Teller sits in the chair beside mine, knees wide and head back. “No way. There’s no fucking way our kids are going to grow up like we did.”
“Kids?” I ask with a smile.
He side-eyes me and says, “We’ll have a dozen or two.”
“That sounds like a nightmare.”
Bright green eyes search my expression for signs of playfulness. “We’re done after this one is born?”
I shrug, unable to hide my smile. “We’ll get a couple dogs. Or another goldfish so Phish has a friend to swim with. He’s probably lonely. We’re horrible fish owners.”
“Smella, I’ll be the one who backs out of this wedding if you keep talking all that shit.”
“Says the person who slept inside of a tent in my backyard,” I fire back, laughing out loud at how ridiculous the memory is. Teller Reddy—untouchable Teller Reddy missed me so much, he was willing to brave the elements with nothing more than a sleeping bag and a two-person tent. If that isn’t love, it’s probably a very bad case of stalking. This might be Stockholm syndrome.
“I’ve slept in worse places just to be close to you,” he says, waving me off. He cringes sarcastically. “Like the streets of Venice Beach.”
“Those were the days,” I say wistfully.
Looking back on those times, I appreciate how good we used to have it now that I’m older and wiser. Teller and I acted like the sky was falling, but I lived on an iconic beach in Los Angeles—a true part of history. His family owned a mansion in Beverly Hills, where he never had to wash a load of laundry or clean his own room. We were dramatic at best, and senseless at our worst.
But that’s growing up.
Dramatic and senseless, wrecked and damaged, we’re moments away from marriage and months away from a baby, and I absolutely know this is supposed to be. Save the white dresses and tiered cakes for the couples who need their traditions and precision. Teller and I live on our terms, and our wedding day won’t change the pattern now.
Maybe I’ll deliver our baby outside of a hospital to keep things interesting.
The double oak doors to the small ceremony room open and a handful of people amble away, full of smiles and palpable joy due to legal togetherness. The justice of the peace follows them out in a floor length judge’s robe and clipboard in hand. “Are you Gabriella Mason?” he asks Maby.
Wishful thinking, I ponder to myself.
“No, I’m the matron of honor,” my soon to be sister-in-law announces.
Standing from my seat, I raise my hand as if I’m in a classroom and say, “I’m Gabriella Mason.”
“Are you ready to get married, Miss Mason?” the justice asks. If he’s disappointed by the way I’m dressed or by the poorly dyed red and white carnation I’m holding, he doesn’t show it. Instead, the person who will marry us today doesn’t break eye contact and beckons me forward.
“Yes,” I say. I’m unable to keep a smile from widening across my face.
People often say they’re married to their best friend, but it doesn’t always start out that way for everyone. It did for Teller and me, and I look forward to spending the rest of my life with the best friend I ever had.
The justice of the peace leads us to a podium at the front of the room, inviting our family to take a seat on any of the wooden benches provided for spectators. This isn’t the venue Mili would have chosen for her only son and his fiancée to get married, but it’s uncomplicated and honest. It’s exactly what Teller and I need for this new beginning.
“Let me start by congratulating you on your decision to be married today,” the justice says as he takes his place behind the podium. A microphone carries his voice. “This will be a very quick matrimony, and then the couple and their families can celebrate for the rest of the day in any way you decide.”
Teller cradles my hands in his and holds tight. “I’m here, Ella. I’m right here,” his assurance confesses. “Let’s get this over with and start forever.”
Do I say the words?
Do I go through the motions?
Am I married?
My hands tremble, my knees shake, and my heart flutters like hummingbird wings inside of my chest. Teller’s distorted by the tears in my eyes, so I blink them away as he comes closer to take my face in the palms of his hands.
“You may kiss the bride,” our officiant says.
His lips awaken me, and I remember promising to have and to hold through sickness and health.
I said, “I do.” Teller said, “I do.” And it was official. It was done.
Signed. Sealed. And a copy of our marriage license will be delivered in the next seven to ten business days.
“Is this real?” I whisper against Teller’s lips.
My husband laughs breathlessly and promises, “This is real, Ella.”
Husher takes a picture and the flash goes off, a bright sign that we’re not alone. The most important people alive watched us exchange vows in front of a representative for the state of California, in a beige-painted room the size of a closet. Hints of uncertainty on their faces are exchanged for proudness.
“We didn’t lose a son. We gained a daughter,” Mili says. It’s so effortless and so predictable, I start to cry and thank her for being the mother I didn’t have. She pets my hair soothingly and whispers, “Always, baby. Always.”
“Take care of my sister,” Emerson says to Teller. They’re mid-hug, clapping each other on the back. “Make sure she’s happy.”
Teller and I are in the center of congratulations and welcome to the family—officially. But then the justice of the peace announces, “We have another couple waiting to be married.”
We’re two families becoming one, just as happy as the duo who was joined before we were. Now I get their super grins and tangible happiness, because that’s us now.
Maby says, “That was a lot nicer than I expected.”
Nic says, “Our Vegas wedding was a lot like that.”
And Theodore announces, “I really need to be somewhere.”
We’re outside the courthouse, under the orange, pink, purple setting sun. There’s a wedding ring on my finger and a baby in my stomach, and I say, “Now what?”
Teller says, “Now we go home.”
Before
“I don’t want to take your car, because more of us can fit into mine. I also don’t want to be stuck without a ride home if I want to leave.” Ella stands before me with her hands on her hips, daring me to say something. She smells like coconut and zinc oxide, and her skin carries the sheen of freshly applied sunblock. It softens my annoyance, but not enough to keep me from running my mouth.
It’s cute that after all this time, she thinks I’m intimidated by the tap of her foot and the narrowing of her eyes. “You’re fucking precious, Ella. Get your shit together and get in my car.”
She grabs her beach bag from her bed and walks past me. Her hair brushes against my arm, and it lessens my irritation a little more—just not enough. Today is a rare occasion when Ella and I have a day off from the hospital together. The plan is to get some sand and sun. The plan was not to have everyone invite themselves when they found out we’re going to Malibu for the day. But our plans got fucked up.
We’re all going to the beach.
Together.
All of us.
One big happy family.
I had the entire day mapped out. We were going to drink ice-cold beer, eat good food, and spend the day in the ocean and on the seashore until our skin turned red we’d need to rub aloe gel all over each other.
Ella delivered the good news when I arrived to pick her up this morning. She’s as upset as I am, but she doesn’t want to ruin her only day off and wants to make the most of it, like these motherfuckers aren’t ruining my life.
I don’t want to hang with them today. I want my friend.
“More of us can fit in the Mercedes, Teller,” she says, tossing her bag onto the couch. She drops the drawstring shorts she’s wearing to her ankles, throwing me o
ff my game. “Why would we drive separate cars when we’re going to the same place?”
“What—what are you doing?” I ask as she steps out of the shorts.
“I haven’t had time to fold my clothes,” she answers. Ella pulls her shirt over her head, leaving herself in nothing but a black bathing suit that covers only enough to keep things interesting. “I haven’t had time to do anything lately.”
She is all legs, and breasts, and fuck me, this girl is gorgeous. Her voice fades under the sound of my beating heart. My mouth is dry, and then it’s too wet. I pat my pockets for the pack of cigarettes I left in the glove compartment as she digs through a basket of laundry on the coffee table.
The ties holding her bottoms up sway against her hips, past beauty marks and the right amount of curves.
I can easily untie those with my teeth. Easily.
Take off the top. Take off the top.
“Earth to Teller.” Ella waves her hand back and forth to grab my attention. “Have you even listened to a single word I’ve said?”
Blinking my eyes and shaking my head, I drag my eyes up the length of her legs to her face. She’s holding a wrinkled dress in her hand, and she’s tapping her foot again.
“No,” I admit, plotting different ways I can destroy every article of clothing she owns except for the swimsuit she’s in.
Her tits are fucking perfect. The curve from her ass to her thighs keeps me up at night. The length of her neck is the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Ella is soft in the right spots, and sharp where she needs to be. Seeing this girl in a bikini never gets old, and it only gets better and better each time.
How many times have I had those legs wrapped around me? Whatever the number is, it’s not enough. Just to be there, between her knees, not even inside of her … just to be there. I miss the warmth of her skin, the sound of her breathing hard, and the way her chest heaves up and down, up and down.
Joe is cool, but she was mine first.
“What the hell is your problem?” Ella pulls the dress up her body, covering smoothness and roundness and freckles. “You’re such a spaz sometimes.”
Fuck that dress, I think to myself. Fuck our schedules, fuck our families for imposing on our day, and fuck Joe.
“When’s the last time we’ve been alone?” I ask. “We’re always at the hospital, or you’re always with Joe. Where do I fit in this equation, Smella? I need some fucking time, too.”
There isn’t a people-pleasing bone in Ella’s body, but she does have a soft spot with my name on it. If anyone else demanded her time the way I do, she’d easily dismiss them. But I’m different. We’re different for each other, and I don’t have a problem laying on the guilt, so I can get this one day on the beach with my favorite person.
“You’re right. This was supposed to be just the two of us.” Her shoulders drop, and she sticks her bottom lip out dramatically.
Teller: 1
Ella: 0
“We can take your car if you want, but I want you to do me a favor first.” She stands right in front of me, lifting onto her tippy toes to rub her nose along my jawline. A light kiss is pressed on the spot below my ear.
My body temperature is on the rise, and the beach is overrated. We only have one day off, and we should spend it inside, under the covers, preferably without clothes on. I want to touch her so bad. She’s in the perfect position for me to reach and grab her little ass.
I close my eyes and clench my jaw until my teeth feel like they’re going to break. If I breathe, I’ll inhale sweet coconut and desire, and I’ll have no choice other than to hump my best friend.
“Teller?” she asks in a breathless tone.
I swallow and nod.
No talking.
I’d have to breathe to do that.
“Quit bullshitting me.” She laughs, shoving my shoulder. Ella drops from her toes and pinches my nipple. I fall forward against her, grabbing a fistful of her dress. “We are taking the Mercedes.”
“No, we are not. Those motherfuckers can find their own rides.”
“No.” She tries to bite me.
“Yes.”
“You better let go of my dress.”
“You first, Smella.” I’m not letting go until she does. Besides, from this view I get a great look at her tits.
“Okay, children, no playing in the house,” Nicolette says in a singsong voice.
The ice queen is ignorable as I fight for the integrity of my nipple. “Ella, on the count of three, we let go. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I count, “One, two, three—”
Neither one of us lets go, and she twists harder. I want to keep my body intact, so I give in and release the hold I have on her dress. After one more pinch, she sets me free with a wink.
I inspect the damage, expecting broken skin and split nipples, but I’m just red. I rub my hands over the tender part and look up at Ella to call her a whore, but I recognize the look in her eyes.
“Like what you see? You know, all you have to do is dump that boyfriend and I’m all yours.” I make it a point to keep my shirt up. She’s dazzled as fuck.
“I don’t think Joe or Kristi would appreciate any of this,” Nicolette says from the kitchen.
I pull my shirt down and say, “And I don’t think that Emerson would appreciate knowing that you slept with the entire football team in high school.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she fires back. She slams her palm on the kitchen counter and squares her shoulders, always ready for a fight.
“Okay, Teller, let’s go.” Ella grabs me by the elbow and pulls me toward the door. “If we don’t leave, all the good spots on the beach will be taken.”
I put my arm around Ella and kiss the top of her head just to piss the blonde devil off in the kitchen. She can tell Kristi anything she wants. Kristi knows where she stands in my life. Unfortunately for her, it’s behind Ella.
“Yeah, go get us a good spot on the beach.” Nic shoos us out of the apartment.
Everything seems to be going my way until we reach the parking lot. My BMW is parked at the end of the lot, and as we step onto the hot asphalt, Ella pushes away from me and walks a few paces ahead. She waits beside the passenger side door for me, with her bag over her shoulder and her arms crossed.
“What? What did I do now?” I ask, unlocking the doors.
“Don’t fight with her like that. She does it on purpose.” Ella argues with me over the hood of the car.
“She started it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Tell? Are we sixteen years old?”
When we’re buckled in and I’ve started the car, I’ve officially won.
Teller: 2
Ella: 1
I gave her a point for the nipple pinch.
“Thanks for driving with me, Ella.” I smile, trying to relax the mood. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. “We’re not going to wait, right? Because I don’t feel like hearing Joe’s shit about having to drive his own car.”
“Shut up and drive before I change my mind. He’s going to be pissed.” She shakes her head, trying not to smile.
I reach over and pull her hand into mine. She looks at me and smiles. I love stealing her and getting away. There’s no pressure with Ella. It’s always been her and me against the world.
“Do you want to eat now or later, Ella?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
What does it mean that I’m nowhere as concerned for Kristi’s reaction as she is about Joseph’s?
“Later. Let’s just get there.” She sighs. “I should call Joe.”
Not a good idea.
Joe is cool. He’s passive. He’s non-confrontational. But he’s also a man. He claims to accept how close Ella and I are and doesn’t protest when we spend time together, but there’s no fucking way he isn’t intimated by my relationship with her. Kristi has no problem voicing how weird she thinks I act with Gabriella, and she hasn’t been around nearly as long as Joe has.
B
ut every once in a while I need this.
Just us.
“Wait until we are out of reach. I don’t want him manipulating you into riding with him. Today, you’re mine.”
Ella scoffs. “Joe isn’t the manipulating type, Teller. That’s you. And what about Kristi? Are you going to call her?” she asks spitefully.
“No, I didn’t want her to come in the first place. She can catch a ride with Joe.” I unsuccessfully keep the bite from my tone. Kristi and I go through the motions. We say the right words, we do the right things when we’re in front of other people, and we find comfort in each other. But something isn’t right, and if we’re going to be wrong, we may as well do it together. It’s better than being alone.
“Poor Kristi.” Ella doesn’t have a relationship with Kristi outside of me. They tolerate each other, offering appropriate politeness and hospitality when needed. But they’re not together for long hours like Joe and I are. He and I have a working relationship as well as a friendship. Ella is spared that torture. So, when Ella says poor Kristi, it’s not frank; it’s scripted.
It’s fucked up.
Why do Joe and Kristi deal with it?
I have no idea.
Ella does a shitty job of keeping the smile from spreading across her face. “She’s going to leave you.”
“Not likely. Besides, she’s free to go whenever the fuck she likes. You, on the other hand—You don’t have that option.”
“I can friend dump you.” Ella laughs.
I look over, flash my famous crooked smile, and watch her turn red. “I don’t think you could.”
“Shut up! That’s cheating.”
I bring her hand up to my lips and kiss along her knuckles. Then, I turn the music up and race to Malibu.
The air becomes less stifling and saltier as we leave the city and drive closer to the coast. Skyscrapers are exchanged for cliff sides and greenery. Ella drapes her hair over the back of her seat, letting the sun warm her face. We talk, and laugh, and drive in comfortable silence the entire way there. I assume we’ve left our baggage in Hollywood, but when we pull up to the beach parking lot, she pulls out her cell.
Sever (Closer Book 2) Page 16
