by Kat T. Masen
It was the worst three months of my life.
And even after a restraining order was put on her, I still had to pretend I had left the country. Zo, of course, hatched one of her foolproof plans and luckily it worked, and Angela moved on to another man.
But this? Argh.
Again, disaster written all over it.
Just the sound of his name makes my skin crawl. Yet there’s something in Zo’s eyes that sparkle when his name graces her lips. The mere fact he was at the wedding should have been a good reason for Zoey not to go. I don’t understand why she, or women in general, need closure and all that bullshit.
Fucking move on I say—sayonara.
The past is the past. Let it remain that way.
“So maybe we should come up with a plan?” she suggests, tampering with the radio once again. She settles on Billy Idol, dialing the volume down slightly, enough so we can still converse as White Wedding plays through the speakers.
My hands clutch the steering wheel as I continue to drive in silence. It’s an hour trip to the outskirts of town where the reception is being held. Enough time for Zo—and these suit pants—to drive me fucking insane. My balls feel restricted, confined in my extra-tight boxers. If only I could unzip and let it hang free. Now that right there would be an entertaining conversation.
“It just has to be believable, you know, me being your girlfriend.”
Raising an inquiring eyebrow I’m slightly offended. “You don’t think it looks believable?”
“Well, no. Only because I went on and on about how you were more like a brother and how nothing could ever happen between us.”
It doesn’t surprise me. When it comes to our relationship, we’re forever defining it. Like brother and sister, best friends, roomies, you name it. But something about her comment irks me. I could so be her boyfriend. Or at least make everyone in the room believe we’re a couple.
“Why did he hate me so much? I did nothing for him to think there was something going on between us,” I point out. “And I brought women home all the time.”
“He had a complex about you. And he thought when we were alone, you and… you know…” she trails off awkwardly.
“What?” I probe.
“Bumped uglies.”
I laugh at her terminology and her innocence. “Firstly, you’re beautiful, so it’s impossible for Zoey Richards to ‘bump uglies.’ As for me, I would like to think I don’t fall into the ugly category.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You know you’re all hot and yummy,” she rumbles under her breath. Taking her Lipsmacker out, she applies it over her lipstick. What an odd thing to do.
The small tube has the Fanta logo stamped on it. I love Fanta, not that I drink much soda. I bet she would taste so good.
Rambling on, she continues, “So, all I’m saying is that we need to make this couple thing look believable. No awkwardness, okay? Like when I kiss you or something.”
Or something. That could be open to much interpretation.
If Zoey wants a boyfriend, then a boyfriend is what she’ll get.
My competitive streak is coming out, and admittedly, there’s nothing I want more than to see that fucker suffer.
If it means I have to touch her, I’ll touch her.
If it means I have to kiss her, I’ll kiss her.
“So…” she begins, then stalls. “Maybe we should discuss the boundaries.”
“Boundaries?”
“You know… like we should probably kiss every now and then.”
“How often?” I question.
“Does there need to be a timeline here?”
I’m thinking about her question. Narcissistic Drew is ready to play this wicked game. How do I make this more fun for me? Okay, Satan, please calm down on your side of the shoulder.
Kissing. I can handle that. I’m about to open my mouth when she interrupts me.
“No tongue.”
I let out a ridiculous laugh. “How do you even kiss with no tongue?”
“I don’t know, Drew. They do it in the movies.”
“The last time I checked, Zo, we aren’t in Hollywood.”
“Fine. Just a little tongue but nothing porno-like.”
Nothing porno-like? An interesting concept that stirs my cock slightly.
“Okay. What else?” I humor her.
“Grab my butt a couple of times,” she adds.
“Right. So romantic,” I note in dark amusement. “But not a porno grab?”
She shifts her body to the right, curling her legs up on the seat. Her legs are exposed until she becomes aware, positioning her dress more appropriately. “Just look like you’re in love with me. Make out like we have the best sex in the world. Capiche?”
I don’t answer her. If she were with me, we would have the best sex in the world. Better than what she had with that deadbeat she calls an ex-boyfriend.
I turn the bend, and the large wrought-iron gates appear with a huge sign welcoming us to the property. Holy shit, it’s a castle, an old castle that appears to have been remodeled, yet still maintains its historic charm. The gates are already open, so I turn into the long, pebbled driveway.
The lawns are luscious and green, surrounded by bushes sculpted into cupids with harps. Every inch of the garden is manicured, and the flowers are bright, trimmed to perfection. The further we drive in, the larger the fountain appears, sitting in front of the property, showcasing the entrance.
Two young valets stand on the steps, and the second they see my car, their faces drop with disappointment. So Betty is no Rolls-Royce, but she was a classic in her own right.
“Huh, the valet boys seem disappointed with your ride,” Zoey mentions, pointing out the obvious.
“No shit. The car in front of us costs more than a house. They better not ride her clutch hard,” I worry out loud.
“I’m sure if they can drive a car the price of a house, they can drive Betty.” She rolls her eyes childishly, turning to face the window so I won’t catch her.
Our doors are opened by the young valet, and reluctantly, I hand my keys over but not without mentioning the clutch.
“We’ll take care of your car… sir,” the valet snickers.
Little fucker.
The concierge extends his arm to the left, showing us the entrance. With red carpet sprawled up the three sets of stairs, there’s been no money spared when it comes to how grand this wedding is.
Zoey is in awe, mouth wide open as she takes in the entrance and the splashes of gold that adorn the walls. Inside, marble floors are shining with a small orchestra positioned in the center playing soft classical music in the background. There are several guests lingering beside the doors, all waiting to enter the ballroom. It dawns on me that I’ve never been to a black-tie event and wondering if my charcoal suit is formal enough–it isn’t black.
“Thank God I splurged on a decent dress for the reception,” she leans over and whispers, clutching onto my arm for support. “The invitation said formal. Do you think the low, plunging neckline is too much? I can’t even begin to tell you how much Hollywood tape is holding up these babies.”
I’ve been trying my best to ignore the low, plunging neckline. They—her tits—are staring me in the face. Begging me relentlessly with their torturous pleas, “Play with me, Drew!”
Shit, control yourself.
I stop just before the entrance to gain her attention mid-ramble. “Zoey?”
“Yeah?” she says, distracted, eyeing a lady beside us dressed in a red silk gown.
“You look stunning.”
It catches her attention, and those green eyes of hers, the ones that have this magnetic hold, stare back at me in bewilderment. She’s biting the corner of her lip, and just when I think she’ll embrace the compliment, she says, “As well as hot, sexy, the kind of ex you’d wish you didn’t screw over?”
My fingers move on their own accord, tracing her shoulder softly. “The beautiful kind of woman you’d never want to le
t go of.”
“What a line, Baldwin.” She smiles hopelessly. “You look mighty fine yourself. The kind of man every woman would want by her side.”
The moment is interrupted as a concierge requests our names in order to seat us. The young fellow escorts us to our table, and as soon as I see it in the corner of the room, there is no doubt in my mind that we’re dumped at the singles’ table.
There are ten of us at the table. A woman about our age is already sitting down, fiddling nervously with her napkin. She offers an awkward smile, and I nudge Zoey to swap places with me because she looks innocent, and hey, why not have a go at bringing her home. Single ladies are vulnerable at weddings. It’s probably the best place to pick up women. By the end of the night, she’ll be drunk on champagne and looking to get laid.
Except you’re here with Zoey.
A little harmless flirting won’t go astray, so I swap the place cards and sit beside her. She tries to ignore me, but I extend my hand, introducing myself. Kimberly, as she calls herself, turns beet red and shyly says hello back, barely speaking another word.
Zoey’s body presses against my arm as she attempts to discreetly get me to look at an older lady across the table. Damn, that’s some beard on her. I find myself in a trance, staring until Zoey nudges me for being so rude.
I shake my head, letting out a long breath. “This is going to be one long night.”
With everyone taking their places, an MC announces that the bride and groom will be making their entrance shortly. The excitement is palpable, guests wait in anticipation for the big moment, unlike Zoey, who’s sitting beside me, pale-faced and searching the room like a meerkat on crack.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What? Me? He must be here,” she says, scattered. “Just act normal.”
“I am acting normal,” I remind her. “You, on the other hand, could use some Valium.”
“I’m fine. See?” She extends her hand, and I stare at it, confused. “Steady hand. Just remember the plan.”
Right. Remember the reason why you’re here—to be her plus one, her date, her boyfriend.
My mood suddenly shifts, and Mr. Competitive is on guard. She wants a boyfriend? She’s going to get one who cannot keep his hands off her. Except then you’ll need to touch her… kiss her… fuck—
“Oh look, they’re here.” Zoey motions excitedly.
Somewhere in this room, his eyes are on her. When the hunter sees his prey, the thirst and desire drive him to commence his hunt.
He isn’t going to touch her.
Not if I have any say in it.
I place my arm on the back of her neck, bending down slightly as my lips touch her collarbone. Her excited claps slow down, and perhaps my imagination is running wild, but I think her eyes close for a brief moment.
And there, when I raise my head, the hunter is watching me from across the room.
I have something that was his.
Just not anymore.
For tonight, she is mine.
All mine.
Chapter Eleven
Zoey
In wedding formality everyone is asked to take their places while the bridal party make an entrance dancing to Kool and the Gang’s Celebration. With three bridesmaids and three groomsmen, it’s like one big parade as they dance and strut. One pair awkwardly tumbles down the makeshift aisle onto the dance floor. A few minutes is spent dancing some routine, which is quite comical until the music quietens, and they eagerly take their places at the head table.
The lights dim, the announcement asking us to raise our glasses and welcome Mr. and Mrs. Bono. The music restarts, and the wide doors open in unison as Troy and Mia walk into the room amongst the cheers.
The noise dies down slightly until some moron taps their knife against the champagne glass with the room following. With a beaming smile, Troy leans over and kisses Mia lovingly.
Drew’s right. This is going to be one long night.
And I haven’t even seen Jess yet.
The guests are asked to take a seat, and as much as I’m not fond of weddings, there’s plenty of excitement in the air. Straightening the back of my dress, so I’m not bare-assed against the chair, I take a seat beside Drew. The champagne sits ice-cold in buckets in the center of the table teasing me relentlessly. The guests at our table aren’t the most enthusiastic bunch, so I pour Drew and myself a glass to get the party started. Although he’s going to drive tonight, a couple of glasses won’t hurt him.
During my second taste of the expensive champagne, Drew places his hand on my neck and plants another soft kiss on my shoulder. Amongst the soft, classical music that gently plays in the background, my eyes close as the touch of his lips lingering on my heated skin travels at a rapid rate causing my heart to beat erratically.
Why does he do this to me? This unknown feeling that consumes me whole and takes me to a place that craves him to continue.
Except he can’t continue.
The first time he did it before the bridal party made their entrance, I chalked it up to nerves. This time, I have no explanation.
Just remember, this is all part of your elaborate plan to make Jess’s blood boil. Stop confusing yourself because Jess is somewhere in the room, and your aim is to make him suffer, if only for one night. That is if he even still cares about me.
Of course, he must care. Men are built with that jealousy gene which drives them to the brink of insanity. I still remember one of our weekend trips when a bellboy made a snide comment about taking me back to a room. Jess almost cracked his head open. You’d think I would be flattered, but in reality, he’d turned it around so it was my fault—my fault for wearing a short dress and my fault for wearing heels which apparently made me look like a hooker.
Yet, I still loved him anyway, flaws and all.
Why am I doing this? Because you’re a sadistic fool.
The waiters begin circling the tables with entrées, and on cue my stomach growls in anticipation. The idle chit-chat starts, and Drew is busying himself with the young chick beside him. Honestly, he can’t for one second not think with his dick. It’s so annoying. I stare at the plate placed before me with something orange on it that looks like a blob of goo and immediately swap it with Drew’s chicken.
“Zo, I was going to eat that.”
“Too fattening for you. Stick with the orange blob.”
I don’t give him time to respond, shoving the chicken in my mouth. The texture and flavors are questionable but have to be better than the orange blob. As soon as I’m done, his mischievous smile alarms me.
“That was quail,” he states, wiping his mouth with the napkin.
“A whatta?” I ask, confused.
“It was quail. You know… a small bird.”
“Whatever, it was chicken.”
I grab the menu, almost retching when I see that it was indeed quail. Without any hesitation, I pour myself another glass of champagne and down it in one go, then another. I can’t believe I just ate a bird. Turkey is a bird and you eat that.
“I can’t believe you let me eat that,” I whine, sticking my tongue out, making a gurgling sound. “Why can’t they just serve pizza and fried chicken at weddings?”
“That’s so tacky. This is the only good thing about weddings. Enjoying some fine cuisine.”
“This isn’t fine cuisine. This is expensive and stuff that people should never eat. I mean, do you even know what that orange thing was?”
Drew picks up the menu, not looking phased as he reads the selection.
“Caviar. Honestly, I can’t take you anywhere. As a girlfriend, you’ve let me down with your poor taste in food.”
“As a boyfriend, you’re a douche for letting me eat that.”
“Since your last one was a jerk, thought I’d act like one,” he shoots back.
Drew’s being a pain in the ass, and his subtle arm around my shoulder starts to annoy me. Since I haven’t laid eyes on Jess in the room yet, it isn’t necessary
to start this bullshit act. I try to shake him off but his grip is tight, and so I have no choice but to endure his stubbornness.
The quail doesn’t seem to sit right in my stomach, or perhaps it’s the nerves. I tell him I need to use the restroom which is located out in the foyer. He flashes me one of his fake smiles before saying, “Sure, baby doll. I’ll miss ya.”
Jerk.
Weaving my way through the tables and narrowly avoiding a run-in with a waiter carrying champagne glasses, I hear my name being called. I don’t need to turn around since that voice has haunted me in my sleep. It’s caused me more heartache than I would wish on my greatest enemy.
I close my eyes for a split second giving myself time to breathe. This is it, this is the moment you have thought about ever since you saw him being blown by your best friend. This speech, you’ve practiced it numerous times in your head. Word for word using the exact tone, and the exact distance you would allow your body to be near him.
Taking the deepest breath, I turn around slowly, pretending to be composed when truth be told, my body is having a nervous breakdown. Only an arm’s length away, Jess stands before me dressed in his black tux. Nothing much has changed, still with his shaved head and beard. His tats are covered, except for the ones on his neck. My eyes are drawn to what appears to be a new one, an outline of a woman’s torso.
What am I supposed to do now? Do I kiss him hello or just smile from a distance? Physical contact seems like a bad idea, so I stand still, nerves getting the better of me. Christ, there should be some guide on what to do on your first encounter with your ex. I should write a book about it or at least someone should.
He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. “No kiss hello?”
Ignore the scent. Block your nose. Do something. Do not allow Jess’s scent to consume you or else you’re a goner.
“How have you been, Jess?” I barely croak, still attempting to hold my breath.
“Been better. And you?”
My eyes won’t focus on him because I know if they do, he will grab onto that piece of me that still loves him. At least, I think I still love him. Inside, I’m judging myself for even allowing myself to think this. He treated you like dirt. Disrespected you in the worse way possible.
