The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

by Jessica Brody

  Right?

  Suddenly my vision seemed to be blurring. And the more I tried to concentrate on the back of Sophie's beautiful beaded white dress, the more fuzzy everything became. I blinked frantically, assuming it was just the sweat from my forehead dripping into my eyes. But I couldn't quite shake it.

  Sophie's words were echoing over and over in my head.

  You're next. You're next. You're next.

  I don't think she meant for them to sound so ominous. In fact, when they left her mouth, I'm almost positive they were blanketed with love and adoration. But by the time they reached my ears and managed to bypass my skewed mental filter, they sounded like a death sentence a doctor might announce to a terminally ill cancer patient.

  You're next.

  Next to wear the white dress. Next to ride in a limo from the hotel to the ceremony. Next to wonder if the tilapia is fresh or frozen.

  Me!

  But was I really ready to be next? Was I even next material?

  "Sophie, do you promise today before God in heaven to love Eric . . ."

  Oh, good. We're already on to the question-and-answer portion of the ceremony.

  Soon it would be over, and I could run to the bathroom and splash some much needed cold water on my face.

  ". . . to comfort him and keep him, to honor him and care for him . . ."

  Why was the priest still talking? How long were these vows? Why can't someone just say, "Yes, I promise everything that's written in that little leather-bound book of yours, now let's eat cake?"

  I caught sight of Zoë standing next to me. She had the oddest look on her face. Her eyebrows were all furrowed and she was staring at me as if I were a crazy person on the street who had just woken up from a booze-inspired nap. But maybe that was just the way it appeared through my blurred vision. She was probably just smiling.

  When I finally managed to make eye contact with her, she mouthed, "Are you okay?"

  But I couldn't really respond. My heart felt as if it were suddenly pumping out large, heavy rocks instead of blood. The room was spinning now, and a strange buzzing sound filled my ears. It seemed to get louder with each passing second.

  ". . . and do you promise to stay true to him for as long as you both shall live?"

  By the time Sophie pronounced that fateful two-word answer, I could no longer hear her. Because blackness had started to creep into the sides of my vision, and the buzzing was now deafening. To the point where I could hear nothing else. And before I could even start to comprehend what was happening to me, the room suddenly went dark and I hit the floor.

  I can only assume that her answer was, "I do."

  18

  human lie detector

  If you thought tripping down the aisle was the worst thing a maid of honor could do at her best friend's wedding, you thought wrong. It turns out fainting at the altar is about a hundred times worse.

  When I came to, the entire church had been cleared out except for a few people. Someone had managed to move my unconscious body to a nearby pew, and I awoke to the feeling of cold, hard wood against my back. The first things I saw when I opened my eyes were the rafters on the ceiling. They confused me at first, because I completely forgot where I was and why I was there. There was a mysterious throbbing feeling on my left temple, as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

  The second thing I saw was the unfamiliar face of an attractive, dark-skinned man hovering over me. He was looking down at me with intensity in his eyes. "Jennifer? . . . Jennifer, can you hear me?"

  Oh shit, I thought. Do I have amnesia? Is this my boyfriend and I can't remember his name or face? Am I going to have to learn how to walk and write and read all over again? I really don't have time for that.

  But then a face that I actually did recognize popped into view, and I immediately felt a wave of relief wash over me. It was Jamie. And I knew for sure that he was my boyfriend. So then who was this other guy?

  "Babe, are you okay?" Jamie asked.

  I tried to nod. "Where am I? What happened?"

  "You fainted at my wedding!" I could hear Sophie's voice come from somewhere behind me.

  "Shhh," a voice urged her. "Don't upset her right now, honey."

  Suddenly it all came rushing back.

  The wedding. The ceremony. The buzzing sound.

  I had passed out right in the middle of Sophie's wedding.

  She's going to kill me.

  The man with the dark hair reappeared and shone a flashlight into my eyes. "Who are you?" I asked, blinking against the light.

  "My name is Gary. I'm an EMT."

  "You called an ambulance?" I cried as I struggled to sit up, but the throbbing in my left temple intensified immediately, knocking me back down with a wince of pain.

  "Whoa, whoa," Gary said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Don't try to get up. There's a chance you could have a concussion. You hit your head pretty hard when you fell."

  "On what?" I asked dazedly.

  "On the steps of my altar!" I heard Sophie's voice shout again, and once again someone quieted her.

  "What?" I heard her mumble in defense. "Clearly she's fine. She's awake and talking. And there are a hundred and fifty people outside wondering what the hell is going on in here."

  "Soph," I tried, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened to me. Suddenly everything just faded to black."

  "It's okay," Jamie reassured me, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. "No one's mad at you."

  The EMT now had his hand on my wrist and was checking my pulse. "Do you have any idea why you might have fainted?"

  "Maybe she's pregnant!" I heard a voice scream from somewhere at the other end of the room. It was definitely Zoë.

  I looked up to see Jamie's eyes narrow with concern. "I'm not pregnant," I assured him.

  At least I didn't think I was. Although I guess that would have explained a lot.

  "Maybe she's anorexic," came another distant conjecture. This time it was John.

  I sighed in frustration. "I'm not anorexic, either. I don't know what happened. The last thing I remember was Sophie saying her vows and then the room started to spin and the next thing I knew I was lying here on this bench."

  I might have been paranoid, or maybe the smack to my head had altered my judgment, but at that very moment, I could have sworn I felt Jamie's grip on my hand loosen. And when I turned my head to meet his eyes, he was no longer looking at me.

  "Okay," began EMT Gary. "We're going to take you over to the hospital and have a doctor take a look at you, make sure you don't have a concussion."

  "But what about the reception!" I heard Sophie whine.

  But before I could respond with another dazed apology, I was being lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled right down the aisle from which I'd come.

  The doctors quickly determined that I did not, in fact, have a concussion but were also just as quick to lecture me about the dangers of skipping meals and fasting in order to lose weight.

  To be fair, they didn't just assume that I was a crash dieter who had inevitably crashed. I sort of told them that I had been trying to lose weight for the wedding so that I could fit into my bridesmaid's dress. I figured it was a believable excuse. Women are prone to doing crazy things like that when there's a fitted dress in the equation. So when they grilled me in the hospital room about why I just happened to faint when there was clearly nothing physically wrong with me, I had no choice but to lie. Particularly because Jamie happened to be sitting right there next to me the entire time. I couldn't very well admit that the real reason I passed out in the middle of my best friend's wedding vows was that the very thought of saying my own wedding vows literally made me lose consciousness.

  The doctors discharged me on Sunday afternoon, and by the time I arrived home I had at least two dozen voicemails from Sophie from the night before. She had called every fifteen minutes to give me updates on the wedding reception, which I found incredibly endearing. In each message she was slightly more int
oxicated, until the very last one, which, according to the voicemail lady, was recorded at 2:45 A.M. In this message, she was obviously completely wasted and bawling hysterically into the phone about how sorry she was for yelling at me for fainting.

  The sound of her tears suddenly made me want to cry as well. I had missed my best friend's wedding. The whole thing. And that was something I would never be able to undo. Sophie would only get married once in her life (if she was lucky), and I hadn't even been there. I didn't get to see her cut the cake or share her first dance with Eric or drink too much champagne and make a complete fool of herself on the dance floor (although that was something she did often enough, so I probably didn't miss much there).

  After I listened to the very last message from her and hung up the phone, I made a mental note to figure out some way to make it up to her when she got back from her honeymoon. I wasn't sure if there was anything on earth that could possibly make up for missing a wedding, but I would have to at least try.

  My head ached for a few days after the incident, and I had a pretty big bump above my left ear where my skull made contact with the stone steps of the church, but for the most part, I felt fine. The doctors sent me home with a prescription for some kind of painkiller— basically just a stronger version of aspirin—and I was instructed to get plenty of rest for at least two days. So I called Hadley and told her to cancel my Monday and Tuesday appointments and postpone the weekly staff meeting until Wednesday.

  But by Tuesday afternoon, I had come down with a severe case of cabin fever. I had watched every single show on my TiVo twice and half of my DVD collection. I had devoured every gossip magazine that Jamie could find at the supermarket and a few back issues of Fortune that I had found in one of the boxes that were still sitting in the hallway. Needless to say, I was going out of my mind.

  So when Jamie came into the living room that night, all decked out in a spiffy navy suit topped off with the designer cufflinks I had bought him for Christmas last year, my hopes of an escape from my condo prison instantly rose.

  "Where are you going looking so hot?" I asked after giving a low whistle. I figured flattery was the best chance I had of getting off this sofa.

  Jamie stood in front of the mirror by the front door and straightened his tie. "I have a dinner meeting with a potential new client. The CEO of Chandler Cosmetics."

  I crinkled my brow. "Never heard of them."

  "That's exactly why they're thinking of hiring us. They want to re-brand their entire line and skew it younger. You're essentially the target demographic."

  I pursed my lips thoughtfully. This was my chance. "Well, then you should definitely let me come."

  "I don't think so," he said, coming over to the couch and kissing me on the top of the head. "You need your rest."

  "No, I don't. I'm plenty rested." I pushed the afghan off my legs and sprang from the couch. It was probably a bit too fast, because I immediately felt the wooziness settle in on the perimeter of my vision, but I fought hard to conceal it. Fainting a second time would do little to help my chances of getting out of this house tonight.

  Jamie shot me a skeptical look. "I don't know. The doctors said—"

  "I feel great," I insisted, attempting to steer him away from any argument beginning with "The doctors said." Those are always impossibly difficult to refute. "I need to get out of this house. I can be your arm candy. Beautiful women are a highly effective form of negotiation, you know?"

  Concern flashed over his face. "Are you sure you're feeling up to it? It might be a pretty long dinner and—"

  "I'll be fine. Just give me ten minutes to throw something on."

  And before he had a chance to argue, I was already halfway down the hallway, mentally rifling through my closet for the perfect outfit for my parole.

  Jamie and I didn't talk much on the drive to Beverly Hills. There was a definite uneasiness between us. I could feel it in the air and in the perfunctory small talk that we exchanged. I don't think Jamie ever really bought the crash-dieting excuse that I gave the doctors, and I saw the way he looked at me when they announced that all my test results were negative and that I didn't in fact have a brain tumor or any other medical explanation for my collapse.

  It was almost as if he wanted there to be something wrong with me. So that he wouldn't have to face the growing suspicion that everything that had happened recently was somehow connected. And truth be told, I almost wanted there to be something medically wrong with me, too. How much easier would that have been?

  Once we got to the restaurant, everything just sort of magically returned to normal. Jamie was sweet and affectionate and adoring. We played the role of the blushing bride-to-be and doting fiancé flawlessly. And frankly, it was nice to live in a state of ignorant bliss for a few hours.

  The business talk was incredibly boring. Although I had to admit, it was better than the alternative: lying lifelessly on the couch for the third night in a row.

  "Well," Jamie was saying after setting down his knife and fork, "I really do think that the package we presented to you contains everything that your company will need to get your new product line off the ground. With the brand awareness campaign we're suggesting, you really can't do any better."

  Hank, who had been introduced to me as the CEO of Chandler Cosmetics, tapped his pinky finger thoughtfully against the linen tablecloth. I couldn't help but notice it was adorned with an oversize gold ring. "I agree, your proposal is definitely appealing," he replied. "But I must tell you, one of the other firms we've been talking to is offering a very strong package as well. At a price that's significantly less."

  I was mesmerized by the tapping of his finger. What respectable businessman wears a gold ring on his pinky? No wonder his brand doesn't appeal to young people.

  Upon closer inspection, I noticed that it was actually a class ring, and I struggled to make out what school and year were written in the blue text. Not that it mattered. But it was the only thing keeping me entertained.

  "And so you can see why it's very hard for me to sign with you guys when I have such a tempting other offer on the table," Hank continued.

  I tilted my head to the side to get a better angle on the ring. It looks like it says Class of Seventy-something. Seventy-five, perhaps? Is that a 5 or a 6? If only he would stop tapping his finger against the table so rapidly. I might be able to read it.

  "I see," Jamie replied thoughtfully. "Well, if you tell me exactly what the counter offer was, I might be able to beat it or at least match it."

  Hank's Class of Seventy-something ring was just a gold-and-blue blur now as his pinky finger drummed briskly against the table. I eventually gave up trying to read the stupid thing, as it was obviously a lost cause. But just as I was attempting to come up with my next creative two-minute distraction, I heard him say, "Well, the other firm we're considering is willing to offer us the same services, the same design consultation, and the same marketing platform for three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. And that's with consulting fees included."

  Jamie inhaled a sharp breath. Clearly, this number was not going to help improve his night.

  But I suddenly wasn't all that interested in Jamie's reaction. I was far too preoccupied with the reaction of the man sitting across from me. I looked up from his rapid pinky movement and studied his face. I must have been staring a bit too intensely, because when Hank glanced over at me, he squirmed a little in his seat. But I didn't care.

  Something was happening.

  A warning light was suddenly flashing inside my head, accompanied by an obnoxiously loud honking sound. Like one of those red alerts you see in movies right before the entire secret subterranean military base goes on full lockdown.

  The feeling was nothing new to me. I had felt it many times over the past three years. But most of the time it was back when I used to come face-to-face with cheating husbands. The unmistakable warning sound that accompanied my ability to read men.

  And right now that underutil
ized superpower was telling me only one thing.

  Hank Chandler was lying.

  I continued to scrutinize him as he droned on and on about how hard it is to sign with a company whose price is not competitive with the industry. Then I glanced over at Jamie to see if he, too, had caught on to what was happening. But he was just nodding, his lips pressed tightly together, clearly oblivious to the fact that Hank was playing him.

  I eyed Jamie's BlackBerry sitting on the table and excused myself to use the restroom. As soon as I got to the bathroom hallway, I ducked around the corner and dug my cell phone out of my bag. I dialed Jamie's phone number and pressed the phone to my ear, leaning my head around the corner to peek back at the table. Jamie's BlackBerry vibrated against the tablecloth, illuminating the screen. I watched as he tilted it toward him to get a view of his incoming call. After a befuddled look, he held up one finger to Hank and answered the call.

  "Is everything okay?" he spoke into the phone.

  "Yes, just listen," I said urgently. "I'll explain everything later, but for now, you need to just play along. Tell Hank that it's your senior partner calling to check in on the negotiations."

  There was a wary pause, and for a minute I feared that he might not go along with my plan. That he might just assume that my knock to the head had left some kind of permanent damage. But then finally I saw Jamie pull the phone away from his ear and cover the receiver. "It's my partner," his muffled voice came through the line. "He's just checking in on our progress."

  Jamie removed his hand and spoke directly to me. "Everything's fine, Carl. Thanks for checking in. Hank and I are just going through the deal terms now."

  "Good, that's good," I encouraged him softly, feeling like an undercover spy trying to save my partner from being made by a pack of Russian terrorists. "Okay, now whatever you do, don't lower the bid. He's bluffing."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean he's lying. There is no lower bid. And I'd be willing to bet that there probably is no other company, either."