown.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had a time or two when someone needed to cry on my shoulder. It’s good to get that shit off your chest.”
I want to ask who, but I step back from that thought. He’s been nice. There is no way I should intrude into his personal life.
Holding out a hand, I figure I should introduce myself. “I’m Jenna Rhoades.”
“Jenna Rhoades,” he says tentatively as if he’s testing out my name. Before I can say something, anything, like ask him his, he adds, “I’m Brandon Connelly.”
“Nice to meet you, Brandon. I feel incredibly stupid and maybe a little crazy. I’m not sure what happened, but I appreciate you helping me out back there.”
“Again, no problem.” He reaches to his other side and produces a tissue.
“Are you used to helping out women in distress?”
After I say it, I feel my cheeks burn, because this guy is hot.
“I don’t leap over tall buildings or anything. But my hands are often messy and I get crap on my face. Tissues are sometimes preferable for clean up over paper towels.”
“Soft skin?” I tease.
He shrugs. “Don’t knock it. Last thing a woman wants is a guy with sandpaper hands.”
I laugh, because I suddenly feel nervous. “True.”
Things go quiet, but then he asks, “Are you a coffee drinker?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Cream, sugar?”
“Both,” I say.
“I’ll be right back.” And in minutes, he’s back with a piping hot mug of coffee for me.
“Thanks.” I take the mug from him.
I get a look at it, and it says Property of Badass Mechanic. “Badass, huh?”
What’s more adorable is when he flushes, full-on red face.
“It was a gift,” he says as though he’s nervous, which I can’t imagine why.
For a second, I forget how I royally embarrassed myself to get to this point until he says, “Are you okay now?”
Feeling the flames of hell rush to my cheeks, I take a moment to think about it.
“Yes. No, not really?”
“Wanna talk about it?”
I drop my head down, losing the smile I’d found seconds before, and rest it in my hands. It throbs from crying. “I hate to cry,” I say and don’t know why, so I continue. “I don’t know. I’m just … sad. Have you ever been sad?” I rotate my body so I can actually look at the guy, and holy fucking fireballs. The dude is slap-your-momma-bad-to-the-bone-hot-as-sin. Dark, dangerous, and delicious. Black hair, lots and lots of ink on his muscular arms, which makes me assume the rest of him is, too, and eyes, oh so seductive. Yes, badass. And then he grins. Of course he does, because he knows I’m snared by his beauty. His smile is a record holder. Full lips, straight teeth that could sparkle, and … what the hell is wrong with me?
“Why are you sad?”
Why am I sad? Oh, right. Get your shit together, Jenna girl. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m not on a time clock.”
Releasing the air that’s packed in my poor lungs, I say, “My best friend’s husband died. He was also my brother’s best friend. And I loved him, too. Hell, everybody loved the guy. Anyway, and you’re going to think I’m selfish, and I probably am. But the truth is, I can’t really grieve for him because I have to be strong for my brother and my friend. And dammit, I lost him, too.” And a tsunami of tears drags me down again.
“I get it. You’re between a rock and a hard place, playing hero to everyone else. It’s a tough position I know all too well, leaving you with no one to talk to.”
It’s there in his voice. He gets it. And curiosity sparks, but I tamp it down.
“Exactly.” Sniff, sniff. “And I don’t know what to do.”
“Talking helps.” I nod. “So, do you want to tell me what brought you in here today?”
“Oh. Right. My car. I ran over something, and it’s making a bad noise.” I explain exactly what happened and tell him which car is mine.
He gets to his feet and holds up a hand when I try to follow him. “You sit right here and let me check your car to find what the problem is.”
I hand him the fob and let him do his thing. As I sit here, I wonder about Brandon. After about thirty minutes, the girl from the front sticks her head in and says, “Brandon told me to tell you it may be another hour or so. He wants to know if you want a ride somewhere and come back later?”
“Oh, thanks. Does he know what it is?”
She looks at me like I’m a moron. “Um, that’s why it’s going to be another hour.”
“I see. Usually the places I’ve been before let me know what it is before they fix it.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’ve never been here though, have you?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“So, are you staying or going?” she asks curtly.
“Staying.” My boss might kill me, but something about being here soothes me.
Without another word, she leaves. She’s not what I would call super friendly. And almost on the nose, an hour passes and Brandon walks in.
“Got you fixed up. Whatever you hit messed with your alignment. We got you straightened back up. Fortunately, it was a very minor issue. By the way, y
ou were also overdue for an oil change, so I went ahead and took care of that for you.”
“What about the rattling noise?”
“The noise is gone. Most likely, whatever you hit dragged along under the car for a little bit. It’s gone now.”
“That is good news. Thank you. So, what do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house today.”
“No, I can’t possibly let you do that.” And I can’t after everything he’s done.
The corners of his mouth slightly turn up. “Well, Jenna Rhoades, I don’t see there’s a thing you can do about it, can you?”
I boldly match his smile. “I can take you out to dinner.”
“Are you asking me out?” His smirk is off the charts.
Am I? Maybe a different time.
“No, I’m offering a trade. If you won’t let me pay, then I’ll treat you to dinner.”
His arms cross over his chest, and he wears playful well. Too well, in fact. He is everything I could want, but everything I can’t have. My mother would have a gigantic heart attack followed by a massive fit if I ever showed up at the house with a guy like Brandon Connelly. Sad as it may seem, it’s true. Mom is bound by society, and Brandon, with his sexy as hell ink and off the charts bad boy looks, is totally out of reach for me.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
Placing my hands on my hips, I say, “Are you suggesting that dinner with me would be a chore?”
Laugh lines appear as he says, “Nope. No problem at all.”
I hold out a hand. “Deal?”
“Deal,” he says, taking it.
“Good.”
“Give me your number, and I’ll give you mine. Will tonight work?” I ask.
The Cruel and Beautiful Series Boxset Page 77
