Bad Wedding: A Bad Boy Romance

by Julie Kriss

  I had never heard a woman be so quiet when she came.

  I hadn’t heard a woman come at all in years.

  I dropped my face to her neck and felt it, heard the harshness of her breathing. Smelled the damp wetness of sex. She came down from the orgasm and her body slowly turned into a puddle of wax, her breathing slowing, her knees open. I slid my fingers out of her panties and put the fabric back in place.

  She let her hands slide from my hair and her arms dropped to the grass beside her, boneless as a doll’s. We were both soaked and freezing, on the ground in a public park. I put my hands in the wet grass and lifted off her a little, my head still dropped to her neck, and then I laughed.

  Because even though I was currently feeling the Blue Balls of Death, we were both just so fucked.

  I looked into her face. She looked baffled and turned on at the same time, her gaze taking me in as if she was trying to read me. As if part of her worried that my laughter was directed at her.

  I kissed her gently, sucking her lower lip before I let it go.

  “All right,” I said to her. “I guess you win. You have a fucking date.”

  Seven

  Megan

  It rained all night and into the morning, and when I walked into the Five Spot restaurant, it was still dark outside the windows. I checked the clock on my phone. Four minutes to eight. I was four minutes early.

  I slid into a booth. The restaurant was nearly deserted except for a couple of sleepless retirees. I’d worked here once, a few months ago. I’d been fired, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know a good breakfast when I saw one.

  A waitress came by—her name was Tina, and I recognized her from when I worked here—and dropped off menus. I didn’t need one, since I already knew the menu by heart, but Jason would.

  I curled my hands around my water glass and tried not to fidget. I was not nervous. No way. Okay, so things had been a little intense between me and Jason yesterday, and we’d nearly fucked, and he’d made me come on the grass, in public. That didn’t mean things had to be weird.

  The door opened and he walked in, and I fought the urge to hide under the table.

  He was wearing jeans, boots, and a black warm-up jacket, zipped to his chin. He still carried the bruised scuff on one cheekbone, but otherwise he looked freshly showered, his dark hair still damp, his jaw clean-shaved. He moved easily, and he looked refreshed and relaxed, as if he’d had a good sleep, unlike me. Tina stared at him as he sauntered over to my booth and slid in.

  “Hey,” he said. “Why the hell are we meeting so early?”

  “I told you, I have an appointment,” I said. I’d need a few hours to drive to Detroit, especially with traffic.

  “Something important, huh?” he said, grabbing a menu and opening it. Tina came by, and he gave her a grin that pretty much rendered her mute. “I’ll have a coffee, thanks.”

  I nodded the same, and Tina left.

  “Why this place?” Jason asked me, scanning the menu. “Aren’t you sick of it since you used to work here?”

  It was like we were old buddies, hanging out for breakfast. I felt my spine stiffen, my jaw go tight. “The food is good.”

  “Okay then, you pick me something. I’m starving.” He closed the menu and put it back down, then unzipped his warm-up jacket, revealing a gray t-shirt underneath. “What?” he said, watching my face.

  Thirty seconds in, and already I was failing at this. “Jason, this is weird,” I confessed. “Isn’t it weird?”

  He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the seat next to him. “It isn’t weird for you,” he said. “At least you got some. Me, they can see my balls from space.” He turned back to me. “So, are we going to a wedding or what?”

  I stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “What?” he said again.

  “It’s like you’re a different person every time I see you.”

  “I’m in a good mood,” he said. “Are you saying you didn’t enjoy that?”

  “You’re in a good mood after I basically cockblocked you?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what showers are for.”

  For a second my mind went blank. Then it clicked. “You do… that?” I choked. “In the shower?”

  “All the time,” he said, tilting his empty coffee cup and staring into it hopefully. “It’s my favorite place to do it.”

  He was still damp. From the shower.

  My neck went hot, and my cheeks, and for an insane second I pictured it in perfect, salacious detail. Jason jerking off in the shower. How often? I wanted to ask him. Every day? More than once? What do you think about? How long does it take?

  I remembered his fingers between my legs, his tongue in my mouth. And that cock of his—I’d felt it, no mistake. I’m packing some heat, he’d said. I’d relived it over and over again in all of my dirty fantasies last night.

  I couldn’t really say that I had a lot of experience with penises. I’d experienced a few, but I wasn’t a connoisseur. Of the penises I’d seen, live and in person, I could say as an overall statistic that they were average. Nothing crazy. Just regular dicks, hanging out, doing their thing.

  Jason’s was a work of art.

  I remembered it clearly, even when I tried my best to forget. It had everything—size. Length. Girth. Smoothness. Overall proportion. And I’d been forcibly reminded of it when it had nearly made me come through my panties yesterday as I’d lain on the ground beneath him in the park like a crazy woman.

  I was saved from having to explain my hyperfocus on Jason’s anatomy when Tina came back to the table, as if summoned by my awkward humiliation, and asked for our orders. I opened my mouth and somehow a breakfast order came out, one for me and one for him. I must have made sense, because Tina nodded and walked away. Get some control, Megan, I told myself.

  “Okay,” I said to Jason when Tina was out of earshot. “First of all, let’s make something clear. That is not happening again.”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Damn, that’s too bad. Are you sure?”

  No. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  He sighed. “Okay.”

  I felt a small pang at that—am I an idiot to talk myself out of Jason’s dick?—but it was for the best. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s talk details. There’s something I didn’t tell you about this wedding.”

  He looked at me warily as Tina set our breakfast plates down, and then he picked up his fork. “What is it?”

  I took a breath. “It’s in Cape Cod.”

  Jason speared some scrambled egg and frowned, calculating. “Seriously? That’s, what, two days’ drive?”

  “Around sixteen hours, yes. Give or take.”

  “So this is a five-day commitment.”

  I nodded, poking at my own breakfast. “Luckily you’re unemployed.”

  “Hey. I’m employed.”

  I shrugged. “So you’ll have to take a few nights off from cleaning college kid barf.”

  He reached for the hot sauce and dumped some on his eggs. Gross. “I don’t clean the barf, the janitors do. I kick guys’ asses and put drunk girls’ clothes back on.”

  “And I’m sure you’re very skilled at it.”

  He gave me half a grin. “I detect sarcasm. You have no respect for my profession.”

  “None at all.”

  “That’s no fair,” Jason said, spearing more eggs. He really was starving. “I have great respect for your ability to work the Drug-Rite cash. How will anyone buy their Preparation H without you for five days?”

  “Ha ha,” I said. In fact, I had had a terrible time getting the time off, and was half worried there would be no job for me when I got back. I’d already called in sick today to go to the appointment with Dr. Pfeiffer. The thought made me tired. “And there’s another thing. My car is too shitty to make the trip, so we’re taking yours.”

  “Huh,” Jason said thoughtfully, picking up a piece of crispy bacon and biting into it. My heart pounded in my chest. He’s going to say no, I
thought wildly. He’s going to tell me to go fuck myself and walk out.

  I had a problem asking people for favors. In fact, I’d never asked anyone for a favor this big. Not ever. I was used to handling everything alone, not asking for help. It was completely, utterly uncomfortable, as if I’d put on a pair of Spanx three sizes too small.

  “Okay,” Jason said.

  I tried not to make my voice squeak in relief. “You’re still in?”

  “Hey, I owe you, right?” he said. “I figure with this wedding thing plus the orgasm I gave you, it’ll make up for how shitty I treated you.”

  I dropped my gaze to my plate and ate some eggs. “The orgasm is not part of the deal,” I mumbled to the table.

  “You’re right,” Jason said. “I changed my mind. That was a freebie.”

  I looked back up at him. His plate was mostly empty, and he picked up his coffee, smiling at me.

  “Do you own a suit?” I asked him. Control, Megan. Control.

  “Yes,” he said. “I look boss in a suit.”

  I was not going to picture it. I was not. “Bring a suit plus a second outfit of shirt and dress pants,” I said, “in case there are any pre-wedding things to go to.” I stared at his bruised cheek, assessing. “That should be healed by the time we get there. If it isn’t, I’ll put makeup on it. You could get a haircut if you have time, though your hair isn’t bad.” His hair was fucking gorgeous, dark and tousled and sexy. “You don’t have to do much, just stick close to me and be charming and pretend we’re dating. And that things are great.”

  He scratched his nose, frowning. “Can I ask something? Why are you going to so much trouble for an ex-boyfriend? I mean, why is he such a big deal?”

  I detected a distinct note of male envy in that, and I savored it like chocolate on my tongue. Then I said, “It isn’t just the ex-boyfriend that’s important.” I explained to him about Stephanie and Kyle, and how things had happened, and how Stephanie was from my mother’s side of the family. I left out the part about Kyle being my first, because I was not giving Jason Carsleigh that particular tidbit.

  “Okay,” he said when I finished. “I get it. So it’s more about your mother’s family than this guy.”

  “Mostly, but the guy is part of it,” I admitted. “It’s sort of this shitty mix. I can’t just not go. I mean, would you want to look like a loser at Charlotte’s wedding?”

  Jason groaned. “Man, there is no way I’d go to Charlotte’s wedding,” he said. “Just no way.”

  I spent far, far too much mental energy in the next minute trying to parse that. Did he mean that he’d been so in love with her that it would be too painful to go to her wedding? Or did he mean that he was so happily rid of her that he never wanted to see her again? I’d barely ever seen them together—he’d been deployed for most of the time they’d been together, and they’d broken up shortly after Holly and I became friends—but physically, Jason and Charlotte together were… perfect. She was tall, willowy, and blonde, and he was tall, muscular, and dark. She had no flaws that I was aware of. He’d likely never ground her into the grass in a public park. They’d probably made perfect love on perfumed beds, covered in rose petals and surrounded by candles while someone played the harp nearby.

  I didn’t want to picture that. At all.

  He’d probably been gone on her. Any guy would be.

  I put my fork down, the topic of Jason and Charlotte in bed making my stomach turn, which in turn made me angry. Why the hell did I care about it, even a little? Why couldn’t I just be over this guy already?

  Jason was watching me, his dark eyes missing nothing, and for a moment the air was heavy between us. “Okay,” he said finally. “Suit, dress pants, haircut, drive to Cape Cod, don’t look like a Fight Club extra, try and be nice. When do we leave?”

  “A week from Thursday,” I said, pushing my plate away. “The wedding’s on Saturday.” I glanced out the window. “Shit, it’s still raining, and I have to drive to my appointment. I have to go.”

  He was still watching me, and I didn’t like the perceptiveness in the way he looked at me. “It sounds important.”

  I shrugged, the motion tight. “It’s just a thing.”

  “A thing you had to get off work for.” He scratched his chin. “You want me to come?”

  For a second I stared at him, surprised into silence. Then the words came out, sharper than I intended, because I was in a spin and I didn’t know what to say. “Why would I want that?”

  His expression closed down slowly. “Well, I have some free time, and you look upset. Jesus. I can be nice, you know.”

  “No,” I said, reaching into my jeans pocket and pulling out some money. “I do not need you to come with me. I don’t need you to do anything except pick me up on Thursday morning so I can go to the wedding from hell.”

  His jaw was tight, but he slid his phone across the table toward me. “Text yourself your address,” he said, “and that way we have each other’s numbers, too.”

  “Fine,” I said, opening his texting app. “There better not be any dick pics in here.”

  “You wish,” he said, his voice deep with meaning.

  I’m packing some heat.

  I stared hard down at the phone and texted myself, then slid the phone back across the table at him. “Have a nice day,” I said.

  “See ya, Sunshine,” Jason said, and I walked out the door.

  Eight

  Megan

  I got most of the way to Detroit before I admitted to myself that I’d been a bit of a bitch.

  It was Jason’s fault, I told myself at first. He brought it out in me. He goaded me somehow, so what did he expect? He’d pried into my appointment. He’d brought up Charlotte.

  But no, that was me. I’d brought up Charlotte.

  I sat in slow traffic on the interstate and ran a hand through my hair. Okay, so I was a little on edge. I had a really good reason. And he could have at least been nice about it, right?

  Except I hadn’t told him my reason. And he had been nice. Or he’d tried to be.

  Fuck.

  I made it to the hospital with barely fifteen minutes to spare. I found my way through the maze of hospital parking, then jogged through the massive complexes of buildings to the Cancer Center, stopping twice to ask for directions in the halls. I finally got to Dr. Pfeiffer’s office, sweaty and damp, my sneakers squeaking on the floors and my purse banging against my thigh.

  I had never met Dr. Pfeiffer before. I’d been referred to him by my mother’s oncologist, who had contacted me and recommended he refer me for an appointment. Dr. Pfeiffer, it turned out, was in his late forties, one of those vital, thick-bodied men who gave off a lot of presence and an air of lively intelligence. He sat down on the chair across from me in his little appointment room, put down my file next to him, and leaned toward me as if I were interesting.

  “Miss Perry,” he said. “You’ve been sent to me because of your mother’s history.”

  I swallowed. “Yes.”

  He didn’t have to glance at the file; he’d already read it. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “From everything I’ve read in your mother’s file, she had the best possible care.”

  “She was only forty-three.” I said the words in nearly a whisper. All of my anger was gone, all of my bravado, in this little office, sitting in a chair across from this man.

  He nodded. “I’ve worked in cancer treatment for all of my career, Megan, and I can tell you with certainty that cancer is a bastard.”

  I blinked.

  He gave me a small smile. “I didn’t offend you, did I? It’s just what I’ve observed.”

  “No, you didn’t offend me.” I actually felt a little more comfortable now.

  “So,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “Are you aware that your mother participated in genetic testing before she passed away?”

  “I remember something about it.” So much of that time was a blur. An awful, nightmarish blur.

  “That’s
where I come in,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “Since your mother’s breast cancer was so rare, and so aggressive, she was asked to do the testing. As a result, even though she’s passed away, we actually have her genetic profile.” He watched me carefully, making sure I was following. “Breast cancer has a genetic component to it in many cases. Are you aware of that?”

  I nodded again. I felt a little like a schoolgirl, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to be led through this, and I didn’t want to think. “It means I could inherit the tendency to get the cancer from her.”

  “Technically, it’s a genetic mutation,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “I won’t get too technical, but I have some literature you can take home and read so you can fully understand it. But the short version is that your mother carried a specific genetic mutation that contributed to her cancer risk. And there is a fifty-fifty chance that she passed this mutation to you.”

  I gripped the arms of my chair, unable to say anything. Cold sweat dripped down my neck.

  “Okay,” Dr. Pfeiffer said, his voice deep and controlled. “Don’t panic. We discussed genetic testing for you with your father at the time your mother died, but you were only sixteen, and it was decided it was too early. But now that you’re of legal majority, and now that you’ve entered the age of potential risk if you have the mutation, your mother’s oncologist and I conferred and thought you should make an informed decision for yourself.”

  “You’re saying,” I said through dry lips, “that I get tested to see if I have this gene. And if I do?”

  “It will be decisive either way,” Dr. Pfeiffer said. “I know it’s scary, but this test will take a lot of the guesswork out of your future treatment. If you carry the gene mutation, it isn’t a guarantee you’ll get cancer. If you do, the tests won’t predict when you might develop it. But what it tells us is that we need to start screening aggressively. For example, we’d start doing mammograms on you every year. That’s something most women don’t start until their forties, but we’d start now with you, in your twenties. The sooner we find something, the higher the chance we can treat it successfully.”