by S. M. Shade
Just a few hours ago, all my concerns were with Lydia—who has to face her ex at the wedding from hell—and Henley—who just lost her one-testicle asshole of an ex. Sure, I had my own problems with being here, but they were overshadowed by my concern for my friends.
Right now… right now, I no longer give a damn about them, because I just went for the epic fail award of all time by tripping into the party.
Silence is even worse than riotous laughter, because I feel all the eyes burning against my Superman underwear, while my flowy dress rests against my back. I’m thankful for the mud that is suffocating me, since it prevents me from seeing the gawking.
The first strangled sound resonates in my ears, seconds before the heckling of male laughter and a few feminine snickers.
I was wrong. Silence is better than riotous laughter.
Despite contemplating the benefits of drowning in a mud puddle at this moment to avoid the mortification, I decide to continue breathing. I pull myself up to my knees, feeling someone behind me jerking my skirt over my immature underwear. Superman was supposed to be my secret. The little cape over the back door is no longer as funny as it was this morning.
Fuck my life.
I wipe the muck out of my eyes—or try to. My “smart arm” struggles to read that I’m trying to wipe away the disgusting stuff, and instead, the robotic hand only smears it in worse. Stupid arm.
I stick to using my right hand, since it’s my actual hand and understands what I’m trying to do. I also spit out a hellacious amount of metallic-tasting mud. That taste is never leaving my mouth. It’s even in my nose, which is… not good. Not good at all. It’s not like I can blow my nose in front of an entire wedding party. It’ll look like my face took a shit in a napkin.
What a great way to start the week.
At least Lydia won’t be the one everyone is whispering about anymore. Guess that makes me a team player. Yay.
“Kasha,” Lydia hisses, seconds before I feel two sets of hands lift me under my arms and help to right me completely.
The hyena laughter around us definitely hasn’t ceased, but there’s still too much mud in my eyes to see, despite my attempts to wipe it away.
Something soft is pressed against my face, and I clutch it, using it to wipe away the rest of the mud. Then immediately regret seeing when I realize I’m literally in the center of the party. People have congregated around me like I’m a street performer at the peak of my show.
I’m tempted to grab a hat to toss down so people can throw in some money.
“Need a drink? I’ve heard vodka pairs nicely with sludge,” Henley quips, her lips twitching like she’s doing all she can not to laugh.
I glare at her like it’s somehow going to scare her.
“Yes. But I think I’ll shower first.”
She smirks but has the grace to cover her mouth when it turns into a mocking grin. Lydia is also suppressing laughter. Her small frame is shaking from the internal war.
I flip them both off before walking inside… and getting shoved back out by my mother’s evil head maid.
“Ah, hell no,” Susie says with a scowl on her pasty face. I swear she’s part vampire. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in the sun. “Servants’ entrance is out back. Go in that way if you think mud-wrestling is sexy, Ms. J. I just waxed these damn floors.”
More laughter ensues the scolding.
Someone kill me now.
It’s been a long time since I’ve come to this house. They’ve added another floor, which is where I’m staying. My mother demanded I come here, and considering I got tired of her showing up at my apartment twice a week, I finally caved. I’m weak like that. I also wanted to be here for Lydia when I found out she’d decided to respond to her invitation. And since my apartment is over my father’s garage, I didn’t want to risk his heart breaking when he eventually ran into my relentless mother.
After finally finding the “servants’ entrance,” I head up the servants’ elevator and drip mud all down the shiny hallway. I have a feeling someone will be kicking my ass later. Or searching for Big Foot.
Is my foot really that big? No. It’s just because the mud is squishing out from under it. I only wear a size seven shoe, so it can’t be that big…
This is so not the time for footprint examinations… Definitely not that big.
Finally, I find my room in the maze of unmarked doors. Who really needs a house this size?
My pretentious mother and her obnoxious husband. That’s who.
I head straight to the bathroom and lock the door. I also lock the door across from me. Why does it have two doors?
Again, this is not the time…
Starting the process of peeling off my once-white dress, I step closer to the shower, cursing when the damn dress gets hung up in my hair. Life sucks sometimes.
After a few more twists, turns, and a couple of near-falls, I finally get the dress over my head and in the trashcan. I flip on the shower and peel off my Superman undies that now shame me instead of making me feel quirky.
Damn it.
My father recently made me a new arm, which looks like something he stole from a robot. While it may not be pretty, it’s hella functional. It receives messages and works like a fully functioning bionic arm, thanks to the patch on the back of my neck that carries Nano technology and communicates the messages between my brain, spine, and fake arm.
Because my father is a genius. He could be on the path for some award once I find all the kinks with this prototype before he goes public.
Right now, I’m just glad it’s waterproof. And I really like washing my hair with two functioning hands. I forgot how nice it was.
My dignity washes down the drain, while the mud cakes up on the sides, forcing me to move it around to keep the water from standing.
After a while, I finally give up and climb out, hoping I’m clean enough. The bathroom is nothing but a haze of steam, and I curse the slippery tiles that try to take me down. This is hell.
Pushing the bathroom door open, I stumble into the bedroom, and… scream. Because there’s a boy in my room. No, no. Not a boy. There’s a very tall, very sexy, very… amused man in my room.
He cocks an eyebrow when he sees me, pausing his fingers over the buttons of his undone—or half done, if you’re an optimist—shirt as he stares.
“You’re in a towel,” he states with no emotion.
“You’re perceptive,” I bite out, then clutch the towel closer to my chest.
He deliberately rakes his eyes over me, letting them scale down my wet chest, to my towel-clad middle, down to my legs that are still glistening with water. When he bites his lip, I try not to find it sexy, because he’s a perverted asshole who is in my room. Being sexy does not make any of this okay. Besides, his eyes linger for far too long on my ‘smart arm.’
“Funny,” he says, bringing his eyes back up to meet mine as his lips twitch. “I don’t remember ordering a wet stripper.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I glare at him—because that’s what I do best.
“What the hell are you doing in my room?”
His eyebrows go up, and his smirk turns into a grin. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“You were going to ask me what you’re doing in my room? I have no idea. Hence the reason I asked you!”
Why is he still smiling?
“This is my room, toga girl. Are you a present, or are you seriously lost?”
And he’s definitely an asshole.
“I’m not a freaking ‘present,’ and I’m definitely not lost,” I growl.
Stalking to the closet, I cast a snarl in his direction. I sling open the door with one hand, using my ‘smart arm’ hand to keep a firm grip on the towel. The last thing I need to do is flash him.
“See?” I snap, then immediately grimace. Those aren’t my suits, ties, or T-shirts hanging up. What the hell? “Where did my dresses go?” I ask quietly, wondering if it would be weird for me to hide
in the closet until this week is over.
It can’t be any weirder than showing everyone my Superman undies and hanging out in a towel in front of a stranger. Inside his room.
Slowly, I turn around to face the cheeky bastard who is covering his smile with his fist, but the amusement is clearly there.
“So, not a stripper present then?” he asks, clearing his throat while trying to rein in his laughter.
“I’m not a stripper,” I grumble. “When I went into that bathroom, I walked through my room. Obviously there’s a vortex or something that spit me out in here somehow.”
“Obviously,” he agrees patronizingly, still fighting that damn smile. “Or,” he says, smirking, “you came through the wrong door after you left the bathroom. After all, we’re sharing a bathroom that connects our rooms. It’s not as likely as your vortex theory, but it’s always best to explore all possibilities.”
Any other time, I’d find him funny, possibly even charming. Not so much at this moment, because I’m sort of in the middle of praying for a hole to open up and swallow me.
Inky black hair, icy blue eyes, tall, sexy, designer everything, and he’s gorgeous… This would be better if he was ugly. Much better.
Turning around, I head back toward the bathroom and slam the door behind me like a surly teen would do. It’s really the only card I have left to play at this moment, aside from dying.
The second it’s shut, I hear his deep rumble of laughter barely penetrate the barrier, and a slight set of goosebumps pebble my skin.
He even laughs sexy.
I hate him.
I hate this wedding.
I really, really hate the mirror that is showing me my towel isn’t covering all my ass and he just saw more of my body than I realized.
Fuck my day.
***
“What took you so long?” Henley asks with a ghost of a taunting smile when I finally find them at a table outside. I sit down with them, making sure to cross my legs so no one sees the latest pair of underwear I’m donning.
Are there really people playing glow-in-the-dark croquet? I don’t understand rich people. This is why I lived with my father. We did normal shit. Well, that’s a lie. We did weird shit, like build robots that clean out litter boxes, and machines that dispense food for pets on automated timers.
I mentioned my father is an inventor, right?
“It takes a minute to wash ten pounds of mud out of your hair,” I say with a bitter smile, deciding to omit the naked-in-a-stranger’s-room bit.
Lydia and Henley both snicker, and I roll my eyes while grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray. At least rich people serve alcohol all day. I don’t care that I haven’t even eaten in a while.
“Did you know our bathroom is hooked to another room?” I ask them, wishing I had done a more thorough inspection of the room before we came out here.
“Yes,” they both answer.
“Why?” Henley asks.
“No reason,” I mutter.
My eyes flick around, discreetly searching for the face of the mystery man who saw me at my worst. Well, not my worst, but definitely not my best. Hmmm… There are very few men out here at all.
“Most of the guys seem to be missing,” Lydia points out, as though she knows I’m noticing the lack of testosterone. “I think they’re exploring the property.”
At least my mother also seems to be missing. Thankfully something is going right today.
The girls playing croquet start squealing, and I roll my eyes. We don’t even like the bride, so it feels weird to be hanging out with thirty other women who are here to celebrate the homewrecker and my cheating asswipe of a stepbrother.
I told Lydia not to date him. No one listens to me…
Pink decorations are pretty much everywhere. There are even pink couches outside, and I swear there are pink chandeliers hanging from the trees—the trees aren’t pink.
Pink candles are lit as a centerpiece for our table, and I’m surprised the flames aren’t pink. Pink flower petals are all over the pink tablecloth, and pink chair-covers are dressing the seats, and pink… Fuck it. You get the idea. It looks like Pepto exploded out here and rained down on the decorations, creating the pink apocalypse.
Even Barbie would cringe at this setup.
“Shit,” Lydia groans.
“What?” Henley and I both ask at the same time.
“He’s here,” she says as though she can’t believe it.
My eyes follow her gaze, and I see Anderson walking up and putting his arms around his bride-to-be under the glow of one of the pink, outdoor chandeliers.
“Well, it is his wedding,” Henley reminds her. “Did you think you wouldn’t see him?”
“I just didn’t expect to see him so soon,” Lydia says quietly.
She frowns while looking away, and I decide to do something stupid.
“I’ll be back,” I tell them.
“Do that in a Terminator voice next time,” Henley quips, swirling her own glass of champagne. “It works for you.”
At this rate, we’re going to be wasted before the party even truly gets started. Getting up, I head toward the daffodil-embroidered pink buffet table, and grab a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of vodka from the bar on the way, tucking the vodka under my arm.
The buffet table is under a large canopy and abandoned. The food isn’t out yet, but the beverages are still in use. It’s far enough away from the festivities that people don’t seem to notice me. Not to mention, it’s a little darker over here.
Without even glancing around, I twist the cap off and pour the entire bottle of whiskey into the punch bowl. Then, like a sweetheart, I pick up the water pitcher and pour it out before grabbing the vodka and dumping it into the lemonade pitcher. Smiling, I toss the two empty bottles under the table, glance around to see no one is looking at me—other than my curious friends—and merrily skip back toward my table.
Well, I try to skip. I end up stomping the front of my shoe against the ground and toppling forward, sucking in a sharp, painful breath seconds before a body stops my fall. My head slams into a hard chest, and two strong hands grab my hips, steadying me.
This is so not my day.
“Easy there, toga girl,” a familiar, deep voice says, chilling me to the bone.
My head snaps up, and my eyes widen at the man who is grinning down at me. He winks, and I stumble backwards, almost falling again. Fortunately, he’s still holding onto my hips, and jerks me back toward him. Unfortunately, that has me slamming up against his hard, incredible body again.
How did my life get so embarrassing?
“Are you always so graceful?” he taunts.
“Are you always such a stalker?”
His eyes narrow as the smile falls from his lips. “You do remember that you walked into my room naked, right?”
“I had on a towel,” I remind him, as though that somehow makes it all better.
“You ran over me,” he goes on.
“You’re holding onto me,” I point out.
Being angry when you’re humiliated… It’s called a defense mechanism. Get over it.
He drops his hands from my sides, his lips pursing as he steps back. Under the glow of the candlelight, he looks even sexier. Why me? Why did he have to be the one I made an ass of myself in front of?
“I’m glad you ran into me,” he says, leisurely sliding his gaze down my body.
A flurry of contradicting feelings bud in the pit of my stomach, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t have a squeal-like-a-girl moment of smugness. Obviously I stay a mask of awesomeness and cool on the outside though.
“Oh?” I muse, and maybe I cock a hip while smirking. “Why’s that?”
His eyes flick back up, and something akin to a wicked gleam lights his gaze.
“We’ll be here a week, right?” he asks rhetorically.
Heat, excitement, and nervousness tries to claw its way to the surface, but I stick with the cool-girl exterior. I
tend to test the waters with guys who don’t mind the arm thing. Believe it or not, not all guys seem to overlook the fact I only have one arm. Some of them actually have an issue with it.
Shocker, I know. They apparently missed the memo where one-armed chicks are rarer than the ordinary ones with two arms. Who wants normal these days?
“Right,” I drawl.
“And we’ll be sharing a bathroom,” he goes on, biting down on his lower lip as his gaze flicks down my body once more.
I like the no-subtlety, direct approach he’s going with.
“Yeah,” I say with a breathy tone that doesn’t go with my be-awesome attempt.
When his eyes come back up, he smirks. “Given how disgusting the shower was after you left, I’m assuming it’s rare that you bathe. Do me a favor and clean up after yourself if you do shower again this week. I’m not a neat freak, but I do draw the line at gross.”
He flashes me a mocking grin as a new form of heat floods me. It’s sure as hell not arousal anymore. And what can I possibly say to that?
No matter what comes out of my mouth, I’ll only embarrass myself worse.
“Oh,” he goes on, not finding the ability to speak as difficult as I do. “And I think these are yours.”
He pulls my Superman underwear out of his pocket, and I hiss out a breath before snatching them out of his hands. I half picture myself stabbing him with one of the little shrimp forks near the buffet table. Dad told me my hand could crush balls with the same force as a baby alligator’s jaws. I’m curious about the accuracy of that assessment at the moment.
Wadding my underwear up, I tuck the embarrassing fabric under my arm, considering my dress has no pockets, while he laughs like the dick he is.
“Stay away from me,” I grumble, trying to walk by him, but he moves to block my path.
“We share a bathroom,” he says, still smirking as his eyes dance with endless humor.
“Then lock the door so I don’t accidentally come in there when you’re taking a shower, and accidentally trip while I’m holding a knife, and accidentally stab you fifteen times through the shower curtain. I’d really hate for something like that to accidentally happen.”
