Cross Crease (On The Edge Book 3)

by Elizabeth Hartey

  “Nah. I think your family is fucking awesome. I especially enjoy the way you masturbate and the sounds you make when you’re doing it.”

  “Stop!” I shove a finger in each ear. “La la la. We agreed to never talk about last night again,” I singsong in a loud voice to block D’s words.

  “Hey.” He tugs my hand away from one ear. “You brought it up.” He shrugs a shoulder.

  “Hi, Heaven.” Mrs. Hayward beats me to the awkward civilities, causing me to glance sideways toward the patio where she and my mom are still proudly displaying their sweat covered gorgeous bodies in an Extended Mountain stretch. “Are you excited for your brother’s big day?” she asks without moving out of her stretch. Before I get a chance to answer, Mr. Hayward and my dad scurry by with towels wrapped around their waists.

  “Hello, Mr. Hayward,” I scoff.

  “Heaven,” he answers without stopping to look at me. “Wolfe. Nice save last game.” He flicks his chin at D.

  “Thanks, Duke. Appreciate you watching the game.” Oh, yes. Just because Duke Hayward is an ex-hockey pro, now is a perfect time to discuss game highlights—after he just exposed all his highlights to us! I shake my head at D but don’t comment.

  I glance back to the patio. “Ah. Mom?” I tilt my head toward D to make her aware of the six-foot-three massive hockey player standing next to me, in case she didn’t notice him.

  “Oh goodness.” Mom reaches for a towel and wipes her face. “Look at me. I’m being just as rude. I didn’t even say hello to you, Damon. How are you, hon? Enjoying the resort?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Mrs. Andersen.” D nods. “More every minute I’m here,” he mumbles. He does an awkward half turn toward my mom. I punch him again. “Ouch! Geez. You’re gonna leave a bruise.”

  “I’m going to leave more than that if you don’t stop eyeballing my mom and Mrs. Hayward.”

  “I am not eyeballing them. They’re moms, for chrissakes.” He scowls and shakes his head at me.

  I’m about to apologize. It’s not his fault my parents have completely lost their minds and are prancing around naked with Tracey’s parents. “But for older women, their bodies are fucking amazing.” I punch him again and don’t apologize.

  “Room service!” Someone knocks on the front door.

  “Get that, will you, sweetheart?” Mom requests as she and Mrs. Hayward walk by us toward the bedrooms. At last, they have towels in their hands. Unfortunately, they’re using them to dry their boobs and arms instead of covering themselves.

  Jesus. Will this weekend from hell never end?

  Chapter Ten

  Heaven

  We don’t stay for breakfast. There’s no way I can sit at a table with my parents, the Haywards, and D after the yoga exhibition. Between the disturbing demonstration and my queasiness from last night’s adventure, I don’t think my stomach could hold the food.

  We make our awkward goodbyes. D says he forgot he had promised some of the other guys he was going to work out at the resort gym with them before the wedding and I say I promised Nikki to help her get Trace ready—which isn’t a lie because I did tell Nikki I would be there after breakfast to help.

  I head toward Trace’s cottage for the bridesmaids’ beautifying session and D heads for wherever Dak and his groomsmen have been banished so he won’t see Trace before the ceremony. I’m relieved to have the day to figure out how I’ll ever be able to spend time with him again after the past two days.

  I consider walking right into Trace’s cottage without knocking but decide it’s better to announce my presence after the previous surprising fiasco. I knock, and it takes Nikki about five seconds to open the door.

  “Hey, girl. You’re early. Thank goodness. We could use…what the hell happened to you?” Nikki asks as I walk past her into the cottage. “You look like the way I felt the morning after I drank too much Jägermeister and fucked Dalt’s brains out in his car. The last time I ever drank Jägermeister, I might add. Although…it wasn’t the last time I fucked Dalt’s brains out.” She wiggles her brow up and down. Nikki’s delightfully unfettered.

  “In my case, it was AMF’s,” I moan.

  “Christ. I hope you’re not in the same condition I was. That was the night I got pregnant with Chloe. I mean, I love Chloe with every fiber of my being, but you’re…”

  “Relax.” I crash onto the pearly white sofa. Everything in the bridal cottage is blindingly white. “I’m still as snowy white as this sofa.” I’m not ready to confess the previous night’s antics.

  “Champagne and strawberries!” Tracey chants as she enters the room with a tray. “Uh oh.” She stops short when she gets a look at me. “I’m thinking maybe you should stick to sparkling lemon water. What happened to you?”

  “AMF’s,” Nikki enlightens her.

  “Oh God. I’m going to kill Dak for making it our signature wedding drink.”

  “My brother is as annoying as hell, but in this case, it’s not his fault I jumped into the AMF vat right after floating in Mimosas.” Eek. Just admitting to my overindulgence has my stomach turning.

  “No worries. Nina will be here in a few minutes. She’s a beauty sorceress. She’ll have you looking like a movie star in no time,” Trace assures me while putting the tray down on a table across the room. Guess she’s decided to keep the champagne-filled flutes far away from me. But she doesn’t have to worry. Not wanting to repeat my Dita Von Teese performance tonight, I’m more than content to stick with sparkling lemon water.

  Sloane arrives about fifteen minutes after me. Nina comes flying through the door a few minutes later laden with satchels filled with beauty magic. We spend the next few hours being primed and coiffed by Nina and her wizard-like abilities.

  By the time she’s finished, I’m beginning to feel like a presentable human again. I nibble on the delectable hors d’oeuvres the resort has provided since my stomach is reminding me I haven’t eaten anything today. Nina shakes her head and tsks at me because after I’m done chomping the finger food, she needs to do another meticulous lipstick application.

  I wait to slip into my bridesmaid gown to avoid any wardrobe disasters while eating and being beautified. All the form-fitting dresses are the same Caribbean blue color, with cut out midriffs and slit skirts but they have slightly different necklines. Nikki’s is a halter top, Sloan’s is strapless, and mine is one-shoulder style.

  When I stand in front of the full-length mirror in the room, I’m shocked by the transformation Nina has managed to achieve. My makeup is flawless, not a trace of last night’s escapades remaining. My hair is pinned to one side, soft waves cascading down my shoulder. Trace was right. In my case, Nina was a sorceress.

  Although, no sorcery was needed to transform Trace. She’s stunning in her off the shoulder embroidered lace and layered tulle Elie Saab ball gown. But then, she would be stunning in a canvas bag. I’m so happy for my brother. He went through some tough times in college. He’s a lucky man to have come through it all to find a woman as beautiful, smart, and genuine as Trace. And I’m a lucky girl to have her as my future sister—the future being in about a half hour.

  We pile into the two horse-drawn carriages waiting outside the cottage and are whisked off to the chapel, like Cinderella and her entourage.

  ***

  The quaint stone chapel has been transformed with enough flowers to rival the Royal Botanical Gardens. As Sloan, then me, then Nikki, walk up the aisle behind Chloe—Dalt and Nikki’s little girl—I glance to the front of the chapel and see Dak standing at the altar with Dalt, Batt, and Wolfe. I’ve never seen my brother so happy. Tracey and her fully-clothed dad follow us. I know the second Dak sees her. His face lights up like he’s seeing sunshine for the first time in his life.

  Dak and Tracey share their self-written vows with each other. At that moment, listening to their tender words and promises, I can’t help but dream of someday having someone love me the way Dak loves Tracey. I know. I’m a hopeless romantic.

  My eyes drift
across the aisle where Wolfe is standing. I find him staring at me, his direct gaze so intent it’s a bit unsettling. His silver glare holds me, pierces me, wraps around my heart and squeezes. The rest of the world dims in my periphery. He’s looking at me like he did last night when I was stretched across the bed naked. It’s as if he can see right through my dress.

  Oh God. My body is responding to his hungry glare. All my sensitive spots are rekindled with last night’s memory. My eyes flutter closed. Desire overcomes reason. Without thinking, I spread my legs a little in a reaction to the inexplicable tingling going on between my thighs, causing one leg to jut outside the slit in my gown’s skirt.

  Applause and whistles jolt me out of my extremely inappropriate trance. My eyes snap open in time to see Dak and Tracey kiss. Apparently, Reverend Daniels has announced them husband and wife and given them the official clearance to kiss. I scoot my leg back undercover, squeezing my thighs together in an attempt to stop the imprudent throbbing in my core. What am I doing? Josh is sitting somewhere out there, hopefully somewhere in the back where he couldn’t witness my unfitting behavior.

  When I glance at Wolfe, my face flames red in embarrassment. His half-lidded smiling eyes and devious grin tell me he knows exactly what’s going on between my legs and how pleased he is with himself at having been the stimulus.

  The beaming bride and groom turn to make their way down the aisle and out of the chapel. And one by one, just as we rehearsed, the bridal party pairs off and follows them out. When Wolfe joins me center aisle, I try to avoid looking at him. I can’t believe, with one penetrating glance, he almost had me moaning and coming in my thong in the middle of a church wedding!

  “You look like a Grecian goddess,” he leans in and whispers. “The blue matches your eyes.” His nose brushes my hair as his warm breath feathers across my cheek Mmm. He smells amazing, all male and him. I’m getting tingly again.

  His mere presence has been affecting me for years. But now? Ever since our telegraphic interaction last night? I’m lit up, ready to let go from one glance, a whiff of his scent, a whisper of his breath.

  I force myself back to earth. “Stop it! We’re in church,” I side whisper, not wanting to risk looking at him.

  “I’m not doing anything.” He chuckles. “Just sayin’ how much I love that dress on you.”

  “Thanks. Now, shh.” Tracey and Dak have stopped at the chapel door and are being greeted with congratulatory hugs, which has blocked the exit for the rest of the wedding party. Which, in turn, means I’m unable to hightail it away from Wolfe’s narcotic temptation to find Josh in the crowd.

  “Of course, I would like it much better off you. I’ve become partial to the way hot tub bubbles look on you.”

  “What are you doing?” I turn and hiss at D a little louder than I intend. Even though we were moving at a snail’s pace down the aisle, my halt is abrupt. Nikki and Batt, who were behind us, almost plow into our backs.

  “What’s going on, children?” Batt taunts.

  “Another one of those combustible interactions we were talking about the other night?” Nikki raises a brow.

  “Ruh-roh. Another smoldering tiff brought on by unrequited yearnings.” Batt laughs.

  If looks could actually kill, I’m sure my saber-sharp glare would have my dear friends pushing up daisies.

  “Sorry.” Nikki takes the hint and looks down at the floor.

  Batt holds his hands up in surrender and lets out a whistle of air. Wolfe doesn’t say a word, just stares straight ahead with a smug look tipping up one corner of his mouth.

  Dear God. I’ve unleashed the wolf. What is it they say about being careful what you wish for?

  Chapter Eleven

  Wolfe

  I know. I know. I’m being a total dick. I can’t help it. After promising I would never go near her again in a sexual way, after all the banal lectures I’ve given Pippa about not being the right guy for her, not wanting to ruin our friendship, and then going as far as to stop our foreplay—mid finger fuck—I’ve been flirting with her all day and fucking with her head. This whole thing is fucking with my head too.

  Watching her dance with Dr. Douche across the room, my brain is doing battle with my dick. She looks happy. She’s having fun, enjoying herself. Do I want my friend to be happy? Of course, I do. Do I want her to be happy without me—with some douchebag? Fuck. No. I. Don’t. And that’s the whole cluster fucking problem.

  This guy may be right for her, good for her. He’s a scientist, an animal conservationist. The dickwad couldn’t be more perfect for a smart, future doctor like Pip who, in her spare time, wants to save all the animals. But when I look at her, laughing and dancing with him, I don’t give a fuck about what’s right. All I can think about is last night. The vision of her stretched out naked on her bed plays on autorepeat in my head, causing a very uncomfortable, continually stiff dick.

  Earlier, the wedding party was seated at a long table in the front of the room, Pippa sitting next to me. But as soon as Dalt and Sloan finished giving their toasts, Pip left the table and never came back. She didn’t even sit at the bridal table to eat. She slid an extra chair next to Doctor Dickhead and ate dinner at his table. I moved to the bar after she left, in an attempt to quiet the confusing battle going on inside my body by drowning it with a continuous deluge of bourbon. It’s where I’m seated right now, watching her.

  As I look around the lavish room with its gold leaf chairs, parquet floor, gilt plaster cherubs, and garlands lining the white ceiling, walls, and massive arched windows, I’m reminded why I’m not the guy for Heaven. A place like this—with this caliber of clientele, especially female clientele—would have made for a very successful, lucrative evening back when I was fourteen or fifteen.

  After my mom died when I was nine, my father opted to spend his days at the bottom of a whiskey bottle rather than wasting his time with me. Dear old Dad blamed me for the car accident we were in one night when Mom came to pick me up from hockey practice.

  The only advice my father ever shared was to tell me over and over I was a “pretty boy.” He never hesitated to reiterate, “Even though you’re a good-for-nothing, useless piece of shit, responsible for your mother’s death, the ladies are going to love your useless pretty boy ass.”

  That was his crap idea of fatherly support, to harass me with abusive taunting. Eventually, he stopped coming home at all. I don’t even know what happened to him. The authorities tried to find him. They gave up after a few weeks. I’m sure they had better things to do than search for some old drunk in an alley somewhere. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t sorry to see him go.

  My first hellish experience in foster care confirmed there was no way I was going to stay in the system. That’s when I took my absentee father’s crap advice and went out on my own. He was a shit parent. But he was right. The ladies loved me.

  It didn’t take me long to figure out I had something wealthy women were more than happy to pay for. And for two years, they did. I looked older than my fifteen years when I began working the bars and nightclubs with my fake ID. Countless lonely women with names and faces I’ve long since forgotten, or never knew, came and went. No attachments. No feelings. A means of survival.

  Until Batt’s dad saw me playing hockey one day at Chelsea Piers in a city league I had gotten into. It was the only thing in my life I looked forward to, the only thing I cared about, weekly local hockey games.

  Mr. Battaglia stopped to talk to me after the game, commenting on how good I was and asking what school I played for. I told him I dropped out of school, without any further explanation.

  He came to watch me play several times in the weeks that followed, always taking the time to talk afterward. When he found out why I left school and how I was living, he took me into his home and family, got me into the high school Batt was attending, and helped me get my life back on track. The rest is history. But even now, sitting in a room like this, overflowing with decadence and wealth, I’m reminded how I w
ould’ve been trolling for clientele not all that long ago.

  Shit. I’m supposed to be celebrating my friend’s wedding, not wallowing in my sordid past. My gaze drifts back to Pippa. She’s still dancing and flirting with the douche. The music stops long enough for the wedding cake to make an entrance.

  It takes four people to roll the damn thing out. Everyone moves off the dance floor to make space for the gargantuan, ocean blue cake. It has edible white starfish, seahorses, and coral all over it and there’s a good chance astronauts can see the fucking thing from space.

  The crowd gathers around to watch Trace and Dak feed it to each other. From my perch at the bar, I can see them being all lovey-dovey and sweet when they gently place a bite in each other’s mouth. How fucking boring. My man, Dak, is missing the opportunity to smash it all over Trace’s face, neck and chest just to have the excuse to lick it off her. When they’re finished making nice, the cake is rolled away to be cut and served.

  The band begins playing again, this time some of the cutesy sixties’ music Dak and Tracey are into. They move back onto the dance floor along with the rest of the wedding party. Dak is serenading Trace as they dance, singing along with the band to the sixties’ song, Tracey. Everyone else on the floor joins in, singing at the top of their lungs, jumping up and down, having fun. Pip is singing her heart out and laughing with Dr. Cum Stain.

  What the hell is his real name, again? Jason? Jonah? Jackoff? The mood changes when the music slows and the band begins playing Dancing with A Stranger. The dickhead pulls Heaven into his arms and nestles his nose in her hair like he’s breathing her in. He dips his head and places his lips next to her ear to say something. She looks up at him and gives him a sweet smile.

  When the vocalist belts out something about what you made me do, I can relate. Dr. Dick for Brains puts his hands on Pippa’s ass and pulls her closer against his groin. I’m ready to blow a gasket. It hits me like a lightning bolt. I don’t give a fuck if Dr. Shithead is right for Pip. She’s mine. That’s my sweet smile she’s giving him.