by Amo Jones
Bringing my attention back to the task at hand, he smiled, the wrinkles on his face curving around his teeth. “Anywhere I want.” He grabbed one of my tits and squeezed through my bra. I didn’t mind. After all, we needed the money. After I left home, my dad and Lydia disowned me. They never understood Brooke, but they never understood many people. If you couldn’t serve a purpose to my father or my family, then there’s no way they’d make time for you. Brooke had nothing to offer, and I figured that’s why they always had a very distasteful opinion on her.
I first met Brooke one night when I almost crashed my car into the town’s bridge. I skidded to a halt, tears streaming down my face, in full panic mode because I was drunk and was also hell-bent on thinking someone was following me. Brooke had said there was no one following me, so I eventually calmed down. I put it down to all my emotions running high from catching my then-boyfriend cheating on me at the party I had just come from, and the alcohol running through my system. Brooke had showed up as I was having a full-blown panic attack in my car that was up on the footpath to the bridge. I’ve often wondered why my family don’t speak to her or even acknowledged her when she was around, and I’ve always thought that maybe they assumed we dated because of how Brooke was and how close our friendship was. Wrong. Brooke and I enjoy dick too much to switch teams, but we’re comfortable enough around each other to experiment with other people together.
I ran my hands down the old dude’s sides until they stopped at a cold metal barrel. “Oh?” I smiled, attention perked.
“Just protection, darlin’, nothing to worry your pretty little self about.”
I go to reach for the gun but he stopped me with a firm grip of his hand. “Pretty little girls shouldn’t play with big ugly guns.”
“Aw, that’s cute.” I winked at him, letting it go. NERD “Lapdance” came on so I continued giving the man his excitement while letting his fingers roam where ever they may—which occasionally ended in him shoving Benjamin Franklin’s down the front of my bra—I laughed, hooking my fingers behind his neck and swinging myself backward.
Looking to the side, I watched as Brooke bent over between the guy who she was with legs, lean forward, and snort a line of crank off the inside of his thigh. In one quick motion, she then flicked her wrist from behind her back and quickly pulled out a Swiss army knife. The room started spinning and I tilted my head just as she raised the knife to the man’s throat, slicing deep across his jugular vein and blood started spurting out everywhere. The man I was sitting on, pounced off his seat, reaching for his semi-automatic, but I was faster. Snatching it quickly, I raised it up to him and cocked it. “Don’t fucking move!”
Brooke stood over the dead man’s body, her breathing heavy, her chest rising and falling and blood dripping off her silken skin.
“Brooke?” I whispered out urgently, not knowing what the fuck just happened or what my next move should be. “What the fuck is going on?” Brooke looked over her shoulder to the young guys who were seated at the front of the stage and then flicked her gaze to the old man behind the bar. I kept my sole focus on the guy in front of me, though, not wanting to give him the opportunity to see a weakness. Never held a gun in my entire life, so I was totally winging this whole ordeal, but I was going with it. “Brooke!” I snapped at her.
“Honey, put the gun down. He ain’t got shit he can do.” The old guy from the bar walked toward Brooke and I, but I didn’t lower the weapon. My hands shook, and my lips trembled slightly, but I remained in the same position.
“Isa, lower the gun,” Brooke answered softly, reaching into the pockets of the dead guy and taking out all his money, shoving it into her pocket.
“Someone needs to tell me what the fuck is going on and they need to tell me right now! Or I’m not lowering shit.” My breathing was ragged and all senses had been tightened by the adrenaline.
Old guy from the bar pulled out a seat opposite me, putting a cigarette between his lips. “Brooke?” he questioned, and then his eyes moved to the corner where the shadow once stood. His eyes changed, then he grinned, with a shrug of his shoulders. “That man there,” he pointed down to the dead body on the floor. “Had been raping Brooke.” He stopped, his left eye slightly twitching. I looked back to the man who was standing in front of me, afraid that he may jump on me, or hell, kill me. “Since she was a little girl.” He flicked open his Zippo and took a long inhale of the nicotine. “Brooke?” He blew out a cloud of smoke. “She’s my daughter, but her mother was seeing two people at the same time. Long story short, she was raised here and not… by me.”
“But…” I whispered. “I never knew…” That was the best I could muster at this time.
“Give me the gun, darlin’, and walk out of here.” I looked to Brooke and she smiled softly, nodding her head. I flung the gun toward him and he swung it around his finger until the barrel was resting on his shoulder. He pulled the trigger and the other Russian—or English man— who I had at gunpoint, dropped to the ground in a bloody mess.
“I’ll call you, Dad,” Brooke muttered softly.
“You call me, darlin’, you know where I am.”
I looked at the other two guys who were sitting at the front of the stage, both had to be in their mid-twenties. Cocking my head, one of them grinned at me, his white teeth coming into display devilishly.
“Come on” Brooke interrupted my staring, so I followed her, picking up my clothes on the way out all the while feeling both of the young guy’s glare at the back of my head. Once we had our clothes, I looked at Brooke just before we hit the front doors. “Who are those guys and why didn’t you tell me this was your plan all along?”
“Those guys are my dad’s minions.” She didn’t stop walking.
“Brooke!” I yelled out to her, gripping onto her arm as she made her way toward the car. She stopped and turned to face me. “And who is your dad? And who is your mom?”
She smiled weakly. “He owns a cartel that runs most of the eastern side of America, and my mom? She...” Her eyes drifted off into the distance sadly. “She’s difficult.” Then she walked back to her side of the car with a complete smile back on her face. “You ready to continue our road trip of mass destruction?”
“Yeah.” I shook my head, attempting to wrap my head around everything I just witnessed. “Yeah, but no more killing people. We’re going to be leaving a trail in our wake soon.”
Brooke laughed, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Promise, no more dead bodies.”
Bringing myself out of my memory lapse, I look toward my sister and smile. “No. Nothing to do with Brooke.”
“Are you sure?” Brianna asks, doing that annoying thing with her eyebrow when she knows I’m lying.
“Positive. Now can I just get this wedding over with, please? I feel like my life hasn’t even started yet but I’m over it already.” I sink back into my chair.
We pull up to a white chapel, and I note how it looks exactly as it did in the brochures. I didn’t get much time to plan, and it didn’t mean that great of a deal to me at the time, so it was merely me choosing out of the eight venues the wedding planner picked out for me.
Jen is waiting for me at the curb in her bridesmaid’s dress, and seeing her should make me happy, but it makes me sad. Sad because I still haven’t heard from Devon, and I’ve become so lost without him. I’ve never thought of myself to rely on anyone in my entire life, not my father or my sister, but without even realizing, I did rely on Devon. Emotionally, sexually, and just as a friend in general. One thing I have learned through this rough patch is that friends can break your heart just like any relationship can.
Jen opens my door and widens her arms. “Oh my God, Isa, you look so stunning.” I get out of the car with Brianna holding my train behind me. I feel terrible because amongst all the chaos that has happened in my life, I’ve lost touch with Jen. It’s as though we both just took different paths in life, hers being having kids and marrying her high school sweetheart at a young age, and
me, well, me being the hot mess that I am. Somehow, even though we love each other dearly, those little differences in life can be big things when it comes to friendship.
“Can you get out? I don’t want to be stuck in here all day,” Lydia mutters impatiently from inside the limo.
I pull Jen into a hug, and then step back. “You look beautiful too, Jen, Brianna did really well with your guy’s dresses.” I gave Brianna three options to choose from in regards to the bridesmaid dresses, and what did she do? She chose one thing of each option and then customized it. Andrea, the wedding planner, was not a fan of Bri.
“Thank you. My kids are probably running circles around David right now.” She looks toward the church, and we both giggle. She’s right, all though I do love her two kids very much, they’re little mini tornados.
“Okay, are we ready?” Brianna grins, brushing her own dress down.
Jen smiles before nodding. “As ready as we will ever be.”
The white doors spread open and I step inside just as our guests get to their feet. This whole thing is like a car wreck of a movie. I feel like a fraud, standing at where the aisle begins. Every step I take down the long wooden pathway, one hundred things rush through my brain—all of which have a lot to do with running. But considering my track record with running, I’m thinking I better not.
Looking up, I slowly bring my eyes to the altar, and they don’t flinch away from Bryant. I know he has two men as his groomsmen, probably guys from that day—probably the same guys that helped practically kidnap me when I was in his house, or maybe, they’re paid actors. The latter makes a lot of sense, and both options aren’t very romantic. Figures. Good thing I’m not a scrapbook wedding enthusiast because this would absolutely shit on any and all expectations.
Bryant is dressed in a razor-sharp, perfectly tailored suit. The little black bow tie that is hooked around his neck catches my eye, mainly because I’ve never seen him in a bowtie, he’s almost always wearing a tie. I bring my eyes back to his and I watch as he runs his own down my body, slowly. Yet, even though this is my wedding day, and although I know that it’s not the traditional wedding—not even remotely, a part of me does feel a tinge of guilt, or discomfort, knowing how fake the whole set up is. But as Bryant takes my hand with a cocky grin, I notice something. On my side of the church sits Lydia, my father, a couple of my aunts whom I haven’t seen in years, my cousin Trish—who is a nutcase—her husband and three kids, and a few distant cousins, but when I look to Bryant’s side, it’s full. Way fuller than my side. I didn’t realize it, but he has a massive family. I don’t know what I was expecting, actually, no, I know that I was expecting a lot smaller. Not saying people with smaller families are snobbish, but Bryant just comes off as someone who wouldn’t have a large family. I’m guessing the woman standing at the front with a wide smile on her face is his mom. She has soft brown curls, warm chocolate eyes and a smile that could light up this entire church.
Bryant narrows his eyes on me, interrupting my gawking. “What’s wrong?”
I perch my eyebrow. “Want the list?”
Bryant chuckles then looks back toward the priest. “Begin.”
10
“Get in the car, Isa,” Bryant growls into my ear while his hand is pressed firmly against my lower back.
I smile my ‘smile’ and give one last polite wave to our family and friends before gripping my dress in the palm of my hand and slipping into the backseat of the limo. Bryant’s family was normal which surprised me. I didn’t quite expect his mom to be so…. Motherly? I don’t know, but a man like Bryant just screamed to me mommy issues, so that left me with thoughts of his father, but was proven wrong there too. His father, all though he seemed rather brooding, was in my opinion, normal. Everything about his damn family was normal and just… nice. My family and their rich ass friends were always such assholes to other people. I always thought it was money that made people assholes, but nope. Bryant’s parents sure shat on that theory.
My smile drops as soon as I’m in the enclosure of the limo. I reach for the unopened bottle of champagne, unwrapping the cork and quickly popping it off. Without seeking out any wine glasses, I bring the rim of the bottle to my mouth and pound it back, letting the bitter rich liquid bubble down my throat. In the corner of my eye, I see Bryant slide into the chair opposite me, but I keep drinking.
I’m a wife.
A. Fucking. Wife.
I feel like I should be wearing a “ain’t no wifey” shirt right now. I’m not fucking wife material, I’m life-changer, will-fuck-your-world-up, bitch-with-problems, material.
Bryant chuckles, slamming the door closed and that’s when I lower my lovely bottle of champ while wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. All class, obviously. Hashtag classy wifey.
“What!” I snap at him, raising the bottle once more to take a drink.
“I didn’t say anything, wife,” he snarls. The pet name sets off goosebumps, or pissed off bumps, over my flesh. What the actual fuck have I done? I’ve made a lot of very questionable decisions in all my twenty years, but this…oh this has got to take the crack cake.
“Easy on the wife,” I add, as the limo drives away from our guests.
“I’ll call you what I want, but for the record, that’s exactly what the fuck you are.” He loosens his tie and tosses it across the seat. His dark eyes come to mine, and I take this time to scan his features, what with the soft lighting in the limo casting shadows over his chiseled jaw. There’s no denying how stunning Bryant Royal is. No questioning at all. But then again, that’s never been the issue.
“Why me?” I ask, you know, classic me, spitting out whatever is on my mind before I can throw up any kind of filter. “I mean,” I rest the bottle of champagne between my thighs, “I mean, just why me?”
He pauses, and my eyes come to where his index finger is working his upper lip. Just when I’m about to tap out and look away from his annoyingly sexy glare, he answers. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?”
“No.” I want to scoff, but I can’t find the will to do it. It’s somewhere between all the tension that has heightened to dangerous levels, and the urge to punch him square in the nose.
He exhales, reaching forward and taking the bottle from between my legs. “Good. At least you have something switched on in that brain.”
“Not funny.” I throw back at him, my eyes narrowed.
“I’m not trying to be funny, Isa.” He takes a large gulp of champagne, his Adam’s apple bobbing past his swallow.
“Well then what, Bryant. I know what I did to your brother… but why would you want to marry someone who took someone so close to you?”
He stops, his eyes snap straight to mine and if I didn’t know any better by knowing that it wasn’t (actually) possible, I’d say flames roared inside those dark pupils. “Why the fuck do you have to ask so many questions?” He tilts his head and runs his eyes over my body. “For someone who didn’t ask fuck all questions when she was supposed to, you sure ask a lot now.”
“That’s not fair,” I flinch, mumbling it more to myself than to him because truly, someone like Bryant doesn’t give a flying fuck about what I think is fair.
“A lot of shit isn’t fair,” ding, ding, ding, maybe I should have been a psychic, “but you being incapable of asking questions is not one of them.” Oh, we’re definitely going to kill each other before we’ve even reached the boring phase of marriage.
Deciding to ignore him for the rest of the trip, I lean my head against the cool window and watch the passing of trees. All these recent events have had me thinking about Brooke a lot. I think she’s with her dad somewhere, I haven’t heard from her in some time.
Looking to Bryant out of the corner of my eye, I want to ask him what we’re doing. What his plan is and why he had to marry me. Aside from being the president’s daughter, and having history with his brother, I don’t see why he would (truly) benefit from having me as his wife.
Pulling i
nto the underground parking lot, we get out of the limo and I clutch my dress in my hand. This isn’t as I imagined I spend the night of my wedding, not that I thought about it much, but still, I watch movies, and this isn’t usually how it plays out, but then again, nothing ever is.
Going back into the penthouse, I toss my phone onto the counter and head straight for the fridge. Taking out the only champagne bottle I see in there, I rip the cork off and bring it to my lips. I hear Bryant snicker behind me. “You know I have glasses, right?”
Swallowing the bubbles, I turn to face him while letting my hair down. “You know it’s our wedding night, right?”
His mouth snaps closed as his eyes darkened. “Don’t ask for something you ain’t ready for, Isa.”
“Mmmm.” I inch my finger up. “And who says that I’m not ready? Sex, yes, Marriage, no.”
Bryant comes closer, so I step backward until I’m colliding with the fridge doors. Once he’s close, he brings both fists up to my head and cages me in. He tilts his head, running his tongue over his teeth before his lip curls up. “Take off your dress,” he growls, so deep that it awakens that same dark little girl who shamelessly begs for Bryant every day. Every night. Every time he flashes those annoying fucking eyes toward me, she stirs deep inside me begging to be fucked—hard. Instantly, my fingers find the back of my dress until I’m slowly zipping it down. Bryant’s head drops down as he watches my flesh slowly be revealed to him. He steps backward, reaching for the bottle of champagne from my other hand, and then bringing it to his mouth. He takes a long pull of it, but his eyes remain on mine. Just as the tight silk drops off my skin and the fresh air pinches my nipples, a growl comes from his chest.
Yikes! The no bra idea was obviously a great idea. Leaning against the fridge, I smile at him, hooking my G-string and tugging it off. Swinging it around with my index finger, I reach out to Bryant, a slight smile on my mouth. “Is this what you want?” I close my eyes, my hips beginning to roll at the thought of Bryant right there, watching me. I don’t know why, but he sets my everything on fire. The erotic feeling engulfs me, and I get lost in it.
