by JJ Knight
I giggle. “That sounds kind of elaborate.”
“Are you really trapped inside a store? Like a princess inside a castle?”
“Yes,” I say, giggling. “That’s exactly what’s happening. Are you my knight in shining armor?”
“Yes. Here’s my plan. I’ll come pick you up in one hour, then we’ll go home to practice getting married. Naked.”
“Don’t you dare come here. The photographers will go crazy.”
“They sure will. And I’ll distract them. Trust me. This is a great plan. Your brave knight won’t let you down.”
Chapter 5
What do you do when you’re trapped in a bridal boutique?
You drink champagne and try on dresses.
Mrs. Hale finally brings me some simple, elegant gowns. She holds them up in front of me, and I actually like what I see in the gilded mirrors.
The next step is for me to actually try the dresses on. With some reluctance, I do this.
Most of the dresses are the same size, and they don’t fit my body. These are all samples, because the gowns here are custom made and take weeks to order in.
I keep trying on dresses, trying to hide my disappointment. Even if I pick one, it will still take weeks and multiple fittings before I have my dress. How could I have thought this was going to be simple? Nothing is ever easy.
“What about the dress I saw in the window?” I ask Mrs. Hale. “What size is that one?”
She gives me a suspicious look, like I’m planning to walk out of here today with a sample dress and never come back. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, if the dress fits.
She doesn’t answer. She just clip-clops out of the showcase room and returns a few minutes later with the gown from the window. My mood brightens up when I take a look at the bodice. This one might fit me perfectly.
“This one was… a return,” Mrs. Hale explains. “Not that we take returns, but it was… complicated.”
Riley gives the dress a skeptical look. “Sounds like bad luck,” she says.
“Don’t be grouchy,” I tell her.
She scowls and shakes her head. I’ve never known Riley to be superstitious, but her worry is getting to me.
We’re all quiet for a moment, and while the song on the stereo changes, the sounds from outside of the store drift in. We can hear people arguing with each other and bumping into the glass windows. For the second time today, I’m reminded of zombie hordes. Ugh, this city.
Mrs. Hale clip-clops out to check on the door, then comes back. “There’s now twice as many photographers out there,” she reports. “My evening client has rescheduled.”
Riley scowls in the direction of the noise. “They sound restless.”
Amanda jumps up from the leather sofa. “I shall go and play a concert for them, on the white piano.”
Mrs. Hale shrugs. “You may as well enjoy the piano.” She’s got a glass of champagne in her hand, which explains her relaxation.
I give her a look to let her know I understand. The photographers drive me crazy, too. What bugs me the most is they treat me like I’m just another party girl ditz. They shout questions and try to get my reaction on video. They ask what I think of various actresses who are hot at the moment. They’re always trying to start feuds, between me and girls I’ve never even met.
Sometimes I want to take their cameras and smash them on the sidewalk. I want to scream that I have a job, a career. I get up and go to work in the morning. I work hard. I don’t chase after people and invade their privacy.
Badly-played piano music floats into the fitting room. That would be Amanda and Riley, banging away on the grand piano.
Now I have to smile again. This is just one of the reasons I love my girls. They always remind me that life is for fun. They’re the perfect antidote to fame, work, and Dylan.
Mrs. Hale finishes her champagne and tells me to try on the dress from the front window. She unzips the back and helps me slip it on.
I hold my breath as she zips it up.
This one fits me perfectly. Even the length is perfect. Whoever returned this dress could have been my clone.
I don’t dare open my eyes and look in the mirror. I can already tell without looking that it’s beautiful.
The silk bodice feels cool and smooth on my skin. The shape hugs my chest and waist. It caresses me down to my hips, then it follows the curve of my legs to the floor and ends in a small flared train.
I open my eyes and take the sight in. The dress is simple, but not plain. A layer of intricate lace clings to the entire dress, giving it an antique feel. The neckline accentuates my chest, and tiny sparkles woven into the cloth make me look like I’m glowing.
I’m actually glowing.
I step onto the stage in the middle of the showcase room.
Mrs. Hale calls the girls back in.
I anxiously await their opinions.
Is the dress perfect? Do they like it as much as I do? I’ve never thought of myself as very fashionable or having a personal style. I wear skirts and suits to work, but around the house, I’m usually in jeans.
Dylan’s always trying to get me to be more adventurous. He says I’m better at picking out costumes for our Morris musicians than I am at dressing myself. Last week, I brought home some samples for a trio of backup singers, and he went crazy. He thought the short dresses and matching stilettos were actually for me.
“It’s perfect,” Mrs. Hale says. She’s on another glass of champagne, and stumbling in her clip-clop shoes. “That dress will bring you good luck. All eyes will be on you.”
“Hah! That’s why I’m so nervous. I get so awkward when I think people are looking at me.”
“Relax, honey! You only get married once or twice.” She starts to cackle, then stops herself. “I mean once. Sorry.”
The girls finish their concert and come running back in.
Amanda looks at me up on the stage, opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. Oh, no. If Amanda’s speechless, it’s really bad.
I shrug. “Oh, well. It was worth trying on.”
“Oh, Jess,” Riley says. Her voice chokes up and she fans her face with one hand. “It’s gorgeous. It’s the one. And not just for your photo shoot. You should get married in this one, whenever you guys get around to that.”
“For real?”
“Poor Nan,” Riley says, referring to our grandmother. “She’s going to cry so hard.”
I look over at Amanda. I won’t know for sure if the dress is good until I hear from her.
“Let me try it on,” Amanda says. “With the ring.”
“No way,” I say, laughing.
And that does it. I love the dress. My girls love the dress. Never mind that it was a returned gown with bad karma. This is the one.
I quickly change out of it, because Dylan will be here soon and he can’t see the dress. I want him to be surprised and speechless.
Once I’m back into the skirt and top I arrived in, I go to work on Mrs. Hale. The dress is one-of-a-kind, and they want to use it as a sample gown. She really wants me to wait and order a custom-made one, even though the sample fits me perfectly.
“How long for the custom order?” I ask.
“Seven weeks.”
I press my lips together to keep from smirking. My secret wedding is in six weeks, and I’m not getting married naked.
Mrs. Hale’s steely blue eyes drill into me. “But you haven’t even asked about the price, Miss Rivera.”
I reach into my purse, get my wallet, and pull out my credit card. It’s a new card, and has a special color to let people know I mean business.
Mrs. Hale immediately brightens up and begins packaging the dress—my dress—up in a box.
Amanda and Riley squeal and hug me.
I try not to show that my hand is shaking when I sign the credit card bill. This gown costs more than most people’s entire wardrobe. But it is a once in a lifetime expense. The look on Dylan’s face will be priceless.
“Don’t crush our new dress.” Amanda tries to grab the box playfully. “Respect the gown. Don’t make me take it away from you.”
I hug the dress box closer. “Never.”
Once the bill has been settled to a very happy-looking Mrs. Hale, we take turns watching the front door for signs of Dylan.
He pulls up in the bright blue Maserati GranTurismo.
The photographers go crazy, as expected.
Dylan tries to lure them down the street, away from the boutique.
They’re too smart for his tricks, though. Some run after him, but a few stay stationed at the boutique’s front door, waiting for me.
Mrs. Hale checks the back door again and comes running back to report that nobody’s waiting in the alley.
My skin prickles with warning. Earlier, some of the photographers had been waiting back there. Sometimes they’re sneaky and hide behind dumpsters. Alleys are the worst.
Riley and Amanda start grumbling about being hungry. They’ve had nothing but champagne and want some food.
I send Dylan a quick message to let him know we’re going out the back door, and then we head out.
We step out of the air-conditioned boutique, into the alley. The heat of the city hits me. I feel weak suddenly. I guess I haven’t eaten in a while.
The three of us turn right and walk through the alley, past open doors and prep cooks sitting on white buckets, having their smoke breaks.
Everyone stares at me, with my pristine white dress box that’s almost as tall as I am.
I check my phone and see a message from Dylan: Starbucks.
“Riley, Amanda, hold up. Which way is the Starbucks? Dylan’s meeting us there.”
“This way,” Amanda says, nodding toward the street ahead.
I have a bad feeling this isn’t the right direction, but she seems certain, so I follow her.
The box in my arm is getting heavy. I had no idea a wedding dress weighed so much.
We step out of the alley, and are ambushed by photographers.
Flashes go off in front of my eyes. Voices rise and people crowd in, yelling my name. “Jess!” “Jessica!” “Miss Rivera!”
“Back off,” Riley warns them as she grabs my hand and pulls me along the sidewalk.
The voices get more insistent. “What have you got there? Another farm girl outfit?” “Jess! What was it like on the farm? Did you milk the cows?” “Do you and Dylan play cowgirl and cowboy?” “I bet you ride him hard, Jessica!” Their rude laughter turns my stomach.
Some of the photographers aren’t so bad. They’re just trying to earn a living, and they’re respectful. Those are the ones our PR department at Morris Music prefers. We’ll call those guys and let them “discover” our artists having dinner with sexy actresses, for example.
These guys, though, are the rough ones.
These guys are hungry. And desperate.
I clutch the dress box to me like a shield.
There are more flashes and red recording lights around me. The paparazzi is crowding in like an army. I lose my grip on Riley’s hand.
Someone says, “Aww look, she’s wearing her blue shoes again. Couldn’t you get another pair so Dylan can write a new song? Can’t you afford new shoes?”
Finally, I lose it and yell, “Shut up!” I swear at them and keep yelling for them to shut up.
I know I shouldn’t engage them, but I couldn’t stand it anymore.
A lens appears in front of my face and a man says, “That’s right, Jessica. Get angry. Let me have it, honey lips. Talk dirty to me, because I’ve been a bad boy.”
I fight hard to keep from telling him exactly what I think.
We keep trying to push through the crowd, but I don’t even know what direction to go. I feel a tug on my dress box.
A gruff voice demands, “Show us what’s in the box. Show us everything, honey lips.”
“Leave me alone!” The box crumples as I try to push through the crowd. I break free, and I can finally move. Amanda and Riley are up ahead, waving for me to hurry.
I start to run.
These blue shoes aren’t the prettiest things, but they’ve got solid soles and they’re great for running.
My heart hammers in my chest as I dash down the sidewalk.
The paparazzi chase after me.
In my head, I know they’re not trying to hurt me, physically. They just want me to do something stupid. But my body and mind are in a panic. The threat feels very real. Fear is powerful.
I run as fast as I can, my shoes pounding on the sidewalk.
A horn blows, and a blue Maserati GranTurismo roars past me and turns left.
The car disappears from my sight. There’s a screech of tires.
The screech stops, and all is silent for an instant, and then there’s the crunch of metal on metal.
I’m so shocked, I stop running.
My heart is pounding, my blood rushing in my ears. I listen for more sounds. Was that Dylan’s car crashing?
The crowd of photographers catch up and surround me. I feel the dress box being pulled from my hands.
A moment ago, I cared about the dress, and about getting away from the photographers.
Now I don’t care about any of that.
I need to get to my friends, and Dylan. I need to make sure none of them were hurt.
The photographers won’t get out of my way, so I ball my hands up into fists and fight my way free.
I run down the sidewalk and turn the corner.
Someone big and wide is running toward me. He’s looking down at his camera and doesn’t see me.
He slams into me like a brick wall.
I can’t breathe. I fall backward and land hard. Everything hurts.
Chapter 6
I wake up in a room that smells of antiseptic.
There are green curtains on every side.
If I’m in a hospital, something serious has happened. Panic floods my body with adrenaline. My heart pounds like a drum.
I sit up quickly, and my head feels like it’s being shot by needles.
I clench my jaw and wait for the pain to subside.
I’m dressed in my regular shirt and skirt. My shoes are off, and I’m lying on top of the sheets on a narrow hospital bed.
Groaning, I push myself over to the edge of the bed and start looking around for my shoes.
My head feels fuzzy, but I remember what happened.
After I slammed into the guy, I fell and scraped up my elbow pretty bad on the sidewalk. The big guy was fine, barely felt it. He knelt down to check on me, making a dumb joke about an SUV hitting a tiny car.
I tried to get up, saying I was tougher than I look. Then things in my memory are fuzzy. My elbow was bleeding like crazy, and the sight of the blood must have sent me into shock.
I know I kept trying to find Riley and Amanda, or Dylan, but I must have seemed like a crazy person to the bystanders who stopped to help me. I kept yelling about the car accident I’d heard, and people told me to calm down, and that I hadn’t been hit by a car.
My memory is patchy from that point. There was a ride in an ambulance. I do remember getting a sedative here at the hospital, once they determined I didn’t have a concussion. It was a little pill, and they gave me orange juice.
I lick my dry lips. My elbow is all bandaged. I want to see the damage, but then again, I don’t.
A familiar voice on the other side of the curtain makes my heart jump again, only this time in a good way.
Dylan’s outside the curtains talking to a doctor or nurse.
“Hello?” I call out.
“Sounds like she’s awake,” a woman says. “Go ahead and check on your fiancée, Mr. Wolf. The paperwork’s all done.”
The curtain parts and Dylan walks in. When he sees that I’m awake, his face lights up.
“You scared me,” he says.
I look him over for signs of injury. He looks okay.
“Dylan,” I say, my voice croaking. “
Where are the girls?”
“Sent home. Don’t worry, they’re fine.” He looks at my bandaged elbow. “Unlike you, my little broken doll.”
“I heard your car crash,” I say.
“The Maserati? No way. You heard a paparazzi hit a delivery truck.” He points to his knuckles. “I’d have some bruises here if one of them hit my car.” He frowns. “That big guy who slammed into you was lucky I didn’t catch him.”
I don’t know if he’s joking or not, but I’m not laughing.
“Dylan, please don’t ever punch anyone on my account.”
“You’re one to talk. You gave a few black eyes to the paparazzi, all by yourself.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Check out your knuckles.”
I look down at my right hand. I do have red skin over my knuckles, along with abrasions.
Dylan’s laughing, but I’m not. I just shake my head.
“What’s wrong?” Dylan grabs my bruised hand, cupping my fingers in his palms. Everything hurts. Everything’s ruined.
“My dress. It got stolen. It was the perfect dress, and now it’s gone. It was really expensive, too.”
He rubs my bruised hand between his. “Don’t worry about that dress. We’ll get you another one. A better one.”
I close my eyes, and I hear the voices again. My hands get sweaty. I can feel them all crowding in. They’re relentless. They’ll never stop, and it’s just going to get worse.
I pull my hand away from Dylan and clench it into a fist. “If I find out which one stole the dress… I don’t know. Dylan, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“This is just celebrity stuff, Jess. It’s not personal.”
“But it’s getting worse, isn’t it? They weren’t like this before we got engaged. It started right after the news hit. And there’s no point to it.”
“This is all normal,” he says.
I shake my head and try to remember if my life in L.A. has ever been normal.
The press became part of my life after I moved in with Dylan. Then, when we got engaged, they were so grabby about the ring. I tried going out without the ring, and that only made things worse.
I gasp and check my ring finger. To my relief, the ring is still there. It could have easily been stolen after I got knocked down.
