THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1)

by Nelle L'Amour

  When the meeting finally broke at seven p.m., I immediately called Jennifer. No answer. Maybe she didn’t have her cell phone with her or maybe she just wasn’t answering. She was probably pissed at me. I was eager to get home, but my father insisted I join him and the board members for dinner at Maestro’s, an expensive steak joint in Beverly Hills. He was the boss. I had no choice.

  It was after ten o’clock when the dinner ended. I cruised down Wilshire Boulevard in my Porsche, the convertible down, keeping my eye out for a flower shop where I could stop and pick up a dozen fragrant pussy pink roses—Jen’s favorite—along with a “Happy Birthday” SpongeBob balloon. Unfortunately, while I passed a few, not one was open.

  When I got home, Jen was curled up on the couch, already in her SpongeBob PJs, reading a script. “How was the board meeting?” she asked without looking up at me or prefacing her question with a simple, endearing “hi.”

  “Long,” I told her, trying not to react to the coldness in her voice. “I tried calling you, but you didn’t pick up.”

  “I was in a noisy restaurant and had my phone on silent,” she replied, her head still buried in her script though I didn’t think she was actually reading it.

  “I want to share some exciting news with you, but first I owe you an apology.”

  For the first time, she looked up at me. Her green eyes searched mine.

  “I’m sorry I was so short with you this afternoon. I was under a lot of pressure.”

  “Well, it seems like you can always find the time to fuck me over your desk, but when I have something important I need to share with you, you’re always too busy.”

  Lately this was true. Work always seemed to come first.

  I sat down next to her, my body brushing against hers. I nuzzled her neck. Instead of enjoying my company, she flung her script on the couch and jumped up.

  “I’m going to sleep.”

  I leapt up from the couch and trailed her. “No you’re not. Not until we talk.”

  “Leave me alone, Blake. I’m tired.”

  Fuck. I wasn’t going to leave her alone. Catching up to her, I flipped her around and walked her backward until she was flat against the hallway wall. I held her pinned against it by her shoulders. The cherry vanilla scent of her freshly washed hair drifted up my nose. Almost a head shorter than me in her fuzzy slippers, she gazed up at me and shot lasers out of her eyes.

  “Blake, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you and Katrina Moore were a couple in high school.”

  “That’s so fucking untrue. And what makes you say that?”

  “She told me over lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Just for your information, she’s going to be working with her mother planning our wedding.”

  “Shit.” I let go of Jen’s shoulders, but she didn’t budge.

  “She told me how she lost her virginity with you in Capri and how you wrote her love letters.”

  “What?”

  “She even showed me one. It was a poem. I recognized your handwriting. I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”

  My poetry skills were limited to dumb-ass limericks. I searched my memory.

  “Jen, it was a twelfth grade homework assignment. We had to write a poem and then the teacher made us do an exchange. I got stuck with Kat. And I didn’t write that poem. I copied a fucking Hallmark card. And FYI, I got a ‘D.’”

  My answer didn’t seem to satisfy her. Distrust was written all over her pretty face.

  “And what about Italy?”

  “I was thinking maybe we’d honeymoon there,” I said, glad she’d changed the subject.

  Jen scowled. “I-T-A-L-Y as in I Totally Always Love You.”

  “Tiger, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never written that in my entire life. She must have imitated my handwriting and made that up. I swear, I’m telling you the truth. That girl is delusional. Yes, I did fuck her in Italy. It was a summer fling. And yes, I did screw around with her a little in high school.”

  I paused, the next words, ready to explode like a Molotov cocktail on my lips. I bit back my tongue.

  “But nothing more. She’s not even one of my hook-ups.”

  “Right.” She stabbed the word at me. “You want me to believe that after I saw you together at Jaime’s art gallery opening?”

  “Jen, I was there alone. She happened to be there. She’s a fucking stalker. She even followed me home that night. I swear, I almost had to call the police.”

  Jen’s eyes stayed steady on my face as she digested my words. It was hard to read what was going through her head. I couldn’t blame her for distrusting me with my checkered past. Her silence was killing me.

  Finally, she parted her lips. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

  The softness in her voice and yearning in her eyes provoked me to run my hand along her jaw line. She didn’t flinch. I looked deep into her soulful green orbs. “Because she means nothing to me, tiger. She’s ancient history. I didn’t want to upset you.” And I didn’t want to go there.

  She fluttered her long-lashed eyelids. My cock tensed. I had to claim her. Let her know she was mine.

  “There’s only you, baby. I totally always love you. Only you. Every waking minute of the day. You do things to me no other woman ever has.” I put her hand to my cock. It was hard as rock. And then I put her other hand to my heart. “My heart only beats for you. You own it. No girl has ever owned my heart except you. I want you to believe me.”

  “I do.” Her voice was a whisper.

  The sweet innocence of her voice aroused me. I pushed my hips against her, pressing my erection firmly against her center.

  “You’re the only one I want to fill. I want to fill your mouth. Fill your pussy. And fill your heart.” Impulsively, I crushed my mouth against hers and gave her a fierce, passionate kiss as my hands slid down her pajama bottoms. I fiddled with my pants button and fly, and out sprang my cock ever so ready for her. With the help of my hand, I shoved it inside her, surprised she was so hot and wet. Placing my palms against the wall for support, I began thrusting into her forcefully, filling her to the hilt, while I tongue fucked her mouth and groped her tits. Groans escaped her throat and her breathing grew ragged. I picked up my pace, making my thrusts harder and faster. Her breaths came in pants and her groans became whimpers. She pressed hard against my shoulders, pushing me away and forcing me to free her mouth. Her face looked heated and impassioned. So fucking beautiful.

  “Blake,” she panted out. “Is this makeup sex?”

  “If. You. Think. We. Had. A. fight,” I grunted back with each successive, hard, long stroke.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Just shut up and let me fuck you.” God. No one felt as good as my tiger.

  “Okay,” she groaned, letting me reclaim her mouth.

  Without losing contact, I lifted her up against the wall. Wrapping her legs around me like a warm pretzel, she splayed her hands on my ass, and rocked her hips forward to meet my thrusts. Her whimpers morphed into shrieks, and I knew she was close to coming. Hard. I wanted to hear my tiger roar my name. So, I released her mouth again, not caring if she woke up the neighbors.

  “Come for me, tiger,” I urged, banging her into submission.

  “Blake!” she cried out as she let go, her body shuddering inside and out with spasms of ecstasy. She clung to me as my own epic climax took hold of me, my load bathing her with sweet bliss.

  Catching her breath, she rasped, “We should fight more often.”

  I smoothed her damp hair while she held on to me. “Nah, baby. We should just talk more often.” And then I smacked my lips against hers so she couldn’t say another word.

  *

  We fucked our brains out again and talked some more in my—I mean, our bedroom. Pillow talk was something new for me. Before Jen, I’d never spent the night with a woman. I had a rule. My hook-ups were plain and simply not allowed
to share my bed.

  The room was pitch black except for a sliver of moonlight that peeked between the curtains. We were spent and naked; while Jennifer was totally adorable in her SpongeBob pajamas or in a pair of my boxers, I’d take her in the buff any day of the week. She rested her head on my chest, my arm wrapping around her warm body. My fluffy duvet covered us midway.

  She told me more about her meeting with Enid. Fortunately, Kat didn’t come up again. The thought of her made me sick. She was trouble with a capital T, and I wasn’t sure how far she’d go with Jen. I was going to have to deal with her and the past, but I wasn’t sure how and when. Hopefully, she’d keep her fucking mouth shut. I forced myself to focus on what Jen was telling me.

  “Are you shitting me? An underwater adventure?” Jokingly, I told her we could put SpongeBob blow-up dolls as centerpieces on all the tables.

  She laughed. “I don’t think so. Disney Ariel dolls are more like it. And she’ll probably coordinate some kind of synchronized swimming production in your pool.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her your favorite movie was Jungle Book, tiger? We could have had a zoo in our backyard, and you could have had Katy Perry show up and sing ‘Roar’ Or you could have sung it to me.”

  She playfully punched my chest. “Very funny.”

  I stroked her hair and got serious “Jen, you shouldn’t have to be dealing with this bullshit.” And especially Kat. “This wedding is stressful enough as it is.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “I’m going to talk to my mother. It’s your day. You should have the wedding you want.”

  While it was dark, I could feel Jen’s eyes on me. “Blake, it’s not my day. It’s our day. We’re in this together. I want to come with you to talk to your mother.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to set up something for tomorrow.” Maybe the power of two would work. My mother was a force to be reckoned with, and Jen had only gotten a little taste.

  I kissed my bride-to-be good-night and wished her a very happy birthday.

  Chapter 11

  Jennifer

  Blake managed to set up a meeting with his mother on Monday at lunchtime. We left together from work and drove to Hillcrest, the exclusive country club the Bernstein family belonged to. Not far from Conquest Broadcasting, we drove into the gated property down a long tree-lined road to the entrance where a valet took Blake’s Porche.

  Although the Bernsteins had a tennis court on their property, Helen preferred to play tennis at the club where she socialized with her society friends. She had agreed to squeeze us in after her game. I’d learned from Blake that his mother had a very full life—every minute of the day was scheduled from the time she woke up to the time she put her sleeping mask back on. In addition to playing tennis and bridge, she chaired and sat on numerous cultural and philanthropic boards. The galas she organized were the talk of the town and raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for the charities they supported. Her other standing appointments included weekly visits to her hair stylist/colorist, manicurist, and facialist. She was so busy, Blake joked, that his father had to schedule sex with her. I believed him.

  Helen was already seated at a linen-covered table when Blake and I, hand in hand, breezed into the club’s busy, posh restaurant. Straight off the court, she was still in her tennis whites and wearing a visor. Her face brightened when she glimpsed us coming her way.

  “Hi, Mom,” said Blake, embracing her.

  “Hello, darling. And hello, Jennifer,” she added while Blake pulled out a chair for me. He then sat down next to me. A waiter came by with menus and told us about the specials. The poached salmon sounded good.

  “I had a wonderful match with Lenore Waxman. I won both sets. Six-three.”

  “That’s great, Mom,” Blake said, studying the menu.

  “She’s so excited about the wedding. She even postponed her trip around the world to attend it.”

  Not wasting a second, Blake closed the menu. “Mom, Jen and I are having some issues with the wedding.”

  Helen’s eyes grew wide. Like Enid, she couldn’t lift or knit her eyebrows together. They probably went to the same skin doctor for Botox.

  “I’m surprised to hear that. I just spoke to Enid who told me things are going swimmingly. No pun intended. The underwater theme is divine.”

  I built up the courage to open my mouth. “I mean, it’s very creative and everything, but I’d like something simpler and more understated.”

  Helen fluttered her eyelids as if she’d just heard her best friend had died.

  Blake came to my rescue. “Mom, this is Jen’s special day. She should have the wedding she wants.”

  “Blake, darling, it’s a little too late. Jennifer should have spoken up.”

  Yeah, right. Dragon lady would have fried my ass.

  Helen continued. “With the wedding less than two months away, Enid is moving at a very rapid pace. She’s already started to design the invitations—the idea of encrusting them with pearls and delivering them in simulated seashells is positively divine—and she’s ordered bolts of coral Thai silk for the tablecloths and tent draping from her vendor in Bangkok. And what do you think of this? She’s lined up the U.S. Olympic Synchronized Swim Team to perform in our pool while our guests enjoy pre-wedding hors d’oeuvres and oyster shooters.”

  Blake and I shot each other an oh-my-God look. I was only kidding when I mentioned that possibility. A sinking feeling settled in. I was swimming up a stream without a paddle. No laughs. No pun intended.

  Blake tried to reason with her again. “But Mom—”

  I cut him off. It just wasn’t worth it to create friction with his mother. I got it. Helen’s way. Or no way. Things could get ugly quickly.

  “Blake, we’ll work with the theme. The wedding will be wonderful.”

  Helen flashed a smile. “Dear, it’s going to be the wedding of the century. Generations will talk about it in years to come. I’ve lived for this day. My little boy’s wedding.”

  Blake flushed while I forced a smile back at her. There was still one other big issue.

  Blake read my mind. “We have one other issue.”

  “And that might be…?”

  “Kat.” Just the mention of her name on his lips made my blood boil.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s assisting her mother with the wedding plans. She’s Jen’s point person.”

  “Excellent. Enid could use some help. She’s juggling so many events at once, including two I’m co-chairing in January.”

  Blake held his ground without getting into explicit details. “She’s making Jennifer very uncomfortable. You know we have a history.”

  Helen flinched and then dismissively waved her bony, perfectly manicured hand. “Darling, let’s not go there. That was ages ago. High school. I think it’s wonderful she’s following in her mother’s footsteps. God knows, this town will need another Enid once she retires.”

  Our waiter returned to our table with a bucket of champagne. He set down three fluted glasses and then poured some into each.

  “Children, let’s end this discussion and toast.” She lifted her champagne glass. “To the wedding of the century.”

  Reluctantly, Blake and I raised our flutes and clinked them against hers.

  Blake’s mother had defeated us in our verbal tennis match.

  *

  “Well, that didn’t go well,” I said as Blake drove out of the club.

  “It went well for my mother,” he replied.

  “Is she always like that?”

  “Yes. Welcome to my world.”

  I’d spent some time with Blake’s mother over the last few months at Shabbat dinners and a few events, but I actually hadn’t gotten to know her.

  “She’s very set in her ways,” Blake added.

  “And your father puts up with her?”

  “He more than puts u
p with her. He worships her. She’s like a piece of jewelry. They have the perfect marriage.”

  “Elaborate,” I said as we zipped down La Cienega. I wanted to know what he meant by the “perfect marriage.”

  “It’s simple. Their roles are clearly designated. He’s the king and the provider. She’s the queen who makes him dazzle.”

  I deconstructed his words. What he said was true. I’d been to their home countless times and to several of Helen’s events. She made everything beautiful. Including her husband. A shudder of self-doubt ran through me.

  “Blake, I can’t be that to you. I don’t know how. Plus, I have a career I’m not giving up.”

  As we cruised down the busy thoroughfare, Blake was pensive. Finally, he responded. “Tiger, you’re more to me than a piece of jewelry. You’re my shining star.”

  I looked his way. Our eyes met briefly and then his returned to the road.

  The words of his “poem” vaguely whirled around my head. “What do you mean?”

  “You light up my life.”

  “I do?”

  “Totally. You give me direction when I’m lost. You set me straight when I stray. And you take me places no one else can.”

  Tiger, tiger, burning bright. Oh, Blake!” His heartfelt words tugged at my heartstrings and sent a stream of tingles through me from my head to my toes. I had the burning urge to ask him to pull over and fuck him right in his car when I realized we had turned onto the 10 Freeway heading east.