My eye’s still twitching, another reason I’d been staring at the ceiling, trying to get the thing to quit, and I really, really don’t want to give in to temptation and allow my treacherously beady eye to roam the place in search of him.
“I wish I was,” I growl back, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of my tailored black suit. I look H. O. T. in the little ensemble Parker had me fitted for, and so surprisingly feminine with my hair super curly and pinned in the front, the length falling down my back. Big gold hoops finish off the look, making me smile smugly, if only to myself, at all this perfection he’s missing out on.
Handsome bastard.
“Your mom’s waving at you,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
“I know. She’s been trying to get me over there since they got here. Ignore her and she’ll quit it eventually,” I say out the corner of my mouth, stifling a laugh at his eye roll.
“You’re a bitch.”
“Cursing in church is blasphemy,” I sing in an undertone, and he laughs, finally relaxing the way I’ve been trying to get him to. “Good. You’re looking less like you have a broomstick impaling your balls. Stand up straighter, here comes your bride, asshole.”
Everyone gasps at the vision making her glorious way down the aisle, and I force myself to zone out as memories bombard me, clenching my chest so tightly I struggle to breathe.
It’s only when I hear the minister asking for the rings that I snap out of it and wink at Parker, giving him a glorious smile that freezes my cheeks. The final words are spoken in a choked whisper from Parker that makes me grin evilly.
I decide to order a copy just to tease him every time he calls me a sap for crying when the breath mint commercial comes on. He thinks it’s because I love the baby in it. Little does he know that I cry every time I hear the word ‘mint’.
Pathetic.
***
“You look like a lesbian. A hot one,” I hear from my left, turning to mock growl at Justin and a laughing Bee as they saunter into the reception arm in arm, looking like the latest cover of ‘Couples Who Last’.
She looks so much better—even a little chunkier than she’d been in college—and though we’re nowhere near the friendship we’d shared before, we’ve spoken enough for me to know that she is totally in love with my brother.
“Right back at ya, bro,” I drawl, leaning in to kiss them both on the cheek. “You look great, Bee.”
She blushes and tenses, and immediately alarm bells go off in my head, making me woozy and itchy all at once. Somehow, despite the agony coursing its way through my every cell, I manage to smile at them both with real happiness.
“Congratulations. You’d better get a ring on that finger before she starts showing, or Mama will kick your ass,” I laugh, hugging them both with a dry-eyed determination that feels too forced.
“Sissy…”
“No, really, I’m so happy for the both of you,” I rush to assure. “Everything fine though?”
I can’t help it; I’m terrified of someone else being as happy as I’d been only to have it snatched away so cruelly by a body that just couldn’t get it right.
“Yeah, perfect,” Bee whispers, hugging me again, tighter when I shudder lightly with repressed emotion.
“Good. Now let’s all go get a drink. Oops! Not you, of course,” I trill with a false smile. “Only orange juice or water for mama.”
I spend the next hour laughing too loudly, giving a best man speech that’s a little too raunchy, and just generally trying to keep my eyes off Vincent while ignoring the slow ache beating at my chest.
When I can’t stand another minute of it I start drinking, ignoring Parker’s concerned looks and my parents’ glares. By my fifth shot I feel good enough to dance with one of the groomsman, a blonde hottie from Chicago whose name escapes me.
“We should totally hook up tonight, hot stuff. Jason likes what he sees. Wanna get out of here and go…exploring?”
Not likely, my befuddled brain snarls from somewhere in the distance, making a bubble of laughter burble up. I’d rather explore a powder keg with a lit match, thanks.
“Um—”
“Pardon me, might I cut in?”
Jason looks over my shoulder arrogantly, ready, I think, to shoot down that sneering growl, when his eyes widen and he all but bolts away, leaving me alone and wobbling on my four inch heels in the middle of the crowded dance floor.
A set of strong arms enfolds me, turning me around for my first look at him in two months. Jesus, had I ever really thought I could get over this man?
It’s ridiculous, I see that now, because no matter how much I hate him for his betrayal I love him just as fiercely, and odds are I always will.
“Hello, dove.”
I don’t know how, but I keep myself steady as I lift my eyes and meet his head on, my chin only slightly trembling when I see the soft smile curving his lips.
“Hello ,Vincent.”
Chapter Thirty Five
“You’re drunk,” he says derisively, pulling me closer to sway to the eerily mournful music.
“Tipsy,” I purr, spreading my fingers over the breadth of his muscled chest.
Everything inside me clenches, turning my wobbly bones to liquid when he brings our hips flush and grinds himself into me.
“Blotto,” he murmurs back, making me gasp when his slow rubbing hits me exactly where I need it. “I like it.”
I do too. With the alcohol streaming though my blood I feel invincible, untouchable, and more importantly, unbreakable.
“You only like what you can’t have,” I mutter, staring at his button hole with one eye to still the jumping circle. “Or, more accurately, you only want the thrill of the challenge. Or is that chase? Whatever.”
To say that I’d lost the leash to my tongue somewhere between the second glass of wine and the tequila is an understatement. Here I am, drunk—yes, I’m blotto—and taunting a breed of very dangerous animal, just to see him react.
“Oh well, no hard feelings,” I mumble airily, rubbing his chest in slow circles. “I should have taken blonde hottie up on his offer. I think it’s most definitely time to stop sulking and move on.”
I’m not even talking to him at this point. Strange fact, when I get drunk I have a disgusting habit of talking to myself and answering as if no one’s there. One time I’d spent half of a New Year’s party holding an enthralling conversation about global warming.
How do I know? Bee’s friend Jack still has the video he’d taken of the whole mess. A hot mess, but a mess nevertheless.
“I really should. I mean, I almost had a breakdown when they told me about the baby. And what for? Just because the thought of a baby smashes my pathetic heart to pieces doesn’t mean nobody else deserves happiness. And you know what else?”
Okay, here’s the part where I get really sloppy drunk and start saying things that I’ll cringe about later.
“What?” he prompts when I fall silent, my mind whirling sickeningly.
I swallow and blink rapidly, refocusing on his quietly amused face.
“Oh, yeah. I really think I should stop talking to Marty about loving you and just get back on the horse, you know? I mean, it’s so sad to still have those dreams about you all these months later. Yeah,” I say, more decidedly than my sloshing brain should be able to handle right now.
“I think I should definitely do that. Okay, thanks for the dance,” I chirp merrily, pulling away to skip off toward the brightly shining head of blonde hair I see ducking through the main doorway.
I feel so good suddenly that I even smile at Beau and blow him a kiss when I skip by, already unbuttoning the top button of my jacket in an effort to show more cleavage.
“Yo, Jason! What up, man.”
Okay, let’s pause here so I can explain something else. Apparently when I get shitfaced drunk I also start talking like a rapper wannabe. I don’t know why, because FYI, though I’d been caught on video at that New Year�
��s party and one time had talked to a tree for like half an hour, this is definitely the drunkest I’ve ever been.
“Whatsup, hottie!” he yells back, turning with a lascivious smile. “You change your mind about trying the Jason?”
I’m about to answer with a slick drawl that ‘yes indeed, I do wanna bump all up over that shit’, when a steely hand clamps down over my shoulder, halting my forward progression, which by the way, had a lot of swagger for someone as drunk as I am.
“Fuck off, you wanker.”
“Hey dude—”
“I said fuck off.”
And just like that I lose my new fuck buddy before he’s even had the chance to prove his worth.
“Heeeeyy! What the freak?” I yell, ripping myself away to turn and glare at my new arch nemesis. “I was about to get my groove on.”
Nobody should ever say anything, I mean anything, that cheesy, but hell, when you’re drunk every intelligent word sort of just vanishes.
When I stop swaying, a feat of accomplishment in these heels, in my state, I level a nasty, slightly lopsided scowl at Vincent and shove a finger into his chest.
“What’s your deal, man?”
“What’s my deal?” he sneers, grabbing me roughly and towing me into a storage closet. “My deal is the fact that my wife is throwing herself at a little shite that doesn’t know his dick from his elbow!”
That’s when every last—two—brain cell I have left flies right out the window, and I attack him like a sex-starved lunatic. Not my proudest moment, not by a long shot, but he’d revved my motor on that dance floor and now, after his Neanderthal tactics, wrecked my only chance at relieving this emptiness.
I kiss him, crawling up his front, wrapping myself around him like a vine. When he kisses me back it feels like a homecoming, and I moan, opening myself to the insistent thrust of his tongue and the urgent fumble of hands seeking zippers.
It takes less than a minute for him to divest me of my pants and panties, and then he’s pushing his own pants around his knees and thrusting home.
We’re wild, kissing and going at each other like animals, and I love every second of this uncontrolled seduction. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that angry sex isn’t great, because, honey, I’m testifying that it’s awesome!
He thrusts up and does a grinding motion with his hips, hitting me so deep my body explodes without so much as a wind up, leaving me screaming silently as he groans and pushes deeper, stilling, breathing harshly into my mouth as I feel the heat of his release bursting deep inside me.
“Jesus, dove…I’ve missed this so much,” he groans into the heated skin at my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
I’m still drunk—I’m not a walking miracle who has the ability to sober up instantly—but even through my booze-soaked stupor and the afterglow I hear what he says, and more importantly what he doesn’t say.
He missed this, specifically sex, not me.
I don’t say anything, waiting instead for him to move and pull out before yanking my bottoms back on and shoving my feet into my heels. What’s there to say? Oh, thank you so much for ruining a great lay?
I’m honest enough to admit to myself what a colossal idiot I am, because seriously, who the hell lets her ex-husband, a man she’s divorced for a good reason, fuck her against the wall of a supply closet?
Me, apparently. The ditzy blonde idiot who can’t get over him. The stupid fool who’d come to the wedding stag while he’s brought a date.
“Dove?” he asks, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You okay?”
No! I’m a sap! A lovesick loser who can’t get over you long enough to keep her legs closed.
I feel so ashamed of myself I want to slap him a hundred times before kicking him in the balls just to share an iota of the pain I’m feeling. But I’m my mama’s daughter, and no amount of pain or humiliation can change that, so instead of breaking down and becoming a blubbering, drunken mess, I smile and shrug good-humoredly.
“If you’d excuse me, I think I can still catch the Jason.”
Chapter Thirty Six
“What do you mean it’s all gone? We haven’t even had an opening!” I yell into the phone, feeling my nerves go on high alert.
According to Vern, every one of my paintings had sold before they’d even hit the walls, something that many an artist would be thrilled about under normal circumstances.
Not me. This means that instead of having a little relaxation, Vern’s gonna be on my ass for the next month, asking me when he can expect some new pieces.
I love my work, really I do, but if I have to paint another brushstroke right now, especially when I’d caught myself eying the blacks and purples again—I’ve just managed to get out of that horrid gloom fest! —I’ll have a nervous freaking breakdown.
Plus, I really don’t freaking feel well, and all I want is a few weeks of daytime television and vegging on my sofa. Oh, and a chance to further my newest plan to get a pellet gun and take out Marty.
I’ve been brainstorming since the night after Parker’s wedding, after recovering from a major hangover only to find myself hanging out of the window at a precarious angle, desperate to pour out my woes to the scraggly feline.
Enough is enough. No sane person treats a stray cat as if it’s her own personal therapist, and I damn well know it. Marty has to go before I crack and start buying cans of tuna as a lure.
Every time I have the urge to go to the window at three in the morning, I remember Meryl Streep in that Into the Woods movie and I reaffirm my resolve not to end up looking like that with a stray cat perched on my shoulder.
“Sissy, you know I can’t reveal the buyers if they request it.” He sighs again, making my teeth ache in protest when I bite down hard.
“I’m not doing another series for at least the next three months. I already gave you everything I had by finishing the last one so quickly. I’m exhausted.”
“I know, darling. Take some time off and regroup. Anyway, a little time won’t make any difference; it will only increase your demand. I’ve already had pre-orders for anything of yours that comes out next.”
“Good. Look, I gotta go, my call waiting is going nuts.”
“Hello?”
Nothing. Not a sound reaches my ears across the line, and I pull the receiver away, checking the connection to make sure I haven’t mistakenly dropped it again, something I do when I’m not paying attention.
The little screen shows a live connection, so I put it back to my ear again, pulling a face at myself.
“Hello? Parker? Is that you?”
He’s been calling me every day—thank God Jules likes me enough not to be jealous—just to check up on me and make sure I’m not holed up in my apartment twenty four seven.
“Hello?”
The line clicks, going dead, and for the first time in months I feel the stirrings of fear creep back up. It can’t—
I cut the thought off and go back to cleaning my work area, something that’s easier now that I’ve moved my things into the apartment and convinced Park that I don’t need a whole separate space just to paint.
First of all, I’m way too lazy to trudge next door every time I wake up in the wee hours just to get an early start—I snort, because that’s a total ball of crap. I paint because sleeping is impossible at times. Another reason I’ve moved my stuff in here is because I miss the contact high I get from living with paint fumes.
Juuust kidding.
With an effort, I shake the uneasiness away and pack everything neatly, using my time to organize and make a list of things I’m running short on and just generally puttering around.
The calls keep coming on the hour though, so by the time seven rolls around and the phone rings again I’m so edgy I can’t control my temper.
“Listen, asshole, stop fucking calling me! If you’re that gung ho to kill me, just do it already!” I yell, breathing so heavily I feel my stomach contract in a wave of bile-inducing nausea.
<
br /> I sprint to the bathroom and drop, forgetting the phone and everything else as my stomach heaves and spews forth everything I’ve eaten in the last what feels like months.
It doesn’t stop until I’m wrung out and struggling to keep my face out of the puke-infested water, and I flop to the floor, only remembering the phone when my elbow hits it with a thunk.
“Shit! Hello?”
Dial tone blares into my ear, and I punch the disconnect with a groan, deeply regretting my words when a million pictures of Eric’s capabilities start playing on a never-ending loop that makes me break out in a colder sweat than the puking caused.
Crap. Yelling dares at your stalker is not the brightest idea I’ve ever had, and I know it. Though technically he’s not my stalker anymore, since it’s been months since he’s bothered me.
I stay right there, savoring the feel of the blessedly cool tiles until I feel well enough to roll back to my feet and patter into the kitchen, peering into the fridge with a lackluster effort at convincing myself to eat.
Maybe I should go away somewhere, take a vacation on a tropical island far enough away that I won’t get decent cell reception the whole time. Somewhere sunny, where I can sip cocktails and forget about the stupid men in my life.
I need to, because, honest to God, I think the stress of the wedding and now the phone calls is really starting to get to me. Yeah, I think, grabbing a jar of mixed peanut butter and jelly and a spoon before plopping down on the sofa. I should just drop everything I’m doing right now and treat myself to some sunshine and happy solitude.
Who am I kidding? I don’t want solitude, thanks to the last months spent talking to the walls, myself, and a cat. I want…it doesn’t matter, right now I’ll settle for some distance and a little bought safety from these phone calls and the very real fear that if I don’t do something soon, I’m gonna die.
I am so not scared of that asshole, I assure myself, licking a glob of peanutty goodness off the spoon. I’m just tired. Think of something else.
JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3) Page 30