Two Wedding Crashers

by Meghan Quinn

  “Can I get you anything?” she asks, shouting over the screaming. “Want me to grab you a bottle?”

  The mom turns to her, tears in her eyes. “Would you mind holding her for a second while I dig through my bag?”

  “Not at all,” the girl says, seeming a little apprehensive at first.

  The mom hands over the screaming baby and the girl, unsure on how to properly hold a baby, extends her arms straight out in front of her, the baby held under the armpits, screaming. It’s awkward to watch. The girl tries shooshing as well, tucks her knee under the baby’s bottom and lightly bounces her. Sure enough, the baby quiets, the crying ceases.

  I look around, and relief is written all over the passengers in first class. I want to give the girl a high five. She might not be good at writing first sentences for Lord knows what, but she sure as hell can calm down—

  Blehhhhh.

  Oh hell.

  Without a second thought I cover my nose with my shirt—I’m quickly followed by other passengers—as I watch orange-colored liquid slowly drip down the girl’s face and neck. It’s almost as if her skin started oozing chunky orange liquid.

  “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” the girl says, holding the baby out as far as possible now. And of course, there’s a happy smile on the baby’s face.

  “Oh no, she must have had a little bubble in her tummy. You burped it out of her.” The mom takes the baby and coos into her ear. “Poor baby.”

  The girl sits there, arms extended, frozen in place, orange still dripping down her face and neck. Oh fuck is right. I smile to myself, a laugh popping out of me that I keep to myself.

  Carefully, the girl rises out of her seat only for a flight attendant to scold her. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to take a seat, we’re about to land.”

  “But I have puke on me.”

  “I’m sorry, but the fasten seat belt sign is on.”

  “But . . . puke.”

  “Ma’am, please take a seat. Use a wipe?”

  Fingers twitching, veins popping out of her neck, she takes a seat and looks to the mom who’s holding some wipes to her. “Sorry about that, but hey, at least she stopped crying.”

  Dryly, the girl replies, “Glad I could help.”

  I don’t know how I do it, but I manage to hold in the snort so close to escaping. Her tone. Her frozen form. Oh shit. Don’t laugh. But then I glance at her again, and all I can think is, poor baby.

  Chapter Three

  RYLEE

  I could have walked to the hotel by now. Where the hell is Zoey?” I seethe, trying not to focus on the dry puke encrusted on my neck, or how the humidity and sun have created a vicious cycle of liquid and drying baby puke on my skin.

  To say my “vacation” has started off on the wrong foot is a complete and total understatement.

  “She said she was drying off when you texted her,” Victoria says before biting into an apple. “Can you sit down please, your pacing is giving me anxiety.”

  “I’m giving you anxiety?” I step right into Victoria’s space and point at my neck, showing off the highlighted veins in orange. “I got puked on by what I can only describe as Satan’s baby herself and haven’t been able to fully wash it off my body. For the last half hour, I’ve walked around smelling like a garbage can, I have yet to be able to write one damn sentence for this book, and I was frisked from my tits to my crack by a rather unpleasant TSA woman. I’m two seconds away from throwing myself in front of one of those propeller planes to end my goddamn misery. So I apologize if I don’t want to hear about your anxiety from my pacing.”

  Honk, honk.

  Turning around, Zoey pulls up in a souped-up golf cart decked out in fringe.

  Oh for the love of God.

  “Hop in, sexy ladies.” She honks the horn again. “Borrowed this from the hotel. Tops out at twenty-five miles per hour, so you two better buckle up.” Looking closer, Zoey gives me a disgusted look. “What the hell is on your neck?”

  “She got puked on,” Victoria says, tossing her apple core in the trash can. “Don’t ask her about it or she’ll go on another tirade.”

  “Annnnnd you’re disgusting.” Zoey points at me and thumbs to the back of the golf cart. “You have the bitch seat in the back. We’re going to need you to sit downwind from us.”

  “There’s no seat belt,” I complain when I sit down.

  “Then make sure you hold on tight, because it’s a bumpy ride, and don’t let go of your luggage. Hubby is in the hotel room, naked and waiting for me. Wifey wants the dick so she’s going to be zipping around pretty fast.”

  “Why not let us take an Uber then?” I ask, praying I don’t fall off the back end of this thing as Zoey puts it into high gear and pulls out onto a main road. Oh hell, I’m going to die . . . with orange puke on my neck.

  “I’m not a bad host. I invited you guys here, so the least I can do is pick you up. Honestly, Rylee.”

  Duh, such common knowledge.

  From the front seat, I can faintly hear Victoria recount the flight, reflecting on her recent read about Amelia Earhart and the suspicions that she possibly didn’t die in a plane crash but was captured by island natives. Semi-fascinated in the conversation, but bitter from my flight, I tune them out and hold on to the cart and my luggage as we drive along the coast of Key West, passing by palm trees, diving pelicans, and random roosters standing by the side of the road.

  Odd.

  Taking a deep breath, I soak in the sea salt air and feel the sun blazing on my exposed skin. This is supposed to be an adventure, a time to relax, an opportunity to spark the writing bug, to light that little fucker’s ass on fire.

  Instead of focusing on the bad, like the inappropriate diddle in security, or the regurgitated mango and peach combination plastered on my neck, I need to look forward to the next week here. This is going to be fun . . . it has to be.

  It doesn’t take long for Zoey to drop us at the hotel lobby where she parks the golf cart, tips a bell hop, and walks us into check-in. “I made reservations for us at Martinis on Duvall Street. We have about twenty minutes before we need to leave.” She eyes my neck. “Make sure to wash up and don’t be late. Meet by the beach café in twenty.”

  It takes all my energy not to wallop her in the boob for that comment. No, I planned on going to dinner with puke on my neck.

  Counting to ten, I remind myself of my initiative to be positive.

  Just for the record, before you say, “I hate this girl” I want you to know I’m usually really outgoing and fun. I love making people laugh, especially with my writing, but I’m going through a difficult time. Not being able to write, having to stand up in front of my author friends and tell them I have writer’s block, hell, it wasn’t easy. And this trip hasn’t been the easiest ever, so please forgive me and my ornery outbursts.

  Victoria and I run through check-in. We’re staying at Southernmost Resort, which is located right next to the southernmost point of the United States. It’s right on a beautiful beach and has the most incredible ocean-view rooms with balconies, which is what I chose, naturally. For writing purposes. I can see it now: my legs kicked up, computer on my lap, waves crashing below me, pure heaven and the perfect place to write.

  Victoria, on the other hand, chose a garden-view room and asked for a place close to the roosters, which granted her a ground-level spot. She’s an odd girl, that one.

  “Here is your key, Miss Ryan. Would you like help with your luggage?”

  “I’m good, but could you point me in the right direction?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl at the front desk lays a map in front of me and starts directing me where to go with a Sharpie. “Unfortunately, it is a little bit of a hike from here, but the view will be worth it.”

  She wasn’t kidding. It takes a nice little dent out of my allotted twenty minutes to get to my room, which is on the far side of the resort but alongside the ocean. Crystal-blue ocean shines below me, and if I wasn’t so scared of Zoey and her
repercussions for being late, I would take the time to appreciate Mother Nature. Instead I hurry into my room, flop my suitcase on my bed, unzip it, and grab my toiletries.

  Not taking a second longer, I strip down, leaving my gross airplane clothes on the floor, and practically skip to the shower where I stop mid stride.

  In the shower stall is a black razor, with accompanying shaving cream. That’s odd. Is that courtesy of the hotel? This place is fancy, but not that fancy. Spinning on my heel, I turn toward the sink behind me and spot a white and green toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and men’s cologne. Shit, turning toward the room, my eyes frantically roam the space, spotting a black suitcase in the corner.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Naked, I cover my breasts with my arm and open the closet door only to come face to face with a few hung-up shirts.

  Yup . . . I’m in someone else’s fucking room.

  And whoever this room belongs to is the neatest person ever because who honestly lines up there toothbrush and toothpaste tube perfectly on the counter?

  Reaching for the phone, I call down to the front desk.

  “Mr. Wilder, how can we assist you?” Oh yeah, totally not in the correct room.

  “Uh, yeah, hi, this is Rylee Ryan. I just checked in. I was given the key to room 625 and it seems to be occupied.”

  “Oh dear, let me check.” There is a pause on the phone and then the lady comes on the line again. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss. Ryan. We have you in room 626. Would you like to come down here and grab a new key?”

  Is she kidding? The trek it took to get over here ate up enough of my time. I can’t possibly take a shower if I have to run back to the lobby, grab a key, and run all the way back here.

  “Would you mind bringing it to room 625? I have dinner plans and have to get changed.”

  “Oh, of course. I’ll send someone up with a key right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hop around naked, eyeing my pukey clothes on the floor and the shower in the other room. Twisting my lip to the side, I try to decide what to do. I can be super quick, like really fucking quick. I just need to scrub the puke and throw on a dress, simple. Two minutes tops. The water doesn’t even have to be warm. I’ll write a polite note to Mr. Wilder—whoever that is—leave him five dollars as a kind gesture and quietly leave. No problem with that. Right?

  Right.

  Turning on the shower, I hop in before the water can warm up and hiss from the frosty temperature. I douse soap all over my hands and scrub my neck and body vigorously first, which normally I would wash my hair first but . . . puke. Once I’m satisfied with the amount of scrubbing, I wash my hair, condition it in a minute, do one more soap scrubbing all over my body before rinsing and turning the shower off. Two minutes.

  Just in case Mr. Wilder is sitting outside the bathroom, I peek my head out the door, towel wrapped around my body, and call out, “Hello?”

  When there is no response, I check that the coast is clear then strut to my suitcase and find a simple black sundress. Not bothering to look for underwear or a bra—I really don’t need one with my perky B-cups—I lay out my dress and dry off.

  Hopefully Mr. Wilder doesn’t mind me using one of his towels or his room for that matter. He’s probably some old dude away on his golfing vacation. I hope I don’t give him a heart attack.

  I drape my towel over the bed and run my hands through my naturally wavy, black hair. This will have to do. Picking up my towel one more time, I scrunch my hair, trying to soak up all the water just as the hotel door swings open, light blaring through, a tall, dark silhouette shadowed in the doorframe.

  I still, frozen from the tips of my toes to the hand scrunching a towel in my hair.

  Toned calves and legs are covered by black board shorts, slick to his thighs, a bulge prominent. Narrow waist where his board shorts ride low on his hips, a black shirt dancing across his broad chest, cinching sleeves cuffed over his biceps, and a V-neck providing a glimpse of how far his tan extends. Head cast down, eyes transfixed on his phone in front of him, he doesn’t notice the naked girl standing in the middle of his hotel room. He stuffs his keycard in his back pocket and looks up, startled.

  I scream.

  He grumbles something unintelligible as I point out the obvious. “Ahhh, my boobs are naked!” It might be a little concerning that I consider my boobs to be the only things naked at this point.

  As quickly as I can, I cover my body, towel making a poor attempt to hide my girly bits.

  The man turns away, covering his eyes with his arm while muttering, “Oh shit.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, struggling with my towel. I know damn well the man in front of me must be Mr. Wilder, and this is in fact his room, and I’m the one intruding, but I still feel the need to place the blame on him for walking in on me naked.

  “Grabbing my sunglasses,” he says, his voice terrified but also deep and rumbly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Still trying to cover myself, I scramble to grab my dress and back up to the bathroom. “Washing my neck,” I answer, nervously, boobs swaying with my erratic movements.

  Eyes still covered, he keeps his back toward me but straightens up. “Washing your neck? Is that code for some kind of weird Key West thing?”

  I back into the bathroom and make quick attempt of putting my dress over my head and righting it so everything is covered up. Hair still damp as well as my body, I step out into the room and clear my throat, dress sticking to my damp skin. “No, it’s not code for anything. I really had to wash my neck.”

  “And you chose my room to do that in, because . . .”

  Bending down, I shove my dirty clothes in my bag and zip up, giving Mr. Wilder the heads-up that I’m dressed. At least he’s a gentleman . . .

  When he turns around, he eyes me up and down, his gaze curious and heated when he sees just how hard my nipples are from the cold shower . . . and the unexpected peep show.

  “I didn’t choose your room to take a shower in.” I move my suitcase to the floor and pull up the handle. “The hotel gave me the key to this room by mistake, and since I had puke on my neck from the airplane—long story—I decided to take a quick shower while I waited for my room. I apologize for taking up your space, but I think we’re skipping an important detail here.” I cock my hand on my hip. “You saw me naked.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he retorts rather quickly, despite the slow grin that spreads across his face.

  I’m calling bullshit. “You totally saw my boobs.”

  “I really didn’t. Your scream scared the shit out of me. I didn’t have enough time to see anything before you covered up.”

  Eyeing him suspiciously, I ask, “You promise you didn’t see anything?”

  “Promise.”

  Hmm. “Okay, because being hotel neighbors and all, that would be extremely awkward if you saw me naked.”

  “Good thing I didn’t then.” He rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do. Finally he reaches out to the desk next to him and holds up his black Ray Bans. “Just needed my sunglasses.”

  “Just needed to wash the puke,” I add, not knowing what else to say.

  He nods. “Okay then.” He points to the door behind him. “I’m going to go then.”

  “Me too.” We walk out together just as a hotel attendant makes his way down the outdoor hallway of the hotel. “Thanks for the shower.”

  “Yup, anytime.” He smiles at me, giving me one more once-over.

  I point my finger at him. “Promise you didn’t see anything.”

  He holds his hands up in defense. “Promise. I have no idea what your naked tits look like.”

  “Well, thank God.” Although, looking at this guy, maybe I wouldn’t mind if he saw my naked bits . . .

  Chapter Four

  BECK

  For the record, I totally saw her tits.

  Fuck, did I see them.

  An entire eyeful o
f gorgeous breasts. They were small, round, perky, with tight rose-colored nipples. Hell. Two hours later and I’m still thinking about them.

  Not to mention the girl they’re attached to is the same girl who sat diagonally in front of me on the plane. What are the odds? When I went to get my sunglasses in my freshly unpacked room—just the way I like it—I never expected to run into a naked woman, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. I only wish it wasn’t under the most awkward of circumstances. I would have loved to ask what her name was, to ask her what was the deal about her first-sentence issues, or to even ask her how her day was going since the puke show.

  From the look of it, not good.

  “You sure you don’t want to go with us?” Chris asks, his arm draped over Justine.

  I shake my head. “I’m good, man. You guys go have fun getting pies. Just be careful, okay?”

  “We will. Do you know your way back to the hotel?”

  “It’s a straight shot down Duvall and make a left. I’m good. Seriously, you two go have fun.” I give Chris a fist bump. “Parents night out.”

  “Wooo,” Justine cheers, her arm flying to the sky.

  I high-five her then wish them a good night. It’s almost eight o’clock and way too early for me to go to bed, but I have a good mystery book calling my name and a balcony waiting to be sat in. Sounds like a perfect night to me.

  I make my way to the resort and cut through one of the pool areas. The resort has three pools, but this is the biggest one with its cascading sides, cement fish spouting water in the air, and poolside bar. The lights are dim, the water of the pool reflecting a bright teal glow, and faint music plays in the background. Everyone must be out to dinner, or down at the bars, which is so not my scene.