Two months later . . .
“The wedding is off,” Skye declared. “Over. Finis.”
“You can’t do that. You’re the maid of honor, not the bride. She’s the only one who can call it quits.”
“But I can’t wear this.” Skye stared at her massive reflection in the mirror. Massive because Jenny had decided to go with a traditional southern theme, complete with hoop skirts and parasols. “I look ridiculous.”
“You don’t look ridiculous. You just look . . .” Xandra Farrel swept a gaze from Skye’s head to her toes and back up again. “Purple,” she finally declared. “Very purple.”
Skye stared pointedly at her youngest sister, who sprawled in a nearby chair. Wearing faded blue-jean overalls, worn tennis shoes and a baseball jersey, Xandra looked more like a Little League coach than the owner and head designer for Wild Woman, Inc., America’s leading manufacturer of erotic toys and sensual aids for women. It was a fashion statement that had started back in grade school when Xandra had been chubby, and one that had continued despite the fact that she’d slimmed down and shaped up over the years.
She had her long, thick blond hair, a shade darker than Skye’s, stuffed up under her favorite Houston Astros ball cap. A pair of Ray-Bans perched on the hat’s brim.
Xandra shrugged and smiled. “Okay, so you look a little ridiculous. But it’s for a good cause. Not to mention, five other women will be wearing the same thing, so you won’t look ridiculous all by yourself.”
“Yeah, right.” Skye gave her sister a look. “Actually, the dresses are all different colors. Each custom-dyed to match a specific fruit featured in Fresh Fruit Fantasy. I’m the grape.”
“Fresh Fruit Fantasy?”
“From Potent Produce, this vegetarian diner near Jenny’s gym. One day, she ordered the Fresh Fruit Fantasy, but they got the topping wrong. Jenny went to complain and this man walked up holding a plate of the same thing, only with her topping. It was Duke. He’d gotten her order and she’d gotten his. So she’s using Fresh Fruit Fantasy as her wedding colors, since it’s their favorite dish and how they met.”
“Well, you make one knockout grape.” Xandra blew out a deep, frustrated breath. “Boy, I could use a cigarette.”
“You can go out into the mall.” They were at the Galleria in the heart of downtown Dallas. “I think they have a designated smoking area somewhere near the garden quad.”
Xandra shook her head. “I’m trying to stop. I went cold turkey, but that didn’t do it, so I’m trying the patch.”
“That must have been awful. How long did you do the cold turkey thing?”
Xandra glanced at her Nike sports watch. “About an hour this morning. I’ve been doing the patch”—she lifted the sleeve of her T-shirt—“about two hours now.”
“Two hours. I’m impressed, not to mention I can see you much more clearly without the usual pack-a-day fog hanging around.”
“You’re funny.”
“I’m trying to ease the pain.”
“Nothing but a Camel and a lighter could do that.” “Nonsense. You’re strong. You’re fearless. You’re a Farrel.” Skye turned back to the mirror and gave herself another once-over. “I look like Barney.”
Xandra narrowed her green gaze, the exact same shade as Skye’s. “You know, you sort of do.”
“You’re here to make me feel better, remember?” “Actually, I’m here because I’m the boss and I can take a few days off to fly from Houston to Dallas on a moment’s notice. Otherwise, you’d be on your own.”
“You’re here for a convention. That’s why you’re staying at a hotel and not at my place. Because it’s the convention hotel and you’re running a booth.”
“True, but I’m also doing you a favor by being your date for the wedding since there’s no hot male prospect in your life right now.”
“I don’t even have a cold one,” Skye grumbled. Her last relationship had ended over five months ago, and at thirty-three, she’d outgrown the one-night stand phase.
“Exactly. You need your baby sister to keep you company, which I’m happy to do when I’m not working. But if you want a side order of moral support with the date, it’ll cost you.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’d rather be included in your will.” She grinned. “Because at the rate you’re going, you’re liable to die of a heart attack before you make it out of the boutique. Your face is red and you’re breathing much too heavily.” She grinned. “Relax, Sis. Just think of this as a new experience. A grand adventure. Like picking an exotic locale off the top of your head and rushing off for the weekend.”
But that was the problem. Skye didn’t rush anywhere for the weekend. She researched. She planned. She prepared for her weekends, and every day in between.
And it didn’t help that the dress was for a wedding. Not that she had anything against a good celebration. It was the ritual itself and what it stood for that gave her the heebie-jeebies. From this day forward. Forever and ever. ’Til death do us part... Bye, bye freedom.
No, thank you.
A woman didn’t have to sell her soul and sign a piece of paper to guarantee a lasting relationship. Her mother and her father—a quiet, conservative sociology professor and conservationist—had been together for over thirty-six years. They had a mutually gratifying, committed, monogamous relationship and three healthy daughters. A formal license hadn’t figured in, and never would.
As if on cue, Jenny floated into the room wearing bike shorts, a tank top and running shoes. She took one look at Skye and her lips curved into a huge smile. A huge, silly, dreamy smile. The sort of look reserved for teenage girls who spend their class time pining away for the captain of the high-school football team.
A tear slid down Jenny’s cheek and Skye’s heart pounded even faster.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just so...”
Awful.
Overdone.
Wrong.
Skye awaited the response she knew would come. After all, Jenny was always open and honest and fashionable. Thankfully.
“It’s absolutely perfect,” Jenny announced, pulling a tissue from her pocket and blowing loudly. She smiled and touched the layers of purple tulle. “Don’t you just love it?”
“I . . .” Skye licked her lips and forced a smile. “Love doesn’t begin to describe what I’m feeling right now.”
“I’ll admit, at first I was thinking it might be too much, but after seeing you in it,” Jenny told Skye as she sniffled back a tear, “I know I made the right decision. You look just like a fairy princess.”
When Skye’s eyes widened, Jenny added, “I know, I know, it sounds cheesy. I never thought I would feel this way about a wedding, but here I am going through the motions like a real bride.”
“You are a real bride,” Skye told her. “And a beautiful one.”
Jenny smiled and wiped at her eyes. “You’re the best maid of honor in the entire world.” She gave Skye one last look, then went in search of the salesperson who’d been helping her.
“Looks like you’re not as bad at this wedding stuff as you thought,” Xandra said. “Especially for a wedding virgin.”
Skye turned back to the mirror and sucked in her tummy. “I may say the right things, but I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve gained at least five pounds already. The Cookie Connection over at the mall named me their customer of the week.”
“Maybe I should just wait to give up the cigarettes until I get back to Houston.” Xandra licked her lips, an anxious light in her eyes. “I mean, what’s one more week, right?”
Skye whirled and pinned her sister with a stare. “You talked to Mom, didn’t you? You’re nervous and you’re never nervous unless you talk to Mom.”
“I always talk to Mom. In fact, lately, I’m the only one who even answers my phone when she calls, which is why I’m her favorite, and why I’m this close to having a brain meltdown. I really need a cigarette right now.” She
put a hand on her hip. “It’s not fair that you and Eve don’t help divvy up her attention and her time. Lately I’ve been her sole focus and it really sucks.”
“You know Eve hibernates when she’s working on a project.”
Skye’s middle sister was the producer and director for Sugar & Spice Sinema, a West coast company that produced how-to videos to help couples reach their true sexual potential. Eve was the typical L.A. artsy type—very creative and eccentric. When she started a new series, she went virtually underground, holing up in her apartment with her research books and her computer until she’d perfected a step-by-step script.
“So what’s your excuse?” Xandra’s voice drew Skye’s gaze. Her youngest sister arched an eyebrow, a knowing look in her eyes. “Mom’s been trying to get you for the past month.”
“I talked to her just last week.”
“For about five seconds and then you made up some excuse to let her go.”
Skye shrugged. “I’ve just been so overwhelmed by the wedding, and so rushed since Jenny put this whole thing together in such a short time to accommodate some long lost cousin’s busy schedule. I haven’t been myself. You know Mom. She’s a mind reader, at least when it comes to me. More than five words with her, and she’ll know something’s up. Then she’ll ask me. I’ve never been good at lying to her.”
“So don’t lie.”
“And tell her I’m smack dab in the middle of matrimonial hell, and I’m participating? Tell her I’ve read Weddings for Dummies twice?” Skye shook her head. “I’m neck deep in an archaic tradition that Mom loathes. She would totally freak if she knew.”
“Just don’t mention it. I never mention anything about my personal life. When she asks, I simply steer the conversation back to her, and everything is cool. That’s what you should do.”
Skye turned back to the mirror and surveyed her reflection. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to wear this out in public.”
“Atta girl.” Xandra smiled. “Keep the faith, Sis. It’s almost over. Besides, it’s not all doom and gloom. The bachelorette party is tonight, isn’t it?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “At least you know what to do when it comes to a single girls’ night out.”
“True.”
“My trunk is loaded with goodies. And this,” she added, pulling out what looked like a tube of lipstick from her purse, “is an exclusive. Fresh off the production line and guaranteed to not only liven up any party, but seduce any and every man in eyesight.”
“It’s shaped like a miniature penis,” a petite, blond Kate Hudson look-alike and Jenny’s only sister declared later that night. She sat opposite Skye at a long rectangular table filled with Xandra and ten of Jenny’s closest female friends.
They were at Whiskey Dicks, a male version of Hooters where the waiters wore nothing but tight, faded jeans and a smile as they served up beer and hot wings to the all-female clientele. The atmosphere was festive and fast, with No Doubt blaring from the speakers. The sound of laughter and voices rose just above the music and the clink-clink of glasses and plates.
“It’s called a lipdick,” Xandra told her. “Get it? Lipstick. Lipdick. But that might not be the final choice. The name is still in the research phase.” Xandra slathered her lips with the creamy crimson before handing it to Skye, who sat next to her.
“I like it.” Jenny was wearing a makeshift white veil decorated with glow-in-the-dark packages of condoms, and a white T-shirt decorated with real pink Lifesavers that spelled out SUCK FOR A BUCK.
Rocko, their buff waiter, had been the first to suck for a buck. Since then Jenny had earned an entire twenty dollars.
Skye smiled. She was definitely in her comfort zone now. No hideous dresses. No talk about cakes or vows or what dressing to serve on the salad at the sit-down dinner.
All was right with the world.
Jenny put on the lipstick and licked her lips. “Mmm ...Mine tastes like strawberry.”
“We’re working on cherry and raspberry and water-melon, too,” Xandra said. “Oh, and I’ve got a fuchsia one that tastes like pink lemonade.”
“Pink lemonade? I just love—I don’t believe it! That’s it!”
“What?” Skye spewed a mouthful of margarita and glanced around. “What? Where?”
“Pink lemonade. That’s what I need at the reception. A lemonade fountain to sit next to the champagne fountain. It’s so much more creative than just tea and coffee and it’s the perfect alternative for a non-alcoholic beverage. Not to mention we can do it with a low-calorie sweetener so that it doesn’t pack too many calories. Just plenty of Vitamin C. I have to tell Duke right now.”
Before Skye could protest, Jenny wiped wing sauce from her fingers, pulled out her cell phone and pressed a number on her speed dial. “I hope he picks up. His oldest brother was taking him out to do after-hour laps at Dallas Raceway.”
“You’re so lucky, Jenny,” one of the women said. “You’re not just going to meet Clint MacAllister. You’re going to be related to him.”
“Yeah,” another girl agreed. “You’re so lucky.” “Clint MacAllister?” Skye asked. “That’s Duke’s oldest brother, right?”
“And NASCAR’s pride and joy,” Jenny’s sister added. “NASCAR?” Skye asked. “The NASCAR?” When the woman nodded, Skye glanced over at Jenny.
“I told you he raced,” Jenny said.
“But you didn’t say anything about NASCAR. I was thinking you meant a Saturday night hobby at the local track. Not an honest-to-goodness NASCAR driver.”
“He’s more than a driver,” Jenny’s sister added. “He’s the driver. He’s won more Winston Cup championships in fifteen years than most drivers win in an entire career. He won Rookie of the Year his first season in Winston, and he’s broken I don’t know how many records. And he’s good-looking and sexy.”
“Definitely sexy,” one of the women agreed.
“You said it,” another woman chimed in.
“And how.”
“You don’t know anything about NASCAR,” Jenny told Skye as she punched in the number a second time. “That’s why I didn’t make a big deal.”
“I don’t know about NASCAR, as in details, but I have heard of it. And I know it’s a big deal.”
“And so is Clint,” Jenny’s sister added. “He’s famous, and not just because he drives. Everybody’s seen his picture at one time or another, whether or not they follow stock car racing.”
“Even you,” Xandra said when Skye shook her head. “Remember back in high school? The picture of that guy in his underwear at Billy Bob’s Honky Tonk?”
Skye’s memory rushed back to her senior year and the girls’ locker room. There’d been an entire group of oohing and ahhing females hovered around a copy of a well-known tabloid magazine, their attention fixed on the twenty-year-old on the cover.
He’d been completely naked except for a pair of white briefs, cowboy boots and a straw Resistol. He’d sat astride a mechanical bull smack dab in the middle of the largest honky tonk in Texas, one hand gripping the rope, the other poised up in the air while a throng of fans cheered him on.
The picture had been legendary, showing up first in the tabloids and then in a series of ads selling everything from western wear to auto parts to fast food.
“The half-naked cowboy is Duke’s brother?”
Jenny nodded. “And best man. And he’s not really a cowboy. He just likes the hat and boots and—Duke? Thank God you picked up, honey. I’ve got the perfect answer to the beverage dilemma...”
Jenny spent the next hour going back and forth between Duke, Jiles the wedding planner and a platter of hot wings, while Skye looked on and thanked the Big Lady Upstairs that she would never have to endure such torture.
Men had their place in the world. That much was true. She liked the companionship and the sex, but not enough to even think about saying the dreaded I do.
Okay, like was too mild a word. She adored companionship and sex. She enjoyed them. She craved them. She lov�
��
Uh-uh.
Skye Farrel didn’t believe in the infamous L word. She’d never seen it up close and she’d certainly never experienced it. Thankfully.
“No daughter of mine would ever fall for a concept invented by men to keep women submissive and needy.” So sayeth the infamous Jacqueline Farrel and, as usual, she was right.
Skye knew that, but it didn’t stop her from smiling as she watched Jenny talk to Duke on her cell phone. Jenny grinned and laughed and blushed, and Skye couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have someone in her life who made her so happy.
Even more, she couldn’t help but want her own somebody for more than a measly six months—the duration of her longest relationship to date.
Not for marriage, of course. Skye Farrel was thirty-three and single and, as much as she hated to admit it, a little bit lonely. But she wasn’t crazy.
She was definitely crazy.
Skye came to that conclusion when she stumbled into her apartment at four in the morning. Only a one hundred percent certifiable loony toon would schedule a bachelorette party the night before a mid-afternoon wedding.
She yawned, dropped her purse on the coffee table, grabbed a nearby quilt her grandmother had made, and sank onto the sofa. Her small, white, two-year-old Shih Tzu, Skipper, jumped up and settled herself on Skye’s lap while Skye turned on the TV and punched the Rewind button on her VCR. Since she frequently worked in the evenings, Skye didn’t get a chance to catch Get Sexed Up, her favorite talk show, which aired after hours. So she’d resorted to taping the show and watching it when she came in.
Two years and she’d yet to miss an episode.
The screen flickered and lit up with a talk-show set decorated in various shades of red. The intro theme— George Michael’s fitting classic “I Want Your Sex”—blared as the camera spanned the rows of excited audience members.
“Good evening and welcome!” the announcer’s voice rang out. “It’s that time again, ladies, so relax and release those inhibitions, because you’re about to Get Sexed Up.”
The audience applauded and the camera zeroed in on a door at the rear of the set where a familiar woman appeared.
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 2