The Wedding from Hell, Part 1: The Rehearsal Dinner

by Ward, J. R.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She bent down to the mess in the footwell. “You know, I can’t stand this debris field. I’ve got to do something.”

  “Here, I think there’s an empty Star Market bag—wait, I got two.”

  Danny flapped one of the things open and held it for her as she put seven empties in it. Then she gathered the rest of the stuff and crammed it into the bag, the fluffy trash taking up room without weighing anything.

  Then they were both quiet again. She glanced at him. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  The truth was, food was the last thing on his mind, but if there was a chance they could go inside and talk? He’d put his own shoes on a plate and eat them with ketchup.

  “I don’t have much to offer.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He killed the engine. “Do you have any beer?”

  “No, but I think I have some Jack Daniel’s. Remember how Duff gave those bottles to everyone for Christmas last year? I never touched mine.”

  “Perfect.”

  They got out together and walked up to her front door. Her house was only about a thousand square feet, but the Cape Cod had good windows and doors—the kind that locked solidly and had alarm contacts on them. He knew this because she’d hosted a Pats game in early September, and he’d surreptitiously checked the security of the place.

  As well as looked for any evidence that she had a boyfriend or was seeing anyone.

  She’d been clear that she lived alone and she’d never talked about dating anybody. There were also no pictures of some idiot standing next to her with a stupid smile on his face like he’d won first prize in a competition.

  “Things are kind of messy,” she said as she opened her front door.

  “Moose-messy or . . . ?”

  Stepping inside, he saw a blanket unfolded on her couch, and through the archway into the kitchen, there was a mug next to the sink on the counter. The tux Mike had rented her was laid out across the table in its plastic sheath, and a duffel bag with her workout clothes was on the floor next to it.

  “If this is your version of sloppy?” He shut the door. “You haven’t lived with four guys. I mean, this is straight-up parents-weekend, panic-stricken, don’t-kill-my-lease clean.”

  She took off her jacket. “You’re still living the college life even though you’re almost thirty.”

  Danny frowned. “It’s not forever.”

  “When do you plan on changing?”

  It was a throwaway comment, something she said as she went to wash her hands at her sink. But it hit home.

  Because he wanted to be more for her. He wanted to be . . . everything . . . for Anne.

  And that was some fucked-up shit. When had attraction and sizzle turned into something bigger for him?

  Then again, what did timing matter when a destination had been reached? And he knew there was no going back from this.

  “Mind if I borrow some of your soap, too?” he said gruffly.

  “Please. And you should have let the EMTs check you out.”

  “Nah, he didn’t get me.” Danny followed her example at the sink, making fast but thorough work of his hands. “It’s all good.”

  “I’m going to take this out to recycle.” She held up the Star Market bag. “Check my fridge and see what you like? The Jack is in the cupboard over by the coffee pot.”

  As he dried things off, he watched her go out her rear door and just stood there as she went off around the side of the house. When she came back in, she stopped and looked at him.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say.

  “For what?”

  “Anne . . .”

  Details of that drama they’d fallen into flickered through his mind: him fighting for control of that knife, then holding the attacker down as the police arrived; her rendering aid and transferring care to the EMTs when they came with the ambulance; the sad state of affairs between that woman and those two men.

  Chances were he and Anne would never know the end of the story. Maybe there would be something in the paper or on the police blotter, and they’d find out whether the boyfriend lived. But the rest of it, whether Candy got off the street and what happened to the pimp and if the boyfriend stayed around?

  Those details were a book never to be read, a movie never to be watched.

  And he cared about the ending, even though they were all strangers.

  As Anne put her hands to her face, she shook her head. “I can’t get all that out of my mind.”

  “Neither can I.” He touched his temple. “I just see . . . pictures, you know?”

  That was a partial lie. Now it was all about her, a snapshot from a two-alarm scene back when she had first joined the service taking over. Her face had been sooty and sweaty, her hair a mess from having been under her hood and helmet, a red bruise on her jaw. They had been returning to the fire station in the engine, her in the jump seat behind Deshaun, Danny facing her. Their knees had bumped as the truck had gone over potholes in the road, and he had teased her until she had smiled.

  Her teeth had glowed brilliant white.

  That was when he’d first wanted to kiss her. The urge had been so strong, he had started to lean forward—until Duff had cracked a joke and reality had broken through the fantasy.

  Danny stared at her lips again. And could not look away.

  * * *

  Anne felt her eyes flare as she looked up at Danny. Whenever they were at the firehouse, he was always joking with her, teasing her, being his charismatic self. That was not who he was right now.

  The curtain had been pulled back on all that, and what was behind it was a sexual intensity that went through her in a blaze of heat.

  And she wanted him, too.

  Even though it was a bad idea on so many levels, she didn’t care about any of that reasonable stuff. Not right now. Not after she’d watched him fight with that man, that blade flashing, that threat so much closer than when they were at fires.

  He took a step forward. “Anne.”

  As he said her name, his voice was so guttural, it was nearly inaudible.

  There was no going back, she told herself. If she opened this door and they went through it, they would forever be on the other side.

  Could she handle that? Seeing him day to day, night to night at the firehouse?

  Hearing those stories about him with other women . . . ?

  Danny’s eyes burned, the blue glowing, the thick lashes unblinking. His face was drawn in tight lines, the shadow of his beard growing in over his grinding jaw, his brows down hard. He looked like a hunter, but she wasn’t frightened in the slightest.

  She wanted to be caught.

  Anne felt herself move forward before she was aware of making her decision, and Danny’s eyes flared as if she had shocked him.

  Then he was reaching for her, drawing her against his body. In response, her hands, her treacherous, disloyal, full-of-bad-ideas hands, rose up to his heavy shoulders.

  Danny tilted his head one way. She tilted hers the other.

  And then it was happening, their faces getting closer . . . their mouths . . . meeting.

  Soft. So much softer than she had expected.

  She had prepared herself for grinding, taking, full-on demand. Instead, he was slow and careful, brushing his lips over hers, cajoling . . . asking, not demanding.

  Anne was the one who made them get real. Latching a hand on the base of his neck, she pushed her breasts against his pecs and pulled him down with a jerk.

  He did not require an engraved invitation to take things to the next level. Now he was holding her hard—and harder still—his strong arm locking her in as his tongue entered her mouth and he dug his free hand into her hair. She couldn’t get close enough to him, but that was not a problem with proximity.

  Too many clothes was the issue—

  The sound of a cell phone going off broke the moment, making them both
jerk back. As Danny cursed, she looked down to his pocket.

  “Ignore it,” he said harshly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  But it was a timely reminder of the outside world, Anne decided as she dropped her arms and stepped away from him.

  Shit. Shit, shit . . . shit.

  The ringer silenced. And then started going off again.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered as he took the thing out. As he looked at the screen, he shook his head. “Deandra.”

  Anne walked over to her throw blanket and folded it properly, hanging the thing off the arm of her little sofa. “You might as well answer it. Looks like she’s determined.”

  “When is she not.” Danny answered and put the call on speaker. “Hey.”

  Deandra’s voice was tinny, but the pissed-off came out loud and clear. “Where is he? Where the hell did you take him?”

  “I’m at Anne’s house. I’m not with Moose—”

  “The Local is empty. There’s no party here. I’m standing at the front door—”

  “Did you call him?” Danny glanced across Anne’s little living room and rolled his eyes. “Because I think this is a conversation you need to be having with him.”

  “He won’t answer his phone and he’s taken his location off.”

  Somehow it was not a surprise that the woman traced him, Anne thought.

  “Deandra, listen, I’d like to help you, but this is not any of my business.”

  There was a long silence. “So like you, Danny. You’re a fucking ghost when things get real.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at the rehearsal dinner,” he bit out. “Take care.”

  The woman was still talking as he ended the call and turned off his ringer. Then he put the cell phone away and dragged a hand through his hair.

  “So.”

  Anne cleared her throat. Twice. “I think you better go. It’s going to be a long weekend and I need to go to bed. Alone.”

  His eyes closed briefly. And then he nodded. “Yeah. I get it. See you tomorrow night.”

  chapter

  6

  Friday, October 30

  T minus 24 hours ’til blastoff

  St. Mary’s Cathedral, Old New Brunswick

  The following evening, Anne showed up at St. Mary’s Cathedral and managed to get through the rehearsal without rolling her eyes, cursing in church, or walking out. The same couldn’t be said for all of the wedding party. Moose was looking like hell, the green undertones of his face suggesting that he’d had so much to drink at his bachelor’s party that his hangover was just starting to hit him.

  Or maybe Deandra was what was making him ill.

  The bride-to-be marched off halfway through the mock ceremony, locked herself in the bathroom with her bridesmaids, and stayed in there so long the priest said he had other commitments and only ten more minutes before he had to go.

  No doubt it was fallout from the strip club visit from the night before. And when everyone had looked at Moose to solve the problem, he had shaken two more Motrin into his palm, swallowed them on a oner, and headed off for a cigarette.

  As the Jeopardy! theme had threaded through her mind, Anne had become totally aware of Danny, who was standing one person over in the tux lineup at the altar.

  He’d been staring at her through lowered lids.

  And she’d known exactly what he was thinking about, remembering . . . wanting more of.

  Because as much as she wished she could pretend otherwise, she felt the same way—and didn’t it seem a sin to be thinking lustful thoughts right at the foot of Jesus on the cross?

  She wasn’t that lapsed.

  After what seemed like longer than the ten minutes the priest had to spare, the bridesmaids had come out from the narthex, the flouncing, perfumed brigade of blondes like a remake of The Hills. Then Moose and Deandra had walked down the aisle side by side. At the altar, the bride had put her head up and kicked her shoulders back in her skin-tight dress.

  Funny, it seemed as if, under all her forbearance, she was getting a kick out of the attention.

  When things finished up, Anne hustled out of the cathedral and headed for her Subaru. The night had turned bitter, and as she wrapped her wool coat more closely around herself, she thought of all the trick-or-treaters who were going to be forced to put long johns on under their costumes.

  Next stop on the wedding train was D’Angelo’s, an Italian restaurant on the north end of New Brunie. Deandra had insisted on them renting the whole place out, or at least that was the gossip, and you had to wonder how she and Moose were paying for all this. Deandra didn’t come from a family of means, and Moose had been in the foster-care system, so neither had parents who were cutting any checks.

  Then again, the guy was always taking side jobs, like a lot of firefighters did. He’d probably been working on roofs and decks every second he had off and was going to have to continue to do that for a while to pay off the debt. Deandra didn’t earn much yet. She’d recently finished cosmetology school, but was still only a receptionist at a hair salon, not a stylist—

  “Can I catch a ride with you?”

  Anne looked over her shoulder as she opened her car door. Danny had followed her as the others dispersed, and his hooded eyes were nothing she could read in the gloaming.

  His body, however, was throwing off so much heat, she nearly unbuttoned that coat of hers.

  What did you do to yourself when you were alone in your bed, she asked in her head. Where did your hands go—

  “Stop it—”

  “What?” he said.

  “Ah, nothing. Sorry.”

  “Can I get a ride? I came with Jack and Mick, but they just got called to their HQ.”

  “Do they need backups with firefighter experience?” she muttered as she saw Moose and Deandra arguing by the guy’s truck.

  “I could ask.” Danny glanced at the couple. “You know, I’m fifty-fifty on whether they follow through on the rings tomorrow.”

  “After she locked herself in the bathroom? I’m forty-sixty.” She nodded to her car. “Yeah, you can ride with me.”

  Ordinarily, that would have been a casual statement, but she wanted to be alone with him—so it felt manipulative. Then again, he could have asked Emilio and Duff, or any of his fraternity brothers . . . so maybe he was feeling the same way?

  As they got in, she tried not to smell his spicy cologne. Attempted not to notice the way his dress slacks pulled across his heavy thighs. Definitely didn’t picture him without his coat, his shirt . . . his pants.

  Okay, fine, she failed at all that. Especially the last part.

  At the fire station, during the summer months, he sometimes went shirtless when he lifted in the bays, and the remembrance tattoos on his torso were burned into her memory.

  Yeah, but how many other women had seen them? Kissed him? Been a one-and-done that the other guys joked about? Even if she got past the professional issues, she was not going to be added to that very long list.

  Starting her car, she muttered, “I can’t wait until this weekend is over.”

  * * *

  Danny had been up all night. Alllllllll fucking night. And not because Deandra had called him every hour on the hour and then Moose had stumbled in drunk at five a.m. and started throwing up in the bathroom. He had ignored the impending bride and groom.

  No, the problem was that he’d been consumed by thoughts of Anne.

  If he didn’t get his hands on her, his mouth on her, his body on her, he was going to lose his frickin’ mind.

  It was so bad, he’d jerked off three times over the course of those dark, tortured hours—and now, as he sat beside her in her car, he was getting hard again. Fantasies of them together were so vivid, it was as if she were under him already, naked and straining and—

  “You want to get out now?” she asked. “Or are you going to sit here all night?”

  Refocusing, he found they were in the parking lot of D’Angelo’s, plugged into a spot between Duff’
s Mustang and Ty’s Dodge Ram. He’d spaced the entire trip across town.

  “Sorry, just tired.” He rubbed his face. “Moose came home from the rager a mess and Deandra called all night looking for him.”

  That last one wasn’t totally accurate. The one and only time he’d answered his phone, she’d wanted to come to see him—and not because she was in search of her groom.

  She’d been after a hookup with Danny. Just like before, she’d told him. When they’d been together.

  That was never going to happen. Even if he’d been attracted to her, which he wasn’t, and she hadn’t been looking to use him as a way to get back for the whole strip club thing, which she was, there was no way he’d do that to his boy. Moose was his best friend, and no one, woman or man, was going to come between them.

  God, he wished Moose wasn’t doing this—

  “God, I wish Moose wasn’t doing this,” Anne muttered.

  Danny had to smile. Just like on a charged line, the two of them were in sync. And he was willing to bet Anne would rather be doing anything other than waste time sitting around a table, eating food she wasn’t tasting, as he made a speech as best man about a couple no one thought should be getting married.

  “What?” she asked. “Why are you smiling.”

  He turned and looked across the seats at her. She was dressed in dark slacks and a nice blouse, the wool coat over the outfit nothing he’d seen before—which reminded him that she had a life outside of work. Friends. Places to go. Movies to see and vacations to take.

  He wanted to be a part of all that.

  As usual, she wasn’t wearing much makeup and her hair was back. From time to time, at work, she let the stuff out of its perennial tieback, and he loved when she did.

  It made him want to see it on his pillow, fanned out in a tangle because he’d been running his fingers through it.

  Her eyes dropped down and she opened her car door. “Come on, you’ve got a speech to make, and I have to push food around a plate. It’s a busy agenda.”

  Inside the restaurant, they were shown over to a long lineup of tables that ran down the center of the open seating area. The place had been closed for the party, and as he and Anne were the first ones there, he knew what his immediate goal was.