Wedding Bells and Wall Street Bros

by Alina Jacobs

  I could hear him struggle with what my pussy was doing to him. The “holy shits,” the “god damns,” the groans. Even below my own screams, I could hear him. To bring him the same pleasure as he brought me so much just made my own grin more and more wild.

  As we ascended to greater heights, I arched my ass against him, consumed by him. Mark was quick to throw his hands around me. He wanted to hold me tight as he finished the job.

  His thrusts carried me over the edge. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I screamed for him, even though I tried to resist, tried to muffle myself, as if biting my lip could hold back the tide. Mark cursed in my ear as he shuddered his own orgasm inside me. I felt him grin against my neck.

  “Perfect,” he murmured, kissing the bare skin.

  “Oh my God,” I gasped as Mark nipped my neck.

  “You can’t just send out pictures like that and not expect certain consequences,” he said.

  “Well, shoot, if I’m going to have to suffer ‘consequences’ like that, I’ll have to send you a picture more often!” I joked. Mark kissed me hard in response.

  “I was just about to eat some cereal,” I said as I pulled on a shirt. “You could join me.” I was so thoroughly fucked and happy that I didn’t even care that Mark would see the hovel I lived in. Besides, he had made billions on robotics. He would probably find the Roomba foster family endearing.

  Wearing only a T-shirt and panties, I opened my bedroom door, sauntering out like the sex goddess I was…only to scream when I saw my parents standing awkwardly in the living room.

  “What the—oh—” Mark bit back a curse, stopping short behind me. Fortunately, he was wearing boxer briefs, but he wasn’t wearing anything else.

  I wrapped my arms around myself. “I didn’t hear you come in,” I said.

  “We uh—we just got back. You probably didn’t hear us over the uh…” Todd’s voice trailed off.

  Amazing, mind-blowing, loud-as-fuck sex we were having in my childhood bedroom? Yeah.

  Todd waved awkwardly to Mark. Beau, who considered any stranger a friend he hadn’t met yet, immediately strode over.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mark!” My dad pulled his cape back with a flourish and took a bow, sweeping his hat off. Mark looked stunned for a beat. Then good manners took hold, and he stuck out his hand.

  My dad ignored his hand and embraced him. “My future son-in-law.”

  “Dad, no.” I wanted to sink to the floor, but I was too busy trying to cover myself. I wanted to run back into my room and put on a robe, but then I would leave Mark all alone.

  “Nice weather we’re having,” Mark said. “Though with all the warm days, the traffic is crazy. It took me forever to make it across town.”

  My father nodded along. “Yup, it’s terrible. You kids using protection?”

  Mark’s mouth hung open for a second.

  “Yes!” I shrieked at my dad.

  “Good, good.” There was an excruciatingly long pause.

  “So what do you like to eat?” Beau asked.

  Gosh, why are all of us so awkward? And how could I be anyone other than my fathers’ daughter?

  “He likes to eat Brea,” Todd said with a snicker.

  Please let this floor just open up and swallow me whole.

  “So what are you doing tomorrow evening?” Beau asked Mark.

  “I’ll probably be with Brea,” Mark said.

  “Good. You’re coming to dinner then. I’m deep-frying a duck.”

  I couldn’t take my parents anymore. I grabbed Mark and pulled him back into my bedroom, slamming the door.

  36

  Brea

  “So I guess I’m coming for dinner tomorrow,” Mark said as he pulled on his pants.

  I had sunk onto the floor to huddle in a fetal position. “You don’t have to come. I have Liz’s hair-and-makeup session tomorrow. I can tell them it’s just not happening.”

  “I’m sort of interested to see how they’re going to manage to deep-fry a duck on the fire escape.”

  “Ugh, I’m going to buy a pizza.”

  Mark laughed and kissed me. “I’ll bring a fire extinguisher.”

  I had a super-secret stash of mini alcohol bottles for emergencies only. I drank the lot of them then passed out on my bed. I woke up with a bad hangover and wandered out into the kitchen. On the counter was a bowl of fruit. Next to it was a bowl of condoms.

  “We weren’t sure what size Mark needed. So we bought extra-large and extra-extra-large. You have to make sure they stay on tightly,” Todd said.

  “But of course, if something does happen,” Beau said, “we’d love a grandchild!”

  I stuffed a handful of dry cereal into my mouth. “I am not old enough to be a mom.”

  I was still annoyed at my parents as I headed over to the hair-and-makeup session. If that was a preview of this evening, I was totally telling Mark to just not show up.

  Liz’s car was pulling up in front of the high-end salon just as I arrived.

  “Ready to get all glammed up?” I asked, hugging her.

  “Totally!” Liz gushed, grabbing my arm.

  Several of her bridesmaids were already inside. The salon workers had various pictures out and tools laid out. It was all set to be a fun, feminine beauty spa day. That was until I saw a tall, slender woman in one of the salon chairs. At first glance, I thought it was my sister, until I realized she was much worse.

  I left Liz to be offered yummy mocktails by Kate and Allie while I went over as discreetly as I could to talk to my mother. What do you even say to someone who might have been lying to you your whole life about your father?

  “So you slept around, I hear.”

  “Oh, you and Memphis Eve,” my mother scoffed.

  “You cannot do the makeup for this wedding,” I scolded.

  “I just landed this job at the beauty parlor,” she complained. “You can’t just take it away from me.”

  “Just tell me,” I begged. “Is Beau my father?”

  “I honestly have no idea. The nineties were a blur. I used a turkey baster once with Beau’s jizz, but,” she shrugged, “I also partook of the sexual attentions of many other nice-looking males.”

  “This is horrible.”

  “You need to be a free spirit. What does genetics matter?” my mom said.

  “It matters if you’re lying,” I said stubbornly. “You can’t just lie to Dad like that.”

  My mom shrugged.

  I was reminded again why I tried to avoid her. She had all of Memphis Eve’s worst qualities dialed up to eleven. Vain, flaky, self-absorbed—I always had to self-medicate with wine and chocolate after dealing with my mother.

  “Let’s get pretty, ladies!” Liz said in excitement.

  “We’ll start with having one of the bridesmaids come up and have her test hair and makeup done so the bride can see what it looks like,” my mother said.

  Kate Holbrook and Allie, Carter’s girlfriend, exchanged a look. Liz seemed sad.

  “No one wants to have their hair done?”

  Dana Holbrook didn’t even pretend she was going to volunteer. All the other women all had very nice hair and fresh blowouts. If I were them, I wouldn’t want some hairdresser I didn’t know touching my perfect locks. However, I was not them. My hair was a rat’s nest on a good day, and if the hairdressers were going to wash and comb out my mess of curls while I just lay there, well, there were worse ways to pass an afternoon.

  I decided to take one for the team.

  “Let’s get you washed up,” my mom said as I made my way to the sink station. I looked longingly at Liz and the other bridesmaids, who were settling in for a long session with drinks and a super-duper fancy charcuterie board.

  Liz was being taken care of by a nicer, happier-looking stylist, who was showing her various trendy bridal hairstyles.

  “So,” I whispered to my mom, “who have you been sleeping with? I need a list.”

  She mashed her lips together into a
thin line. “I can’t remember.”

  “Seriously? You literally cannot remember?”

  “It was twenty two years ago!” She scrubbed at my hair, pulling on it.

  “Ow!”

  “Considering how horrible and curly your hair is,” she hissed at me, “it’s probably this guy named Carl. He was a Star Trek fan and liked to go to conventions. He never showered.”

  “Then why did you sleep with him?” I whispered in shock.

  My mother shrugged. “He had money.”

  I tried to ignore my mother through the rest of the hair styling. The stylist doing Liz’s hair was a master. She was giving Liz a soft, feminine updo with the hair sectioned into dozens of pieces and then interwoven with tiny flowers and small antique brooches. The whole effect was ethereal, classy, and beautiful.

  “Liz, you look amazing,” I gushed.

  My friend beamed then turned to inspect my hair as my mother sprayed on half a can of hairspray as the finishing touch. Liz jumped up and down and clapped as the bridesmaids looked on in horror.

  “It looks just like the picture!” Liz exclaimed and pulled up a screenshot on her phone of her grandmother’s 1970s wedding.

  To my mom’s credit, the monstrosity on my head did match the photo. It was some sort of Little House on the Prairie mash-up with a large beehive bun and then, inexplicably, large sausage ringlets around my face.

  Liz had clearly reached the irrational portion of her pregnancy in which peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches and seventies-style hair and makeup seemed like good, even enviable, ideas.

  “It is exactly what I wanted,” Liz insisted, jabbing at the phone in excitement.

  “Liz,” Kate said gently, “I don’t think this is going to give you the classy wedding look you’re going for.”

  “You don’t like it?” Liz asked, chin wobbling.

  “Liz,” Allie said in a no-nonsense tone. “Seventies costume ball is not an acceptable hairstyle for a nice wedding. Now here are three options. Pick one, and the stylist will show you what that would look like.”

  A tear leaked down Liz’s cheek.

  “We don’t want to give any of the guys a stroke when they see us all trooping down the aisle,” Dana said dryly. “It will look like we’re all about to sign onto a death cult.”

  “I don’t want the wedding to feel like a cult!” Liz exclaimed.

  “Is Wes inviting all those Svensson brothers?” Kate asked in bemusement. “Because they basically take the cult with them wherever they go.”

  Allie laughed as she slid into the salon chair. The younger stylist gave her a low bun at the nape of her neck and slightly to the side. I sighed longingly as the hairstyle took shape. I patted my own shellacked beehive.

  “I still think it looks super cool and retro,” Liz whispered to me, handing me a plate of charcuterie to share. “I envisioned a little fascinator hat right on the side of your head. It would have been epic!”

  “Yeah,” I said faintly, glad to have dodged that wedding-day bullet. “Epic.” I gulped down a glass of champagne.

  My phone went off. My mother glared over at me.

  Beau: I need you to come help with dinner!

  Todd: Mark’s going to be here any moment.

  Crap.

  “Sorry, Liz, have to run!” I said, hugging my friend.

  “Have a hot date?” she asked with a snicker.

  “Er, pleading the fifth.”

  I grabbed a snack for the road then called an Uber. I was too broke to move out of my parents’ place, probably because I spent all my money on alcohol, Uber rides, and takeout. But seriously, how else was I going to cope? My parents had walked in on me and Mark having sex and invited the guy for dinner, and now I had to sit there and think about how Beau might not even be my real dad, all while begging the universe that my dads would act only slightly eccentric and not full-blown insane and scare Mark away.

  As much as I did not want to involve my sister, I did want to settle this paternity issue. I sent her a text message as I hastily made my way home with the information I had learned from our mom.

  I was slightly—well, okay, way—tipsy when I arrived back home.

  “I wish I had just stayed in the salon,” I said when I saw the scene that greeted me in the kitchen.

  Todd was furiously chopping up brussels sprouts. Beau was drying the duck breast with a hair dryer. The Roombas were going crazy vacuuming the floors. Bossa nova music blared out of the speakers.

  “Why are you making this much food?” I cried, taking in the mound of apple-and-fennel salad.

  “Mark is a big guy. I’m sure he likes to eat,” Beau insisted.

  “I hope you bought wine,” I said petulantly.

  “Of course we did,” Todd said, holding out a bottle. “We bought some at a garage sale.”

  “A garage sale?” I yelled.

  “Don’t worry,” Beau said, kissing my cheek. “I know you like this guy. We’re here to impress. Also, love your hair, by the way!”

  “Crap, I can’t let Mark see me like this,” I said.

  Ding dong!

  “Why is he here now?” I said in a panic. “I thought dinner was at seven, but it’s five thirty!”

  “Mark had to come for appetizer hour,” Todd said. “I found that new bar cart at the garage sale. I’m making my special Negronis. Sit down.”

  “Wait! I have the perfect thing for you,” Beau told me, wiping his hands as he ran into his bedroom. I wrapped the afghan from the couch around my head and dejectedly went to the door.

  “Welcome,” I said to Mark.

  He smiled and leaned in and kissed me. “I think I like this apartment better when it housed just you and your panties,” he whispered.

  “I hope you brought your other appetite,” I hissed back, “because my parents are making enough food to feed an army.”

  Mark tugged at the blanket on my head. I clenched at it to keep it from moving.

  “It’s a workplace hazard. I had a horrible accident.”

  “Oh, Brea! Our daughter is such a little comedienne!” Beau sang, gliding back into the living room, his brocade robe billowing behind him. In front of him, like the British crown jewels, he carried a hat. Not just any hat; this hat was a work of art—or of nightmares, depending on what side of the spectrum you landed on. It was a purple sequined fascinator with a taxidermied ferret perched on it.

  “Brea, with hair like that, you have to wear a hat. Isn’t it charming?”

  Mark’s eyes widened in horror as my father whipped the blanket off my head then pinned the hat on.

  “Voilà! Prince Charming, your future bride has been transformed.”

  Mark opened his mouth and shut it again.

  I cringed. “Drinks? Drinks? I could use a drink! Anyone else want a drink?”

  And maybe a knitting needle to the brain, to make this whole evening just disappear.

  37

  Mark

  “Do you like Negronis?” Brea’s father asked me brightly then went over to the bar cart to mix a cocktail.

  “I’ll take anything with alcohol,” I told him.

  Brea was standing uncomfortably next to me. Her hair was piled and shellacked on top of her head in an elaborate updo.

  “Did you get all dressed up for my benefit?” I asked in a low voice.

  “I would never willingly subject you to this hairstyle,” she whispered back.

  Her father handed me a Negroni. I sipped it politely.

  “How’s it taste?” her dad asked nervously, blinking at me.

  “It’s very nice,” I said politely.

  “Good, good,” Todd said, twisting his hands.

  Brea picked at her skirt.

  I realized at that point I had never actually gotten far enough with a woman to do the awkward meet-the-parents routine.

  Guess I’m going to have to marry Brea, because I will never suffer through this discomfort again.

  Her other dad was clanging and banging in the
kitchen.

  “So,” Todd said over the din. “How are you liking the New York Mets this year? Think they have a shot at the Super Bowl?”

  “Dad!” Brea exclaimed in horror. “That’s the complete wrong sports team! The Mets are baseball, and the Super Bowl is football.”

  “Right, right.”

  Something clanked behind me, and I jumped.

  “Don’t worry,” Brea’s father said with a pained smile. “That’s just Gatsby.”

  “Do you have a cat?”

  Brea rested her head in her hands.

  “It’s a Roomba.”

  “Oh, I have a Roomba.” I relaxed slightly back against the seat as a robot vacuum wearing a sparkling tux chugged across the carpet.

  “We have six,” Brea’s dad said proudly. Brea downed her drink as her father whipped out a scrapbook and started going through the various Roombas they owned and where they had found them. Then he showed me a series of candid shots of the Roombas going about their day.

  All the while, Brea was pleading, “Dad, please, Mark does not want to see this. He doesn’t want to see any of this! No one does!”

  “It’s okay,” I assured Brea. “It’s not like they’re showing your baby pictures.”

  “Oh, we have those too!” her dad said, happily pulling out another scrapbook. “Look at Brea! Wasn’t she just the chonkiest baby?”

  “Dad!” Brea screeched.

  “Dinner’s almost ready to go!” her other dad called, coming past us with a whole raw duck on a board and a container of frying oil.

  “I’ve cleared off the fire escape,” Todd said, setting down the scrapbook.

  Brea looked at them in horror. “You were serious?”

  Her fathers stared at her blankly. “You can’t very well fry this in the house, Brea. Be reasonable.”

  “You can’t fry a duck out on the fire escape,” she sputtered. “You’ll set the whole building on fire!”

  “Brea, I have a nice dinner planned,” her father insisted.

  “Let’s…” Brea looked around helplessly.

  I shrugged. “You could do it on the sidewalk.”