by Lili Valente
Slipping my hand beneath the waistband of my pajama pants, I visualize the way her breasts framed my cock as she knelt on the floor of the tub.
I see her pink lips parting as she takes my swollen head into her mouth, the way her eyes roll up to meet mine, sending an electric shock through my entire body. Her technique is stellar—she may have taken a sabbatical from sex, but she clearly knows what she’s doing—but it isn’t how deep she takes me or the perfect suction that makes it so hard not to come.
It’s how close I feel to her, how much she clearly wants to please me, the way she moans in pleasure as I cradle her head in my hands and thrust between her pretty lips.
I’m not just fucking her mouth, I’m fucking her, my friend, my girl, this woman who makes me laugh and think and feel things. Feel so much. I feel so much that my imagination cuts into the memory, changing the course of past events.
This time, I don’t come in her mouth or watch her swallow, her throat working with a raw sensuality that slays me. This time, I pull out and reach for her, drawing her up my body, hitching her legs around my waist so I can slide inside her.
And then I take her with all the passion and lust and feelings, too. I thrust in and out of her sweet, tight heat, murmuring things I haven’t said to any woman—in bed or out of it. I tell her that I love her and that I need her and that she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I tell her that I’m never going to let her go or let her down and when she comes I swear I can feel her pleasure like it’s my own.
I keep my eyes closed tight, holding on to dream Penny as I come in my own hand, pretending that I’m with her.
And finally, finally, I’m able to sleep. To sleep and to slip almost seamlessly into a dream where Penny is resting in my arms.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I arrive at the Pickett mansion just after eight o’clock the next morning, my palms sweating and my mouth filled with the sweet and sour taste of hope laced with fear, to learn that Penny has already left for the spa with her mother and sisters.
Apparently the mother-daughter spa day has been planned for weeks.
At least according to Nanny Helms, who barely opens the door wide enough to stick her face through the gap and deliver the bad news before slamming it closed again.
“But what about last night?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard through the thick wood. “How is she feeling? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Helms calls from inside. “Come back at four o’clock and bring her dress for the rehearsal dinner and her overnight bag. I’m sure she’ll want her own makeup and hair things.”
“Why can’t she come to the cottage to get dressed?” I demand, the ugly fear that Penny is trying to avoid me creeping back in on spider feet. “Ms. Helms? Hello? Ms. Helms?”
I wait, but there’s no answer from the other side of the door and when I try the handle, I discover it’s been locked.
I’ve been locked out. Like a vacuum cleaner salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness or some creepy pizza delivery guy no one wants inside the house.
“Well, fuck me very much,” I mutter beneath my breath as I spin away from the door, a scowl clawing at my forehead. I stride toward the car, typing in a text to Penny as I go.
Why didn’t you tell me about the spa day?
I just got to your mom’s place to check on you and you aren’t here. Is something wrong? Are you okay?
I almost type—Are we okay?—but think better of it.
That’s not something I want to get into via text, especially if Francis and Eddie are on Penny’s phone scrolling through her emoticon selection the way they were several times yesterday.
Standing by the rental car in a patch of shade—the sun rose in a cloudless blue sky this morning and it’s starting to feel like summer—I wait for a response that doesn’t come. It doesn’t come and doesn’t come and doesn’t come, and by noon, I’m pacing around the cottage, gnashing my teeth, fighting the urge to send Penny another half dozen texts of varying degrees of concerned, confused, and pissed the fuck off.
How dare she do this? How dare she freeze me out when all I want to do is tell her how much I love her?
Maybe because she knows you better than you know yourself, jackass.
Maybe she saw the writing on the wall and decided to run before you beat her to it.
“Fuck that,” I growl, pointing an accusing finger at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “That’s not how it’s going down. Not this time. No one’s running.”
Keep telling yourself that, the voice in my head sneers, and by the time you pull your head out of your ass she’ll be so far gone you’ll never catch up.
“I will catch up.” I spin away from the mirror, deciding it’s crazier to talk to myself while looking into my own eyes than while prowling around the cottage. “And when I do, I’m going to convince her to give this a shot,” I tell the couch. “I’ll tackle her to the sand and sit on her until she hears me out if I have to.”
That’s one good thing about a wedding rehearsal on the beach. Lots of nice soft sand for tackling the woman you love to the ground and sitting on her.
You’re losing it, Prince. And once it’s lost, all you are is a loser.
Ignoring the voice of doom, I lace up my running shoes and head outside to pound pavement, deciding that’s a better use of my time than pounding my head against the wall. It’s only four more hours until I get to see Penny. No one ever went completely out of their goddamned mind in four hours.
But by the time four o’clock rolls around and I arrive back at the house to have Nanny Helms confiscate the items I’ve brought for Penny and disappear upstairs after encouraging me to, “join the rest of the wedding party on the veranda,” it’s all I can do not to push past her and charge up the stairs.
I’m about to make a break for it, in fact, when I see Francis and Eddie run past the landing in fluffy pink dresses with curlers in their hair and force myself to turn and walk to the back of the house. I emerge into the warm, late afternoon sun to see the cater waiters putting the finishing touches on the outdoor tables and the audio-visual team stretching a giant screen into place for the slideshow the girls helped put together for their mother. The patio is already buzzing with people, an excellent reminder that life doesn’t happen in a vacuum.
As much as I would like the world to consist of no one but Penny and me, at least for the next few hours, while I convince her she would be stupid not to fall in love with me, too, there are other pieces in play. Including two little girls who don’t need any more drama in their lives and a wedding party that needs to keep assuming that Penny and I are happily in love.
No matter what happens between us, I’m not going to ruin this for Penny. She deserves this victory lap, the chance to leave all the ugliness behind and emerge from the Hamptons a fully-blossomed swan.
“Swans don’t blossom, idiot,” I mutter as I collect a mojito from a passing waiter.
“What’s that?” The words are flat and tight, nothing like the smugly lilting tone of when we first met at the train station or last night at the bachelor party, but I recognize Phillip’s voice immediately.
I turn, forcing a smile. “Just wondering about the flowers. Flowers are my favorite part of a wedding. Except for the cake. Preferably with ice cream. Do you take your cake with ice cream? Or are you doing the sugar-free, gluten-free, joy-free thing along with your fiancée?”
Phillip frowns, shooting me a look that makes it clear he thinks I’m crazy, fucking with him, or both, but I don’t bother explaining myself. I let my eyes rake over him, observing the transformation of the groom-to-be.
For the first time, Phillip’s hair is looking less than perfect—flat on one side and fuzzy on the other—and the skin beneath his eyes is a sickly shade of yellow and blue. He looks like he’s hung over, or possibly still drunk from the night before, and when he smiles his lips are a shriveled scrap of stir-fried chicken tossed into the center of his face.
He looks sour. Like he’s curdling from the inside out.
If I weren’t feeling a little sour myself, I would take great pleasure in his apparent suffering. As it is, I can only manage mild gratification and a half-hearted wish that he throws up at some point during the evening’s festivities.
Judging by the way he’s sucking down his mojito, it’s a wish that has a decent chance of coming true.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.” He takes another healthy swig of his half-empty drink, bloodshot eyes watching me over the rim of the glass. “And maybe I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”
I cant my head to one side and then the other as if considering the point before pursing my lips. “No, I don’t think so. All signs point to stupid. But don’t worry about it.” I clap him on the shoulder, enjoying the way he flinches and his already tight jaw muscle flexes beneath his pallid skin. “You’re marrying a beautiful, rich, powerful woman, and all of your dreams are coming true. I’m sure you’re the happiest bastard on the block. Or on the street, since your wife owns the block, huh?” I laugh, pretending I don’t see the murder flashing behind Phillip’s eyes.
“We’ll see,” he says, shriveled meat lips curling. “We’ll see who’s laughing when it’s all over. You put on a good show, but you’re not fooling me, Prince. You don’t have what it takes to see this through.”
I narrow my eyes, wondering if Anastasia decided to tell him what I do for a living, after all, but quickly decide I don’t give a shit.
Who cares if he knows about Magnificent Bastard Consulting? My presence here today no longer has anything to do with work, a fact which will become abundantly apparent once I have the chance to talk to Penny. I’m going to convince her our pretend is the realest thing at this wedding rehearsal and then make out with her in every dark corner of the backyard until there is no shadowy nook we haven’t christened and no doubt in anyone’s mind that I am completely smitten with Penny Elizabeth Pickett.
“All right then, Phillip,” I say with a shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
His green eyes glitter. “Sure. That’ll work. Until you have to admit you’ve failed.”
Before I can respond, Phillip has spun, nearly knocked over a waiter as he exchanges his empty drink for a full one, and disappeared into the house.
All around me, the other members of the wedding party—nearly a dozen beautiful women, many of whom I recognize from various movies and gossip magazines, and their dates, along with Phillip’s crew of Hollywood goons and overgrown fraternity brother types—quickly avert their eyes, pretending they weren’t observing the tense exchange between the groom and me. Luckily, the string quartet playing on the lawn below the patio fills the uneasy silence and soon conversations resume.
After securing a plate of appetizers from the buffet set up near the entrance to the house, I wander away from the main party, joining the ring bearer’s parents on the deck overlooking the beach, where the harried wedding planner is finalizing the arrangement of the chairs and altar for the rehearsal. I met George and Yvette and their son, Eli, at the luncheon. They run a local hair salon and are refreshingly normal compared to the Hollywood power players and trust fund babies that make up the rest of the wedding party.
We pass an easy half hour consuming tiny sandwiches, chatting in the sun, watching Eli roll down the grassy dune into the sand over and over again until the four-year-old oozes beach out of his pants pockets every time he stands up, and wait for the bride, maid of honor, and flower girls to appear. We wait and wait as the sun sinks lower in the sky and the air takes on a chill. Finally, just after five, Yvette excuses herself to take Eli to the bathroom before his practice run down the aisle and George and I go in hunt of fresh mojitos.
I’m circling around the dinner tables, aiming myself at a bored looking blond girl with a full tray of frosty glasses, when a loud honk of feedback sounds from the speakers near the slideshow screen.
A gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by nervous laughter as the audio-visual techie wrestling chords near his laptop shouts, “Sorry about that, folks. Having a little trouble with the setup. Think I’ve found the right signal now.”
The clusters of nicely dressed people are already returning to their conversations when Phillip’s voice sounds from the speakers, begging someone to—“Please. Hear me out. Just give me five minutes. Please!” I turn, wondering what the hell is going on, to see a watery image flicker to life on the screen.
“Or maybe that’s not my signal.” The tech blinks, his brow furrowing.
There, ten feet tall, in living color, are Phillip and Penny. They’re standing in the middle of a glassed-in room, and Phillip is clutching one of Penny’s hands in both of his. She’s wearing the white chiffon dress I brought from the cottage for her, the one that makes her look like a glamorous, curvy, nineteen fifties movie star, and Phillip is dressed in the same clothes he was wearing when he cornered me on the patio.
If this is something the twins recorded for their slideshow, they must have done it just a few minutes ago.
But even before Penny shakes her head and begins to speak, I have a feeling this has nothing to do with the wedding celebration.
“No, Phillip,” she says, her voice strained. “This is insane! You’re getting married in less than twenty-four hours. To my mother!”
“But I don’t have to be,” Phillip says, sending an uncomfortable murmur rippling through the crowd as more of the guests begin to realize something is wrong and the audio-visual guy taps frantically at his laptop, trying to put an end to the unplanned performance.
“Please, Penny, I know I screwed up,” Phillip continues, clinging to her hand. “I never should have followed your mom into the pool house, let alone let things go this far. I never should have done anything to screw up what we had.”
Penny shakes her head faster, clearly panicked. “Are you crazy? Is this some kind of a sick joke, because I don’t—”
“It’s not a joke. But yeah, maybe I am crazy.” His voice breaks and he swallows with visible effort before adding, “Everyone thinks I’ve got it all, but I’ve got nothing. Seeing you again, I realize that without you, my life is empty. You’re the only woman I’ve ever really loved, Penny. The only person who knows me, inside and out. And I can’t stand the thought of spending another day, let alone the rest of my life, with anyone but you.”
He falls to one knee, eliciting gasps and deep, disapproving grumbles from the guests glued to the unfolding drama, while Penny rears back in obvious shock, her expression telegraphing abject horror.
Unfortunately, Phillip is either too drunk or too arrogant to read her cues. He continues in an impassioned voice, worthy of an Emmy-nominated actor, “Penny Pickett, will you marry me? Please. Run away with me, Peeps. Right now. Tonight. And I swear I will spend the rest of my life making sure you aren’t sorry you chose me to be your forever.”
Penny’s jaw drops, but before she can speak, the audio-visual guy finally pulls the plug on his malfunctioning computer. This time, the crowd moans in disappointment, a studio audience cheated out of the climactic moment in an especially riveting TV drama.
But this isn’t television. This is real life and no matter how the rest of that scene plays out, real people are going to be hurt.
The thought has barely flitted through my mind when a blur of yellow chiffon streaks past in my peripheral vision. I shift my gaze to see Anastasia running out of the kitchen door at the far side of the house and dashing through the cherry trees shading that side of the estate. She stumbles, tumbling to the grass amidst the fallen pink petals, but quickly regains her balance, swiping her arm across her face as she flees between the guest houses and down toward the beach.
She’s clearly devastated and it doesn’t take much imagination to guess why. She must have seen the video and heard her fiancé begging another woman—her daughter—to run away with him.
No matter what Anastasia did to Penny, or ho
w selfish she clearly is, I feel bad for her. For all her bullshit, she seems to love Phillip and he just proved her a fool in the worst possible way, in front of fifty of her nearest and dearest, a flock of cater waiters, and one of the most expensive wedding planners in the tri-state area.
With a last glance at the house, where I hope Penny is telling Phillip “hell, no” without bothering with her Sunday manners, I turn and follow her mother down toward the beach.
Penny is the strong one, now. She’s free of Phillip and whether or not she chooses to take it easy on him, she’ll never let him hurt her again.
I’m not so sure about Anastasia’s mental state and I’m not going to let anyone get hurt on my watch.
Unselfishly, my heart goes out to people who have been spectacularly dumped, even people like Penny’s mom. Selfishly, I know that the sooner I can get Anastasia calmed down, the sooner Penny and I can get out of here and spend our last night in our cottage the way we should have spent every night—tangled up in each other with no plans of letting go.
CHAPTER FORTY
At the edge of a cluster of breeze-blocking dunes, I spot a pair of gold sandals. Not much farther on, gold bracelets are scattered between two mountains of sand like forgotten pirate treasure. And as I step out from between the dunes, I spot Anastasia’s dress as it catches the wind and takes flight.
I freeze at the edge of where the sand becomes a carpet of white leading down to the ocean and watch the yellow chiffon spin toward the sky, twisting like a Chinese dragon in the breeze.
“Shit,” I mutter, wincing as I glance back toward the ocean, already having a pretty good idea of what I’m going to see.
Sure enough, there’s Anastasia wading into the frigid ocean in her strapless bra and white thong, charging into the waves like a mermaid determined to return to the sea. As I run toward the water, I vaguely recall part of that movie she was in, a similar scene in which a younger Anastasia was being forced to give up her human lover for the ocean.
