Lucky Bunny

by Eva Luxe

  “What? The bathrooms were all taken. And neither of us was feeling particularly patient.”

  “Fair enough. You get her number?”

  It hadn’t hit me until just then, but, “No. No I didn’t.” We’d had our fun, and then she’d grabbed my ass one more time and gone back through the door to the club. By the time I’d straightened myself out enough to follow her in, she’d disappeared into the crowd.

  That’s when the alarm on my phone chimes. “Oh, shit. Gotta head downtown or I’m going to miss out on all that sweet sweet free stuff!”

  Nikki groans. “You’re still doing that? You don’t even fucking need to. You’re filthy rich, remember?”

  “I remember. And I’m still doing it a little bit, yeah. Hey, you’re the one who told me to get over all this, and what better way to do it with clothes on than—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Getting free stuff from wedding venues even though you don’t need it. Where are you going this time?”

  “Some fancy spot downtown. The Crystal Plaza.”

  Chapter 14 – Brent

  A quick check of Google Maps tells me the quickest way to this new spot is on the subway. Just a few stops away. Not bad.

  Nikki might be right…maybe I should stop doing this thing where I go around visiting the venues where I was supposed to maybe get married, and getting the free goodies that come with the tour of the place. But I’m still pretty bitter about the whole Kelly thing, and other than anonymous sex, what’s the best cure? Free stuff.

  Nikki’s definitely right that I don’t need it. But for some reason it makes me feel better to salvage something out of this whole sordid ordeal. So, I’ve been going to all the tours we scheduled, all the free cake sampling events, all that stuff. Wedding cakes are delicious, and totally worth the extra miles I make myself run after trying eighteen different flavors.

  Today’s event is a tour at this venue called the Crystal Plaza. The only thing I remember about it is that when Kelly booked it (months ago now), I kept accidentally referring to it as the Crystal Palace. She didn’t like that, for some reason. I suppose it was because she already thought the name sounded so pristine since it was an expensive place that everyone wanted to get married, and she didn’t want people to confuse it for some other, less hoity toity venue. Me, I think it made the place sound even fancier.

  Anyway, after she left, I hadn’t cancelled the tour, and now I’m going to reap the rewards. Places like this always ply you with free stuff to try and convince you to “Choose us! We gave you a free crystal duck!” Which is useless, but fun.

  So, I hop the train, grab a seat, and wait for my stop. While I wait, I people watch. Scanning the faces of the crowd, trying to ignore the light smell of piss that always hangs in the air on the Red Line. I swear more homeless and drunk people ride this line than any other.

  There are at least three people on the train doing the Ride of Shame…and one drag queen who is definitely taking the ride, but without even a hint of shame. Good for them.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone brushing her hair back from her face - her brown, curly hair. That’s stupid, I tell myself. Lots of women have brown, curly hair. Don’t think anything of it.

  But I do. I look again. The woman in question has her eyes closed now, leaning back against her seat at the far end of the car. Her hair still looks tussled, as if she didn’t brush it after I ran my fingers through it and pulled it while I fucked her.

  I remember the feel of her lips more than the look, but her face and her body? That’s a look I do remember. What I don’t remember is seeing the flash of a ring on her hand. But there’s one there now.

  Shit. How the hell did I end up on the subway with my married one night stand?

  Chapter 15 – Brent

  I don’t entirely know why I feel weird about it - I mean, it’s not like we had any problems or swore never to see each other again, but still. She’s married, or at least engaged, and I’m not someone who is down with cheating. Plus, even though she’s a cheater, I can’t stop thinking about how fucking hot she is, even though I know I should. This could be weird.

  She opens her eyes, and I look away so fast I almost give myself whiplash. Was that too fast? Did she notice you? Well, don’t look back to find out. That won’t help anyone.

  I wait, pretending to study the subway ad for a cut rate lawyer that’s plastered above the doors. After a stretch of time that could’ve been ten seconds or ten minutes, I sneak a peek back down the car. Yup, that’s her all right.

  Okay, relax. So what if she sees me? I mean, I’m not going to run up to her and say “Hey, remember me? We banged up against that brick wall and I spanked your ass till it hurt…,” but what’s the worst that could happen if we did bump shoulders? A few awkward glances, a laugh or two? Or a blank stare?

  The train lurches to a halt with the familiar screech of all New York City subway cars. My stop. Finally, thank God. Ugh, how is it possible that this woman has somehow gotten under my skin so quickly? Maybe she’s a stalker, and wherever I go, she follows. Nope, not gonna entertain that notion. I don’t want to think I just fucked a crazy person. Not that I’m all together sane myself these days.

  I practically leap off the train and head for the stairs without a backward glance. Focus on what’s coming, I tell myself. I have no time to dwell on the woman I just saw again in the second strangest place ever, after fucking her in the first strangest place ever just last night. I have to plan my tour of the Crystal Plaza.

  What kind of illness does my nonexistent fiancée have today? Laryngitis? The flu? Cake poisoning? Ah, that’s it. Food poisoning from one of the many wedding cakes she’d sampled, at the last venue, where we most certainly won’t be getting married, thank you very much, so here I am to tour this one and hope to have better results. I’d make my apologies for my (nonexistent) wife-to-be, enjoy the tour, take the free swag bag that better include that crystal swan, and be out of there in time for a late lunch.

  It’s a great plan. Until I get to the closest crosswalk and have to wait for the walk signal. At which point I look around a bit and realize Mystery Woman is right behind me. I almost catch her eye again, and look away just in time. I swear I hear a tiny “eeep” from her direction. I thought that was a sound that only existed inside a Hollywood sound mixer’s keyboard.

  For half a second I consider making a break for it across the street, and then a taxi (jeez, we still have taxis? I thought Uber put them out of business) blows by me at least twice the legal speed limit, and I think better of the plan. Don’t be a fucking pussy, Brent. Sure, she’s breathtakingly beautiful and you just had hot sex and wanted to see her again and here she is. And she’s married so now you know she’s off limits and you can’t have her, even though you already did. How fucking confusing. But don’t focus on that shit. Just breathe. Look ahead or look at her. Pick one.

  I look ahead. After an interminable few seconds, the light changes and I book it across the street. I don’t look back for three blocks.

  I tell myself it’s because I don’t have time for any of the potentially ensuing awkwardness. The part of my brain I’m currently refusing to acknowledge, however, is telling me it’s because I’d very much like to do another round of the horizontal (or vertical again, her choice) mambo with the Dancing Dahlia over there. But out in the daylight, she’s more like the married minx. And everybody knows married minx’s mates bite. Jesus, what a terrible line of alliterative sophomore poetry that was. I hate myself a little for it.

  Thankfully it’s only a few blocks to the Crystal, and I make it the rest of the way without incident. Inside the lobby of the building, there are about a dozen couples mingling, casting at one another the kind of glances usually reserved for the most loathsome of relatives at Christmas. Why is it that everyone is always mad at their most beloved person on the planet while touring wedding venues? It seems to bring out the bad side of every couple.

  There’s no sign of the tour guide
yet. Good. Plenty of time to practice my excuse for not having a fiancée with me. And to scope out any free stuff I might get later.

  The doors swing open behind me, and I reflexively look for the next embattled couple coming to join the ranks. But it’s not a couple. This person is alone. And she’s all too familiar.

  Okay. Last straw. This is absurd and I’m going to figure out why this stalker – gorgeous as she may be, hot as the sex between us may have been – is following me.

  I cross the room towards her, and when she sees me her eyes widen. I can’t tell if she’s happy to see me, or angry. Or maybe she’s just as surprised as I am.

  “Hey!” I come to a stop in front of her, and she opens her mouth to speak at the same moment I do.

  “Are you…”

  Chapter 16 – Amelia

  “…following me?!” I ask, the tone of my voice coming out lower and more accusatory than I meant for it to be.

  But, still. This is absolutely nuts. The same train, I kinda get. Even crossing the same street. But now here he is, all lean yet muscular and toned, and floppy haired and slightly goofy, staring me in the face, at my own non-wedding venue!

  “I asked you first,” he says, the same sort of anger obviously seeping through his tone.

  What the fuck. Where does he get off?

  “You did not!” I protest.

  “Well, I at least asked at the same exact time,” he sulks.

  I suppose he did. I just didn’t hear him because I was so indignant.

  “Still. What the hell are you doing here? I don’t even know your name, and somehow you’re at the same wedding venue I am? The night after we…you know-”

  “Fucked?” He offers. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one with a ring on my finger, miss ‘Your Place or Mine.’”

  “Ring? What do you mean, ring?”

  Ohhhh, that ring. The engagement ring I’d slipped on this morning out of some weird sense of…duty? Faking my way into a tour of a wedding venue I can’t possibly get married at felt like playing a part, and I’d wanted to be sure I could do it accurately. So, ring it up, it was. And now, I’m screwed.

  “Look, I - okay, it’s not. See, I—”

  “Wait.” Tan Jacket Guy’s lips quirk into a smile. “You don’t belong here either, do you?”

  “I absolutely do. And what do you mean, either?”

  His face falls, just for a second. “What? I didn’t say that. I said, ‘You don’t belong here.’ End sentence. Period. No more after that.”

  My stony expression lets him know I don’t buy it.

  “Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s none of your business, actually.”

  “Good. And I’m none of yours. So, get out of here, why don’t you?”

  “Why should I have to leave? I was here first!” he protests.

  “Only because you got off the train first!”

  “I knew that was you! Last time I take the Red Line, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Please. The Red Line is the only train that runs on time in this entire borough.”

  He blinks. “Fine, you got me there. Now will you please just—”

  A voice cuts in from the front of the hall. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Before we get started, please be sure to check in with me here. Reminder: this is a couples only tour. Without a partner, I’m sorry to say we can’t accommodate you, as is clearly noted in your registration email.”

  Crap on a cracker. Not only had I wasted the morning getting here and wound up somehow meeting my one night stand for a morning after, I’m going to wind up being booted anyway. Chancing a glance at Tan Jacket, I see that his face looks about as worried as I feel. Then he looks over at me, and the worry vanishes.

  “Hey.” He says, quieter now. “Can I hold your hand?”

  “Hold my what?” My incredulous expression doesn’t seem to daunt him one bit.

  “Your hand.” he says. “What, were you hoping for something else?”

  Chapter 17 – Brent

  As soon as I say it, I almost regret opening my mouth. What the hell are you doing? Why would you proposition the girl you banged last night and never expected to see again? Then again, maybe I have my answer right there. Maybe it’s fate. Or maybe I’m just an idiot. Either way, I hold out my hand.

  The rest of the tour group moves now. Couples laugh and chatter, holding hands, touching arms, encircling waists, forgetting about how they were just fighting over the price of the venue or how many people are going to be in their wedding party. Pretty soon we’re going to be the only two left, and the jig’ll be up. Mystery Woman seems to realize this too, as her eyes flash with the realization.

  “Look.” I keep my hand up. “No sob story, but I’m supposed to be here to cancel my reservation. On the other hand, some of the stuff they give you in wedding grab bags at these places are really unique. And you either got jilted, or you’re not really supposed to be here either. Doesn’t really matter though. We both want in, and this is how we get what we want.”

  The tour guide swings by, sweeping up stragglers (aka us). “Come along, folks - you don’t want to miss this!”

  We don’t…do we?

  She bites her lower lip - and takes my hand. “Just my hand, you hear me?!”

  “Whatever you say, future Mrs. Forester.”

  We walk quickly now to catch up to the main group, and she whispers, “Forester? Really?”

  “What’s wrong with that? It’s a perfectly good last name.”

  “Sounds like you should be wearing a flannel and hacking at a tree with an axe. Or have your picture on the side of that paper towel brand, Whatsit - ”

  “Bounty?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “With a name like Bounty, you’d think it’d be a pirate on the label, not a Paul Bunyan knockoff.”

  A less than impressed pause, then: “Are you high?”

  “I mean…not today.”

  This was a bad plan. Bad, bad plan.

  Thank God, that’s the moment the tour guide stops the group and opens his mouth so that I can close mine.

  “Good morning, everyone! I’m Roger, your guide for this absolutely delicious day trip through the finest wedding venue New York City has to offer. This,” he gestures expansively at the space around us, “is our Receiving Hall. Couples often greet their guests here for the first time as husband and wife - or husband and husband, or wife and wife. Variety is the spice of life, as they say! Variety’s a good spice for marriage too - we just ask that you refrain from getting too spicy out here in the open.”

  A few appreciative chuckles rise from some of the people in the group. My Mystery Fiancée isn’t one of them. As we head towards the next room, a couple drops back to walk with us: the man a short and beefy New York City Italian guy, and the woman a tall, blonde socialite type.

  “Hi there!” the woman chirps, excitement splashing out of her pores. “I’m Tammi with an I, and this is my guy Johnny - Johnny with a Y.” She giggles at her own joke (a line I’m sure she’s been delivering to anyone around for months now), and tugs on Johnny-with-a-Y’s arm. “Aren’t these two just adorable, hon?” She sets her sights on my new partner in crime. “What’s your name, dear?”

  I feel a little jolt at the realization that neither of us had even thought to ask the other’s name. Whoops. Lucky for us, the fact that I didn’t ask doesn’t mean this lady knows that.

  With a coy smile, my pretend fiancée says, “I’m Amelia.” Amelia. Amelia…Forester. Huh.

  “And what about you, handsome?” Tammi leans close and taps my arm, pulling me away from the momentary reverie. “What’s the name of the guy who managed such a wonderful catch, hmm?”

  “Oh. Ah, I’m Brent. Brent Forester.”

  “Oh, how lovely! How lovely is that, Johnny?!” Johnny grunts, which Tammi apparently understands to be a signal of approval. “You sound like a woodsman.”

  Crap, this woman actually wants to talk to us. Time t
o remember that college improv class you took back when you thought you were funny.

  “It’s funny, Amelia and I were just joking about that! She said I should try out to be the next Bounty Paper Towels model. You know, with the flannel and the axe?”

  Tammi’s laugh is so absurdly raucous it earns her glares from a few of the couples closest to us. She doesn’t even register them. “That is hilarious, sweetie!” Turning to Amelia, “It’s so rare to find one with looks and a sense of humor! I had to go through all seven of Johnny’s brothers to find that - just imagine it!”

  Amelia snorts. I smile too, even though the thoughts of Tammi going through seven brothers is something I definitely don’t want to imagine.

  Tammi mock pouts. “I knowww. Absolutely horrendous. Although if I need a standin at the ceremony, at least I have plenty to choose from. But enough about us! What’s the story? How did you two adorable ducks meet?”

  How did we - Uh-oh.

  Chapter 18 – Amelia

  For the first two minutes she’s in my life, Tammi is just insufferable. I can do insufferable—I work at a law firm. Half the people I deal with on a daily basis are insufferable. But then, she asks the question. The question neither of us have prepared for, even one bit.

  “How did you two meet?”

  Looking over at Brent (way to ask him his name, Amelia), I see him working to swallow the same momentary panic I feel spiking in my own chest. I try to head off Tammi’s question. “Aww. We don’t like to brag.” Brag? Are you shitting me right now? That’s the best I can come up with, though.

  Tammi doesn’t take the bait for even a second. “Oh, don’t be absurd! We love these stories, right, Johnny?”

  Johnny grunts again. I’m momentarily glad Tammi seems to understand his monosyllabic responses, because I certainly don’t. Unfortunately, even if I did, it wouldn’t do much to get us out of this situation.

  “I mean…we, ah…” Brent is coming up even more empty than I am. Tammi starts to frown. “We…um. We met at the park.”

  The park? Okay. Not very original. I kind of expected more from Mr. Funny Guy Brent here. But, let’s see where this is going.