by LK Farlow
“It’s my business to know.” He scoffs as he turns and stalks out the door, as though he didn’t cut me down at the knees. My only saving grace is everyone is so wrapped up in Stacia and West, they missed our little display.
Shaking off his sour attitude, I lift my camera just in time to see West swat Stacia on her ass as they exit the event space, making all who witness it laugh.
I pull my camera away from my face, quickly checking whether or not I captured the image. I did, but my victory feels a little sour.
Then again, meeting the love of your life and having him hate you on sight tends to put a damper on things.
Story of my freaking life.
2
Colton
I try to put the unprofessional, purple-haired hack job out of my mind for the rest of the night. Truly I do, but her presence is inescapable.
Even dressed to blend in, she stands out. The deep navy number she’s wearing looks like a dress at first glance but is actually shorts. The lightweight material clings to her, perfectly complementing her long, lean physique. It’s absurd, really. Everywhere I look—there she is.
My eyes seem to be drawn to her of their own accord. Again, absurd, as she’s not remotely my type. I prefer my women short, curvy, and with something more than hot air occupying the space between their ears. Though, I will say, she seems to have taken my advice to heart and is focusing on the bride and groom, so there’s that.
I’m at the bar decidedly not watching Miss Murphy when West approaches me, his new wife in tow. “You having a good time?” he asks, slapping me on the back.
“The best,” I deadpan, raising my glass to him.
“Smartass,” Stacia mutters under her breath. To say it took the two of us a while to get along is putting it mildly. But in the end, I’m man enough to admit I was wrong—West and Stacia are great together.
“Seriously, though, I’m happy for the two of you. And tonight has been…enjoyable.”
West rolls his eyes. “You sure know how to dole out those compliments, don’t ya?”
I shrug and finish the last of my whiskey. “Top shelf liquor, a Michelin-star worthy meal, and cake…what could I possibly have to complain about?”
A flash of purple moves in my periphery, as if to remind me not everything’s been up to snuff. Glancing over my shoulder, I confirm Miss Murphy is snapping away as we talk. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell West his photographer isn’t worth the pretty penny I know she’s charging them, but I refrain. It’s neither the time nor the place to air such grievances. Plus, I’m not one to bring an accusation to the table without facts to prove it. There’s a reason my win record is one of the best in the courtroom, after all.
“You’re something else, man,” West says, his tone full of mirth. “For real though, I’m glad you’re here.”
I signal the bartender for another drink. “You’re like a brother to me; there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“You always say I’m a pain in your ass,” he counters.
“Pretty sure we’re using different words to say the same thing.” We chat for a few more minutes until the newlyweds are called away by other guests.
Several long hours later, I’m standing at the curb, waiting on my Uber, tipsy, tired, and beyond ready to head home. A small headache throbs behind my eyes as I check the app on my phone to see how far out my car is.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says from my right.
I turn my head toward the sound. “Miss Murphy,” I mutter her name like a curse.
“You can call me Ashley.” She takes a step closer. At six-four, I’m used to having to look down when speaking to women, but she can nearly look me in the eyes.
My body pivots toward hers of its own accord. “I’d rather not.”
She sucks on her lower lip before licking them both. “I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Could we…perhaps…start over?”
I mull over her offer, but ultimately decline, as my first impressions are rarely ever wrong. “Again, I’d rather not.”
A long sigh passes her glossy lips. “Listen, Mister…” she trails off, waiting for me to supply my name.
“Banks. Colton Banks.”
The lavender-haired menace breaks into a grin as she offers me her hand to shake. “Ashley Murphy, nice to meet you.”
Not wanting to be outright rude or to lie, I remain silent and keep my hands firmly at my sides. After a few breaths, Little Miss Sunshine gets the memo and drops her hand.
“I’m not sure why you’re so put off by me…” She swallows roughly. Something tells me she isn’t used to people disliking her. I grin, knowing it’s probably eating her up inside.
She steps closer, brings her hand to my chest, and curls her long, delicate fingers around my lapel. “Ugh. I…this…is going to sound out there, but I’d really like to take you out to dinner,” she says as she rubs the material of my jacket between her thumb and forefinger, seemingly entranced by the luxurious texture.
I step back from her, dislodging her hold on me. “Absolutely not.”
“But—”
I slice my hand through the air, silencing her. “But nothing. Clearly my original assessment of you still stands. You’re unprofessional and frankly, quite forward.”
She opens her mouth to speak, right as my ride appears. I stalk to the car, fling open the door, and slide into the back seat before she can give life to whatever asinine bullshit apology she was surely about to deliver.
My driver wastes no time pulling back into traffic, and while a small part of me wants to know if Miss Murphy watches us drive away, I refuse to spare her a second glance. As far as I’m concerned, the woman is nothing but trouble. Goodbye and good riddance.
3
Ashley
“I swear to God, if you don’t hand over my wedding pictures, I will run your business into the ground! You will never shoot another wedding in Cottonwood again!”
Tears sting my eyes, and I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from telling Megan Grace Garcia—yes, she goes by both—exactly how I feel. Instead, I take a deep breath and try for professionalism instead. “Mrs. Garcia, I’m truly sorry it’s come to this. However, until the remainder of your balance is paid, I will be unable to release the photographs to you. It is stated plainly in the contract we both signed.”
Phew! Go me!
“And I told you I’m not paying, after the atrocious job you did on my bridal session!”
My right eye twitches. “If you recall, I tried rescheduling due to the inclement weather.”
I feel like a broken record at this point. Megan Grace has been calling me twice a day for going on three days now. I had a bad feeling when she and I first met, but ignored it. Talk about having regrets. This bridezilla is every wedding photographer’s nightmare come to life.
“I don’t see what the weather has to do with an indoor photoshoot! You’re a hack, and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it! You’re finished! Through!”
She hangs up before I can reply, which is probably a good thing because I’m all out of nice things to say to her. I’m half tempted to throw my phone at the wall, but with how my day is progressing, I’ll probably crack the damn screen. I settle for yelling at the top of my lungs instead. There’s something cathartic about a good yell.
But even better is having a bitch-fest with your bestie—even if she lives a state away. Thankfully, Mally answers on the first ring. “I only have ten minutes before the kids will be back in my classroom. They are having library time, so talk fast!”
“Ugh! You remember that bad-juju bride I told you about?”
“I do.”
“She is a thousand times worse than I ever imagined. She is literally threatening to launch a smear campaign against me and is stalker-calling me multiple times a day!”
Mally sucks in a breath. “No way! What a psycho! What are you gonna do?”
“I honestly don’t know what to do. I feel…stuck.”
“Y
ou want me to ask Duke what he thinks?”
A warm feeling settles in my gut—gratefulness. “Oh my glob, yes! That would be amazeballs!”
“Deal,” she laughs, “as long as you never say amazeballs again.”
“Hey! That is a classic.”
“Classically bad.” She laughs harder, and I vow to say the word forever if this is the response it gets. The closed-off, broken shell of a girl I first met is nothing at all like the vibrant woman I have the pleasure of calling my best friend. Mallory’s been through hell and back—at least twice—and is one of the strongest human beings I’ve ever met.
“Pssh. You love it.”
“You’re a grown ass woman who talks like some weird crossbreed between a middle-aged dad, a hippie, and a VSCO girl.”
“Mood.” I pitch my voice an octave higher and draw out the word, knowing it will set her off all over again.
“Oh my God! Stop it. What does that even mean?”
“It is a way to express relatability.”
“Ash, what have I told you about reading the Urban Dictionary for fun?”
“Whatever. You freaking love me!”
“I totally do. Crap! I gotta go!”
“Thanks for letting me vent.”
“Anytime. I’ll let you know what Duke says. Love you big.”
“Love you bigger.” I tap the end call button and toss my phone down onto my desk, feeling a little lighter than I did before.
Said light feeling disintegrates a few hours later after posting a stunning photo from the Larson wedding to my Instagram as a sneak peek.
It is absolutely one of the best images I’ve ever taken, and the redhead’s natural beauty only makes it that much better. I wouldn’t be shocked if it went viral, with how attractive Stacia and West are.
Within seconds of me posting it, comments begin rolling in. Only, instead of the virtual high-fives I’m used to getting, the thread is riddled with cruelty.
Tears gather along my lashes as I read line after line of vitriol. Shock, hurt, anger, and confusion all push for dominance within me. Confusion pulls ahead in the race until I see a comment from Bridezilla herself, Megan Grace.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. She said she was going to ruin me, and it seems like she’s recruited every single Petty Betty she’s ever crossed paths with to help further her little online hate-fest.
It would be one thing for these wenches to attack my business—and they are—but they’re going beyond and talking shit about my clients, which is something I will not tolerate. These awful women are taking every cheap shot they can find, picking her apart in the worst way possible. One nutjob called Stacia a slut because her dress showed off her curves, while another said she must be the paid help because there’s no way a man like West would go for her. They trash her tattoos and her dress, and joke about her hair color.
I’m torn between wanting to sob and vomit. Being a woman is hard enough without all the Megan Graces of the world calling in favors from their Mean Girl Brigade.
Jesus-I-need-some-chips-and-queso-dip-Christ.
I allow myself exactly seven minutes of wallowing before putting on my big girl panties and getting to work on damage control.
Step one: ordering takeout from Los Tacos. Whoever invented food delivery, blessings to you and all of your future offspring.
Step two: sending screenshots to Mallory.
Step three: contacting the Larsons, as painful as it may be. I run my business on integrity, and I won’t allow them to stumble upon that thread blindly.
Step four: find a lawyer.
I breeze through the first two items on my list and hopefully by the time I finish this next phone call, I’ll have a heaping order of nachos—with extra queso—all to myself.
My hands are unsteady as I scroll to Stacia’s contact card in my phone. She answers on the third ring. “Hey, Ashley!” Her voice is bright and clear.
“Hey.” I decide to skip the small talk and pleasantries. “As you know, my reputation is everything to me.”
Her throaty laughter trickles through the line. “Uh, yeah. That’s one of the reasons I hired you.”
“Right. Well.” I take a deep breath. “I’m very particular about who I work with, and, long story short, I booked a bride when I shouldn’t have, and it is fast becoming a nightmare. She has a vendetta against me and is determined to run my business into the ground.”
“I’m so sorry,” Stacia says, genuine concern coating her words. “That’s horrible.”
“It gets worse. She’s going beyond attacking my business now. She is going after my clients as well—namely you and West, since my most recent posts have been from y’all’s wedding.”
“Oh, hell no!” Stacia roars with a ferocity that almost makes me drop my phone.
She’s pissed. My career is probably over. FML. “I assure you, any and all disparaging remarks about you and your family will be removed. I know—”
“Fuck that twat.”
“What?” I ask, because I couldn’t have heard her right.
“Fuck her. I’m reading the comments now. A bunch of country-club-going, fake-tan-having, can’t-smile-from-too-much-Botox bitches are the least of my worries.”
“What?” Ninety-nine percent sure I sound like a broken record, but if she’s not upset about what people are saying about her, then what?
“There’s no way we’re about to let some bored-ass housewife who’s going to be divorced before her first anniversary ruin you. Hell no.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
Stacia laughs softly. “Ashley, I’m not worried about what these keyboard warriors have to say about me or my family. We know who we are; their words can’t hurt us, and they certainly don’t define us. But they can hurt you and your business. I’m not okay with that. I won’t stand for it. Which is why I’m going to help you.”
“Oh, I-I wasn’t calling to ask for help, just to make you aware of the situation. I didn’t want you or your husband to stumble across it.”
Stacia shushes me. “Nope. Women—real women—stand beside one another. They support one another. And, Ashley, I’m about to support the fuck out of you. First thing you need to do is contact Colton Banks.”
My stomach drops. “Do you happen to know any other lawyers?”
“What? Why? He’s by far the best lawyer in the county. Hell, maybe even the state.”
I clear my throat as dread settles in my gut. “I, um, I just don’t think hiring him is the best idea.”
“Don’t be silly. He’s West’s best friend and will make sure this bologna gets buried.”
“Pretty sure he’d rather bury me,” I mumble under my breath.
Of course, Stacia hears me. “Why would you say that?”
“We…may…have had a run-in at your wedding.”
“Don’t let his prickliness fool you. He’s a softy inside. Trust me. I’ll get West to talk to him, but go see him. Please?”
Maybe she’s right, maybe his frosty exterior is a defense mechanism. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” I say, knowing full well I’m going to end up regretting it.
4
Ashley
To say I wasn’t expecting Colton to work in the center of Cottonwood’s cozy downtown would be putting it mildly. Furthering my shock, his office is smackdab next door to the yoga studio I take weekly classes at.
Small world, smaller town.
I linger outside the pale purple door—the color is eerily similar to my hair—trying like hell to convince myself this isn’t an epic mistake in the making.
Gathering my courage, I pull open the door and walk inside. I don’t even make it two steps before a deep, masculine voice stops me in my tracks.
“No! Absolutely not.”
My stomach churns. “But you don’t even know why I’m here!”
His blue eyes pin me from across the room. “And I don’t care either. Leave.” Colton’s
tone never waivers, which honestly makes him all the scarier.
“Colt—Mr. Banks—please. Five minutes. No, four! Just give me four minutes, surely you can spare me that.”
He clenches his jaw, stands from his desk, and stalks my way. “Make it two.”
I nod, my head bobbing lamely like a dashboard figurine.
“Your time starts now, Miss Murphy.”
“Right! A bride is threatening to sue me! I didn’t want to work with her to start with. She gave me bad vibes, and them together...let’s just say they’re not built to last. But she was persistent, and eventually, I relented, and she signed the contract and paid the deposit for the deluxe wedding package on the spot. But, on the day of her bridal pics—which we were doing at my studio—it was raining. Talk about a bad omen, right?”
I shiver.
“Anyway, I tried rescheduling because I don’t use artificial lighting. It is so not my style. The clouds were completely covering the sun, so it was super doom and gloom. But she refused and demanded we do them anyway.
“She wasn’t happy with the pictures. She said they were too dark—well, no shit, Karen, it was practically pitch-black outside—and here’s the kicker, I’ve already shot her wedding, and now she’s refusing to pay the rest of her fee. So, obviously, I’m not giving her any pictures. And now she’s threatening to sue me and is dragging me through the mud on social media!”
By the time I’m finished, my chest is heaving and sweat beads along my hairline. Detached indifference swims in Colton’s eyes, but he remains mute. So, I continue. “Stacia said you were the best and so, help?” I wring my hands and lick my lips. “Please?”
He wavers, and for a split-second, I think he’s going to give in. He sucks in a breath and bows his head. “Ah, sorry. No can do.” He strides across the room like he owns it—and I guess he does—moving right past me to the semi-open door. “I’d like to say it was nice seeing you, but, frankly, it wasn’t. Let’s not do this again anytime soon. Best of luck to you, Miss Murphy.”
