My (Mostly) Fake Wedding

by Bloom, Penelope

  Before I could even open my email to double check our appointment time, I noticed a text.

  It was from Chris.

  Chris: Mindy can’t make it to try on dresses tonight. You guys are roughly the same size, so bring clean underwear. You get to be the stand-in.

  I noticed Asher and my father had gone quiet. Asher slid his hand across the table, bumping my knuckles.

  “You good, Belle?” He was wearing his usual crooked grin, flashing a perfectly white, slightly pointed canine tooth.

  I quickly flipped my phone over and set it screen down. Wear clean underwear? What did that even mean? “Uhm. Yeah. I’m good. Just saw that a show I like is getting canceled is all.”

  “Bummer,” Asher said.

  “Belle,” my father leaned in, fixing me with his dark blue eyes. There was a commanding edge to his voice, and I knew I was about to get one of his infamous talks. “I heard about Texas.”

  I waited for more, but apparently, he was hoping he could just glare at me long enough and I’d spill everything.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “What am I supposed to say?” I didn’t normally talk back to my dad, but Texas still felt like an open wound in my chest. He was currently sticking his finger in there and wiggling it around. So, yeah, sorry not sorry.

  “I want you to tell me the rumors aren’t true.”

  “That would depend what rumors you’ve heard, I guess.”

  “Belle,” my mother chided me without looking up from her phone. “Don’t speak to your father like that.”

  My father dramatically sipped his drink, set it down, took a deep breath, then leaned on the table. “Your brother and I are both depending on you to uphold a certain standard of decorum, Belle. If half the country thinks you’re some floozie wedding planner who has some ungodly kink for engaged men—”

  “Dad,” Asher cut in. “That’s enough. Besides, Belle and Lance knew each other for years. It’s not like he was a stranger she targeted.”

  I set down my napkin. “I didn’t target anyone. And as much fun as it is to hear you two debate whether or not I’m a kinky homewrecker, I’ve actually got a wedding to plan. And no, finding a way to steal the groom-to-be from his bride-to-be is not part of my plans. At least today,” I added, just because screw my dad.

  “Belle,” my mother said again. It was about the peak of her disciplinary force to say my name in shocked tones whenever I didn’t show the proper deference to my father.

  “Sorry. May I be excused?” I asked, not actually giving a shit if I could or couldn’t.

  My father waved me off, shaking his head.

  I saw Asher’s silent communication. We had a sort of sibling telepathy going on, and I knew he was asking if I wanted him to storm out in solidarity on my behalf. I knew he would, too.

  I gave a little shake of my head, then when my parents weren’t looking, I shot daddy dearest the double birds, fired off a couple pretend shots with them, then blew off my finger guns before holstering them at my hip.

  Asher smirked back at me, then made a “shoo” gesture.

  I hadn’t been exaggerating, anyway. I really did have a lot to do, and now I could start the full-blown panic attack that was coming with the news that Mindy wouldn’t be available for the dress fitting. They had no idea what strings I’d pulled or how much I put my own ass on the line to get those dresses flown in. I’d even bent over backwards to make sure everything would be in at the same time and at the same place.

  And now my only option was to model them for Chris Rose—the same Chris Rose who had screwed me so soundly on an airplane just a few days ago that my dreams were still haunted by it.

  Deep breaths.

  Deep, deep breaths. Also, no more food today, because if I was going to fit in the dresses, I’d had custom delivered for Mindy, I was going to need to suck in my stomach with all the force of a thousand Amazonian warriors. The last thing I needed was a full belly.

  But I did swing in a convenience store and grab just one candy bar on the way home. They all went to my ass, anyway.

  7

  Chris

  Belle looked less than thrilled when she met me at the little boutique on the Eastside. The place was a bridezilla’s dream. It looked like some kind of monster had eaten a cargo boat full of lace, then barfed it all up in here.

  Belle was wearing an uncharacteristically casual outfit of bright-colored running shorts and a t-shirt. Her hair was pulled up but looked freshly washed.

  I had to take a moment to drink her in. The truth was, I’d expected this entire “fake wedding” thing to be like some wild party. I’d get shacked up with a random hottie my brother hired. We’d fuck. We’d pose for some pictures, say our I do's, and I’d get my contract extension. As the mobsters would say, “bada bing, bada boom.”

  Except the plan was already off to a rocky start. Problem one had been the moment I introduced my dick to Belle’s pussy. The introduction had been swift—not excessively swift, mind you—and I felt like both parties walked away with a glowing first impression.

  Worse, I traditionally allowed my dick roughly fifty percent control of daily operations. It was like a dickocracy, and no, I had no idea if I was making up that word or not.

  But things were different now. I was supposed to put my dick in the backseat. It was like a betrayal. Like I’d been one of those bastards plunging the knives in Caesar’s back. I could just picture my dick writhing in agony as I told it we had to stay away from Belle. “Et tu, Chrise?” Et me, buddy. Et me.”

  Belle gave me the traditional palms up followed by a side thigh slap signal when she spotted me. In other words, “What the hell?”

  “No idea,” I said. “Mindy said she had something going on and couldn’t make it.”

  “She realizes this isn’t something I can just reschedule, right? These designers won’t send the dresses a second time, and we’re just borrowing them for a few hours unless we want to fork over the money to buy them.”

  “That’s why I brought my lovely model today.”

  Belle rolled her eyes, then gestured to herself. “More like you brought in a wet dog off the street instead of the well-groomed pup for the dog food commercial.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask, but it’s good to know you’re wet already. I can’t say we’ll be needing that today, but still, good to know.”

  Belle’s nostrils flared. Cute. “I’m not even going to acknowledge that.”

  “That’s kind of like when people say, ‘I’m speechless.’ No, you’re not. You just spoke.”

  “Are you trying to make me bail on this? Because it’s about to work.”

  “Nope. Just trying to lighten the mood. You looked a little stiff when you came in.”

  “Yeah, well, try having lunch with my family. You’d be a little stiff too.”

  “Oh? Why, is your mom or sister my type?”

  “Chris…” Belle warned.

  I had to stop myself from pressing my luck. But I found something deeply enjoyable in the way she had to try so hard not to smile. She probably felt like she wasn’t allowed to smile when I flirted, given that I was supposedly engaged.

  “Okay. Well, the ladies said they’re ready when we are. Do you want me to wait out here, or come in the dressing room with you to save time?”

  There went her nostrils again. Instead of answering me, Belle just stalked off toward the dressing rooms. A short while later, I heard muffled voices and a door close.

  I scooted to another bench where I could see the area she was in. It was an old saloon style door, and for some reason, there was about a foot-high gap from the bottom of the door to the floor.

  My dick—the one I’d tragically been forced to send into hibernation—stirred to life. Now, I wasn’t a creep. I wasn’t about to press myself to the floor and turn my head so I could see as much as possible.

  I did, however, need to tie my shoe. But untied shoe
s were hardly a time sensitive issue, so I waited until I heard the telltale swish of clothing hitting the floor.

  As casually as I could, I leaned down for my shoe. A man could only control his eyes so much, and mine found themselves wandering the room. Yes, I looked at the entire room, not just that tantalizing little gap of space where I knew Belle was probably standing in her underwear at this very moment.

  I had a particularly sharp memory, and it filled at that instant with an image of Belle in the airplane bathroom. I saw the soft mound just above her pussy, practically begging for the palm of my hand. I saw the curves of her hips begging for me to grip them as I spun her around and took her from behind.

  If my dick had been stirred from hibernation before, it was now so violently awake that I was worried about the structural integrity of my zipper. Any more force, and we were about to have a wardrobe malfunction.

  All I could see while I tied my shoes were Belle’s legs. There was a little pile of her running shorts beside her feet and her top, though.

  I was straining for a better look when a woman emerged from a corner of the shop. “Sir?” she asked sharply.

  I straightened so fast that my head banged against the wall behind me. I blinked through the pain, then forced a smile. “Ma’am.”

  She stared for a few seconds, then went back to hanging up the dresses she was holding.

  Busted.

  A few minutes later, Belle stepped out of the dressing room. It was roughly that precise moment when my dick—the same one I’d decided was no longer part of the ruling governmental system in my mind—staged a full-blown rebellion.

  The dickocracy had fallen to a coup. We’d officially entered into a dicktatorship.

  8

  Belle

  A confusing blend of emotions rushed through me. I was exhilarated to be wearing a dress from an exclusive designer that was breathtaking. I was giddy because I loved bridal boutiques and dress fittings in general, and this was the first time I got to try on the dress. And I was also overcome by overpowering guilt for loving the way Chris—an engaged man—was looking at me.

  He half stood, then sat back down a little awkwardly. He crossed his leg, winced, then smiled. “Quite nice,” he said in an almost choked voice.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yep. So, uh, how does this work? Do you give me a card and I rate you out of ten each time?”

  “You rate the dress out of ten.”

  “Right.” Chris’ eyes slid from my face to my hips, then back up again. “The dress.” “Well?” I spread my arms, giving it a little twirl. “This one is from an up-and-coming designer that everybody is talking about. His name is Pierre Gonfi.” I spent a little while describing all the unique features of the dress, from the leaf-like asymmetrical pattern that looked almost like armor over one shoulder to the hand-embroidered patterns throughout.

  Chris nodded attentively, never letting his eyes move from me—from the dress.

  “Gonfetti gets a nine out of ten.”

  “Gonfi,” I corrected.

  “Next!” Chris commanded, clapping his hands.

  I headed back into the dressing room and let the employees of the boutique dress me up again. I couldn’t help watching myself in the mirror as they stripped me to my underwear, wondering why someone like Chris would’ve even bothered having meaningless sex with me, let alone the continued flirting.

  Except I felt guilty for even wondering about it. I knew I should be doing more to shut down his flirtations, but part of me thought maybe that was just how he was. Some men really were that way, right? They flirted with everything that moved, and the ones who decided to marry them did so knowing full-well what they were getting into.

  Even if that was the case, I had other things to think about. My career, for one.

  I could be friends with clients, but it couldn’t go any farther than that. And the way I seemed to swoon every time Chris gave me the slightest bit of attention was not productive.

  They tugged the latest dress on me, tightening it where they could. I wasn’t as big a fan of it as the previous dress, and I felt a little tempted to not even show Chris. Except my job was to make sure he had a chance to pick his favorite dress. Maybe this would actually be his style.

  I took one last look at the ridiculously poufy shoulders and boxy frame that made me look like I belonged in the generation of big hair and empty hairspray bottles, then stepped out.

  Chris’ eyebrows slowly crept up. “That’s a statement.”

  “Yeah? What would you say the statement is?”

  “That you look like an extra in some old-school David Bowie movie?” Chris grinned. “Not that you aren’t pulling it off, of course, but I’m going to give this one a three. And only because the model is bumping it up by two points.”

  I tried not to smile but failed. “Okay. Not this one, then.”

  We gradually worked our way through the rest of the dresses until we reached the last one. The best way to describe it would be if someone haphazardly wrapped me in thin strips of silk and connected it all with lace. It was so revealing that we had to take off my bra to keep it from showing through the cuts between fabric.

  I shook my head at the mirror. I couldn’t let Chris see me like this.

  “Is everything okay?” one of the two girls helping asked.

  I thought about explaining, but I figured it would be more weird to assume he couldn’t handle seeing me like this. After all, what if this was the one dress? Maybe it’d be his favorite, and I’d be screwing up my job as a wedding planner if I didn’t let him see.

  “No, it’s okay.” I took a deep breath, hating that I felt a little wave of warmth spread through my stomach at the idea of Chris seeing me in this. It’s harmless. You’re not going to let anything unprofessional happen.

  “Well?” I said. My cheeks were on fire, and Chris wasn’t helping by staring at me wordlessly.

  “It’s, well…” He cleared his throat and crossed his legs again, then folded both hands over his lap. In fact, he looked almost like he was in pain.

  I forgot about the revealing dress and went to put my hand on his shoulder. I leaned in, trying to catch his eyes. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt at practice or something?”

  “Just a cramp,” he said, clearing his throat once again.

  I took his arm, trying to help him to stand. “Try standing up. Curling up like that is only going to make it worse.”

  Chris tried to wave me off, but I knew I was right. He needed to stretch it out.

  I took his other hand and tugged his huge frame up, and nearly pulled him into myself. Except the first thing I felt wasn’t his chest colliding with mine. It was the warm, hard point of something pressing against my belly just before our bodies crashed together.

  Chris pushed away from me and turned, adjusting himself as he shook with laughter. “You brought that on yourself. You know that, right?”

  “Was that—” I stammered. “Seriously? What are you, some hormonal middle schooler?”

  “Look at you!” he said, still barely holding back laughter. “You’re like the mummy, except mummy is rocking a body under those bandages and they didn’t have enough bandages to wrap her all the way up. What is my dick supposed to do? Close its eye?”

  “That is the dumbest, most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Your dick can’t—no. We’re not having a conversation about your penis right now.”

  “I mean,” Chris tilted his hand one way then the other. “We kind of are.”

  “Will you just rate the damn dress?”

  “Ten out of ten.” he said.

  I rolled my eyes, then rushed back toward the fitting room.

  Chris let out a low whistle once I turned. “Amendment. Eleven out of ten!”

  I flashed him a middle finger, then closed the door of the dressing room.

  So much for professionalism.

  9

  Chris

  I was rich, but my brother was a ric
h bastard. He lived in a rich bastard penthouse in a rich bastard part of New York City. I had a perfectly reasonable, multi-million-dollar bachelor pad in a perfectly reasonable part of the city.

  I was sitting at his dining room table with a plate of food made by his wife, Chelsea, in front of me. Chelsea was a notoriously bad cook, and I’d made the mistake of complimenting her lasagna the first time she made it for me.

  I’d imagined she’d be out of his life in a few weeks and I would never have to eat it again. Instead…

  I jabbed at the rock-hard top layer of raw pasta. It nearly bent the prongs of my fork, then cracked. I thought I might’ve seen a cloud of pasta dust rise up in front of me like I’d just broken the seal on a thousand-year-old lasagna sarcophagus.

  Damon was dutifully chewing his mummified lasagna with a look of resignation on his face. I never thought I’d see the day when my brother would actually set his own needs aside to please someone else. It was fascinating—like watching a wild lion doing tricks for a tiny little trainer. Except in this case, the lion probably just hoped he’d get some from the trainer tonight.

  Chelsea was a bubbly blonde with an athletic build from her semi-pro tennis career. She’d had the misfortune of popping out one of my brother’s babies, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at her now.

  Her spawn—a cute little thing with dark brown pigtails and bright blue eyes—was looking at the lasagna like it deserved to be looked at: with revulsion. I caught Luna’s eye and gave a discreet thumbs down. She nodded enthusiastically, then put her small hands to her neck and acted like she was choking.

  Luna was six, and until a year ago, she hadn’t known Damon was her father. I guess good luck like that couldn’t last forever.

  Chelsea’s brother, Grant, usually showed up for things like this along with her friend, Milly, but both couldn’t come tonight.