My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  "Well, it's better now," Cecilia said quickly. "Not that I've got personal knowledge of, you know, the mental health industry, but—"

  "I'm not getting shut in any Bedlam!" Jacks said, and drank more rum. There was a chorus of "Ayes!" and glasses lifted around the table.

  Lockhart sighed and sent her a private look. "Sorry, lass. No church weddings in your future, it seems."

  "Well . . . not if we tell the whole truth ... but . . ."

  "But?"

  She took a deep breath. "Nobody believes in curses anymore. Ian's right about that. But there's something they do believe in—or want to, anyway. They may think we're crazy, but they won't be measuring us for straitjackets, just laughing."

  Argyle leaned elbows on the linen tablecloth, eyes bright. "Tell us, lass."

  "There's only three things you need to remember. One: The last thing you remember, you were sailing out from Bermuda."

  "Simple enough."

  "Two, and this is important, there was a bright white light—"

  "Oh! I get it!" Ian yelled. "Bermuda Triangle! Right! And what the hell, throw in some little gray alien guys, too. Give it some local color. Oh, I'm going to get so rich with this story—" Another growl from the pirates. He gulped. "I mean, straight fifteen percent. Stan­dard commission."

  "Ten," Lockhart growled.

  "Ten's good. Ten's fabulous." Ian gulped rum. The pirate sitting next to him filled his glass to the brim.

  "Three," Lockhart said.

  "Three percent? Mercenary bastard," Ian muttered.

  Lockhart quelled him with a look, then turned a seditious smile toward Cecilia. "You said three things, love. One, Bermuda. Two, bright white light. Three . . . ?"

  "Three . . ." She reached out, grabbed the arm of his chair, and thumped all four feet back to the deck. He slid forward, off balance, and she kissed him, to the appreciative table slaps of the other men.

  "Now, you see, I like three," he said, pulling back just enough to get the words out. "I think I like three a great deal. Though I could do with more research."

  "Well then, four things," she amended, and settled her arms around his neck. "We get married before you go on Oprah, because after that, you won't be able to fight the girls off with a cutlass."

  There was a short, considering silence around the table.

  "Oprah," Argyle said, and toasted her. "I like the sound of that."

  * * *

  RACHEL CAINE is the author of the Weather Warden series, the latest of which is Firestorm (book 5). She also writes romance for the Sil­houette Bombshell line (most recently Devil's Bargain and Devil's Due), as well as short fiction and nonfiction when time and sanity permit. She prefers her personal details to remain alluringly mysteri­ous, but her Web site is www.rachelcaine.com, and we have it on good authority that she can be bribed with chocolate.

  "All Shook Up"

  P. N. Elrod

  “Hey there, little sister, pull my pants down, would ya please?" Frankie halted cold in her tracks at the sound of the man's velvety, uncannily familiar voice, which originated somewhere above her, frozen in a "what the . . . ?" reaction. Normally she'd have blown off any guy daring such a line with her, but that voice.

  She'd been raised on that voice.

  Frankie looked up and, oh yeah, it was him—standing tall on the backstage platform getting ready for his opening set.

  It couldn't have been, but it was; Elvis had just asked her to pull his pants down.

  What the hell . . . ?

  "The legs, darlin'." He pointed, a half smile curling the famous lips and a glint of mischief in his blue, blue eyes.

  His knees were just at her eye level, and his pant hems were hung on the tops of his shiny black half boots. She stared, blinking, then gaped up at him again. He sure looked like the real deal, but it belat­edly registered in her harried brain that this was the special wedding singer the bride had insisted on. Dang. She had good taste.

  "Uh, sure," Frankie said, abruptly aware she was holding a wide platter heavy with stuffed mushrooms. She owned the catering ser­vice hired for the wedding but pitched in with the rest of the staff when the heat was on. Things were in swelter mode tonight. She'd been forced to find an alternate way around to the buffet tables be­cause of a drinks spill. Her idea to take a backstage route hadn't been well considered; the cramped area was littered with sound equip­ment, cases for musical instruments, and lots and lots of trip-worthy electrical cables and little to no lighting. A bad choice on her part until now. She quickly edged the tray onto the platform and, hands free, yanked at the man's cuffs. Leather pant cuffs. He was Come­back Elvis from 1968, head to toe in black leather and at his absolute sexiest.

  "Just a little harder, darlin'," he said, apparently in full character. Only Elvis could get away with it. But he wasn't really Elvis, just a damned excellent hunky substitute, built exactly the same, with a tight butt and wide shoulders stretching the limits of the leather jacket. Nothing fake there. Wow, they still made guys like that?

  She pulled and the black leather rutched up the length of one of his long legs suddenly smoothed into a lean second skin. She did the same again for the other leg. Not exactly listed on her job descrip­tion, but. . . wow, no trouble, nope, none at all.

  "How's that?" she asked.

  He shot her the look—the one that had once caused her then twenty-year-old grandmother to scream and fall into a dead faint at one of his concerts in 1956. Gramma had been proud of that inci­dent, if ticked off for missing things while being revived by her friends.

  Frankie suddenly understood what Gramma had felt. Knees go­ing, heart leaping, eyes bugging out a little with the shock of impact, but Frankie held her ground and looked right back. The view was great even if it resulted in the temporary loss of her higher brain and motor functions.

  And that was from just a look. Wow. Again.

  Then Frankie pulled herself together. Elvis was the hottest of the hot, but hey, he was hired help, too, just in a different ranking on the wedding industry food chain. No need to go all groupie-girl. He was the result of costume, makeup, and assumed attitude. He proba­bly had a dorky real name.

  "What's your name, honey?" he asked, as though reading her mind. His smile wattage increased. The son of a gun was obviously aware of his effect on her and enjoying the moment.

  "Yummy Catering," she blurted. It was the name of her tiny company, the name she proudly announced into the receiver each time the phone rang, and for the life of her she couldn't think why she'd said that.

  On the other hand, it made him blink, a little startled. Then the eye-glint thing, happened again, and he flashed very white teeth. "Well, now, your momma 'n' poppa sure got that right. May I call you Yummy Cat for short?"

  She felt a completely idiotic giggle trying to flutter out and firmly slammed it down. Frankie was a lot of things, but a brainless, gig­gling ditz was not one of them. "I mean, my name is Frankie Foster. I'm the caterer for this job."

  "Pleased to meet you, then. Those sure smell good." He gave a nod at the mushrooms.

  "Have one?"

  "Not before a show, how about after? Save some for me and my crew?"

  "Sure!" she chirped. Again without thinking. The food had been paid for by someone else; it belonged to them, but she'd yet to get through a wedding where they bothered about the leftovers.

  And this was Elvis for crying out loud. Okay, Tribute-Artist Elvis. She heard they preferred that over "impersonator." But still. . .

  He winked. "Well, that's all right. See you then, Miss Foster." He swept away, tossing her a last look—oh, that was another glint all right, but who was counting?—then went to consult with one of the technicians in his group.

  Frankie sagged, suddenly drained. It felt like every muscle in her body had gone through a major workout. This was no surprise— she'd always had a weakness for performers. Their energy was unique, addictive, and not always good for her. Better to enjoy it from the safe distance of audience
seating than up close and-and-and ... up close. She grabbed the platter of mushrooms and contin­ued on, picking her way forward over the junk on the floor. Breaking through to the other side of the platform, she made it to the buffet tables.

  "I gotta stay away from the showbiz types," she muttered. They were exciting but more often than not came with baggage, or ex­pected her to know all the unwritten rules of their trade. Oh, and egos; don't forget egos. It was a very different world from hers, and the culture shock tended to mess with her head and heart too much.

  She'd once wasted six weeks dating a gorgeous but terminally in­secure mama's boy. He'd finally picked one fight too many when she hadn't applauded hard enough for his performance as the second murderer in a community theater production of Macbeth.

  The Elvis guy . . . devastatingly hot, but off her menu. She would appreciate his talent from a distance.

  Catering was her speed and her life, and she was good at it. She could cook like a demon and calculate the cost (gross and net) for a sit-down feast for a hundred in her head and was able to guide the most nervous of brides through the complex process of planning a wedding supper. Yes, better to stick to what she knew best and not mix worlds.

  Of course, it never hurt to peek over the fence at the guest talent now and then.

  Frankie took an empty platter from the appetizers table, slipping her full one into place so quickly that the guests filing past hardly noticed. She checked the food levels at the various tables and was pleased (and relieved) to see she'd figured things right yet again. The salad bar was popular. The bridesmaids, all of them rail-thin maga­zine models like the bride, were chewing through the lettuce, veggies, and tofu like starved rabbits. That had been a clever call, to find out how many guests were vegetarians and allow for it. Raw green edibles were cheap, allowing one to get fancy with the meat dishes and still stay within the budget.

  The prime rib (a costly but popular classic) was steadily shrinking along with the chicken and fish as lines of guests inched by filling their plates. Her second-in-command, Omar, had everything in hand. As the last of the rib vanished, he produced another, expertly carving it up with one of his big knives.

  Except for the spill (sticky fruit juice, not pricey wine), this job was going exceptionally well. It was the bride's third time at mar­riage, so she'd known exactly what she wanted. Planning had been easy, though the numbers had staggered Frankie at first. She'd never done a wedding of this size before and was grateful the bride had opted for a buffet. Frankie didn't have the staff to deal with serving so many tables. Not with food, anyway. There were a number of fleet-footed temps rushing around making sure everyone had their drink of choice. If the staff had to serve food as well it would have been too big a job and Frankie would have had to turn it down altogether.

  Which meant she'd have missed meeting the Elvis guy.

  "What's he like?"

  She tried not to give a start. The question had come from Gramma, who was in charge of the dinner rolls. A nicely preserved seventy, she liked to keep busy and loved helping out on weddings.

  "He, who?" Frankie asked.

  "The groom. You know—Santiago."

  Because she had lots of practice, Frankie kept from making a face at the name she presumed the man had chosen for himself. He was a flashy TV wrestler, big and muscled through and through. Somehow the magic of a tuxedo (a custom extra-extra-large fit) had given so­phisticated class to his shaved head and the tattoos all over his scalp. "Not my type," she answered.

  Gramma made a frustrated noise involving both nose and throat. "Wake up and smell the sweat, girl; he's awesome!" She quivered a bit, not from infirmity but adrenaline. The buckets of testosterone floating around the wedding party—as represented by the groom's many beefcake pals from the wrestling world—had its effect on her. She was fond of saying, "I'm old, not dead!"

  "Still not my type." Frankie shrugged. Santiago put her off, and it wasn't anything to do with his fearsome outward looks. There was something inside him she'd picked up on but hadn't bothered to identify.

  Regardless of what was hidden within, the man had netted him­self a beauty, a cover model for the slicks who was fast gaining inter­national recognition.

  The bride had been on a photo shoot requiring she be in evening clothes surrounded by wrestlers, the tougher looking the better, and he was the toughest of the lot. Somehow they'd hit it off. Perhaps they'd found common ground—so to speak—with their geographi­cally inspired names. Hers happened to be Trinidad. Frankie won­dered if they would continue the tradition of place names for their kids. She had a mercifully brief mental picture of them posing for a Christmas card photo before the fireplace, Santiago with his beefy arm around Trinidad and on their laps little Tierra del Fuego and his sister, Peru.

  But somehow Frankie knew that would never happen. Santiago . . . what was it about him?

  Frankie had a clear view of him across the crowded room. She didn't do it often since it was sort of like invading another's privacy, but now she was curious. She focused and let it come to her. The smallest nuances of expression and body language took on pre­dictable meaning. Just a bare hint was all she got at this distance, but she had it. Oh, dear. This was bad. He would want Trinidad to stay home, wait on him hand and foot, have babies, and cheer nonstop at his wrestling bouts, her modeling days over.

  That wouldn't work with her; she loved her career and had left two ex-husbands (a minor rock star and an accountant) in her wake to pursue it.

  Well, darn. Frankie grimaced. The split, and there would be one, would start within months of the couple's return from the honey­moon. Any warning Frankie gave wouldn't be believed. They were both past the age of consent, hitched, and happy for now. Matters would take their course.

  No one liked a Cassandra, as Frankie had figured out during pu­berty when her talent for reading people first manifested itself. She didn't always get a handle on a person's future, but she could tell friend from foe. It came in very handy for her business. She could accurately determine who would bounce her check and who would not, thus booting a number of mystified deadbeats out the door long before they ordered anything.

  But sadly, she wasn't all-knowing. There was the hormone factor. If a man hit all her buttons at the same time, then her talent seized up and stopped working. Like what happened with the actor.

  Like what had just happened with the Elvis guy.

  No regrets there, and no big problem, since Frankie wouldn't be dating him even if he asked. A nice meal on the leftovers and maybe some shop talk would be the limit. Gramma would get a big kick out of it, though. She adored Elvis and had volunteered to help at this reception as soon as she heard an impersonator—er—tribute artist had been hired as the wedding singer. This man's resemblance to the original was uncanny—at least when seen backstage in low lighting. Maybe a picture or two of Gramma with him could be arranged. He had seemed a friendly sort. . . unless that was just part of his act. Until she could mentally settle down, Frankie wouldn't be reading him.

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of him again, Frankie looked across the wide reception hall toward the platform stage. It glittered with gold tinsel and Mylar balloons. A girl in a maroon coat with wide padded shoulders that marked her as one of the musicians was messing around with the drums, while two guys in matching maroon T-shirts checked the microphones and soundboard. A second musician had both acoustic and electric guitars in place onstage and was making sure the latter were hooked up to power. This promised to be more like a concert than wedding entertainment. She caught the group's name from the front of the bass drum: "Coop's Cool-Cats." The three Cs were linked to one another in a fiftie's-style font. Very retro. No sign of the star, though.

  "How's it going?" asked a girl who eased up next to her.

  "Pretty good, but I don't want to jinx things," said Frankie. The question had come from Aleen, one of the bridesmaids. She actually looked good in her special dress, though tradition held that such things had to be
walking eyesores. On Aleen it worked. She went in for piercings, lots of piercings: ears, tongue, and other places that didn't bear thinking about, soot black hair, and tattoos. So what was a little purple satin with flounces against all that? Like Trinidad, Aleen was a professional model. She was very popular for the more edgy fashion layouts. She and Frankie had been best friends since grade school, and she'd suggested Yummy Catering to the bride, for which Frankie was still thanking her. Trinidad had taken quite a chance bestowing her trade on an unknown.

  "Trini was so nervous before the ceremony," said Aleen. "Didn't show one flicker of it when she went down the aisle. What a pro."

  "Nervous? Five hundred guests, bodyguards, and the tabloid press to juggle, why should she be nervous?" Frankie shook her head.

  "The usual. Third time's supposed to be the charm. She really wants this one to work."

  "Then she picked the wrong guy," said Gramma, who had leaned sideways from the bread tray to listen.

  "Oh, don't tell me your vibe twanged again." Aleen looked dis­tressed. Of course, it was hard to tell, as her trademark chalk-white-and-gray-toned makeup made her look distressed all the time.

  "Like a guitar with a bad string." Gramma pronounced.

  "Frankie?"

  She nodded agreement. Gramma had picked up on Santiago's in­ner man, just chosen not to mention it. " 'Fraid so."

  "You guys are just spooky with that."

  "A blessing and a curse," said Gramma, raising her gaze briefly to the ceiling as though to apportion blame; then she resumed dishing out rolls with a smile.

  "What's going to happen?"

  Frankie haltingly gave what few deductions she'd drawn concern­ing Santiago.

  Gramma backed her up on it, then added: "It won't necessarily turn out that way Things can change."

  "How?" Aleen demanded.

  Gramma shrugged. "That's up to the happy couple. Maybe Trinidad will suddenly go all domestic; maybe Santiago will join the twenty-first century and back off from pushing her into being some­thing she's not. The key to any solid relationship is seeing your part­ner for what he or she is, not for what you've projected onto them. Projections always disappoint."