The Worst Best Man

by Lucy Score

  Her phone buzzed on the bar, and she picked it up, wincing. “Oh, God. Brenda, my boss. I can’t lose that job, too.”

  “Let me pay off your credit card.” Aiden knew it was a mistake as the words were coming out of his mouth, but he could do this for her, give this to her.

  She was already shaking her head. “Uh-uh. Nope. Not happening.”

  “You know it’s nothing to me,” he argued.

  “Just like you know it’s something to me. I’m not some trust fund kid who goes to Mom and Dad to get bailed out.”

  “First of all, I look nothing like your parents.”

  “Har har. I’m not taking your money, Aide.”

  “Would you take Lionel’s?”

  “What?”

  “Would you take Lionel’s money if it came in the form of an apology for his behavior?”

  “Oh, hell yes.”

  “Then I’ll get you whatever it is he owes you. What’s your balance?”

  Frankie named a figure so paltry that Aiden had to close his eyes and take a breath. “You’re really that close to not scraping by, and you won’t let me do anything about it?”

  “You’re furious at someone else, not me. Remember?”

  “You’re going to give me a headache.”

  “Oh, sure. I bash one of your pals in the head with a tray and douse him in champagne, and you’re totally fine with it. But I turn down your billions, and then you get a migraine,” she pouted.

  “What if there was something that I needed desperately that was in your power to give so easily?”

  “Money is different. Money is power and control, and I want my own, not someone else’s.”

  He hated to admit it, but he could see her incredibly misguided and stubborn point.

  “Fine. I’ll get you Goffman’s money.”

  She shook her head and gave a soft laugh. “You’re something, Kilbourn.”

  “Back at you, Baranski. Can we watch the video again?”

  Girlfriend of Aiden Kilbourn has secret life of catering jobs and sexual harassment…

  Aiden Kilbourn’s girlfriend assaults Upper West Side fundraiser attendee…

  Aiden Kilbourn’s new girlfriend brings Brooklyn bar fight to art gallery fundraiser…

  Aiden Kilbourn threatens lawsuit and charges against girlfriend’s attacker…

  Chapter Fifty

  “I have a name,” Frankie muttered at her computer screen. Brenda and Raul had decided it would be better for everyone if she worked from home until the scandal and ensuing news interest died off.

  “Damn right you have a name,” Marco agreed in her ear.

  “Aiden Kilbourn’s girlfriend,” Frankie snorted. “Every single one of these headlines call me Aiden Kilbourn’s girlfriend.”

  “If they didn’t know your name before, they will now.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “Mmm yeah. Corned beef.”

  “I don’t suppose you deliver?”

  “Not with everyone in the neighborhood stopping by for gossip on our own Frankie B,” Marco snorted.

  “We usually only pull in these kinds of sales around the holidays. But you put us on the map. We got neighbors and reporters crawling out of the woodwork.”

  “Oh, God! No one’s talking to the reporters, are they?” Frankie moaned.

  “Only in glowing lies about your goodness. You’ve been dubbed Saint Franchesca.”

  “You are so full of shit.”

  “Relax. We take care of our own,” Marco said, biting into what Frankie could only assume was a giant dill pickle. “Besides, Aiden and his PR guy stopped by earlier in the week and gave us all the standard line.”

  “Aiden came to the deli?” Frankie asked.

  He’d been so busy in the week since “the incident” they hadn’t seen much of each other. And he had definitely not mentioned the visit.

  “Yeah, had a roast beef for lunch and took another one for the road. Didn’t you see the pictures of him carrying the Baranski Deli bag around? Can’t pay for that kind of advertising. Had a real estate developer call us up and ask if we’d consider opening a location downtown.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She’d been wallowing in her own stew of embarrassment and anger that she hadn’t bothered to give two shits about anything else apparently.

  “We’re not gonna do it. Baranskis are Brooklyn, you know? But it was nice to have the opportunity to say ‘No, thanks.’”

  “What the hell else have I missed? The Pope pop by for a turkey club and a chat with Dad?”

  Marco barked out a laugh. “Ha. I miss your twisted sense of humor. Stop by sometime, okay? Bring your guy.”

  Frankie sighed. “I will. Thanks for having my back.”

  “Family. Later, Frank.”

  “Later, Marco.”

  Frankie scrolled through the Google Alerts she received in the last week and pulled up a picture. There Aiden was in all his wealthy entrepreneur glory in a sexy navy suit, aviators, and a Baranski Deli bag. Looking at him in the picture, it was hard for her to reconcile the fact that she shared a bed with the man. He looked like he’d strolled off of someone’s Perfect Guy Pinterest board.

  She knew why he was working so much this week. He was cleaning up her mess, and he’d taken the time to make sure her family was prepared. Just like family would.

  Tomorrow, he was taking her to a fundraiser supporting a children’s cancer hospital hosted by his mother at her Long Island home. It would be their first “appearance” since the “incident,” and Frankie was already feeling the pressure. He hadn’t told her anything about his parents’ reaction to her brief lack of judgment. All she knew is the family dinner last Saturday had been canceled, presumably because Aiden was working on cleaning up her mess. Or because his parents were horrified by her behavior.

  Well, she’d find out soon enough.

  She scrolled through some more pictures, finding a few of them together. Aiden escorting her out of her building for brunch after a night of mattress pounding sex. Aiden guiding her into his office building with a hand at her lower back. The two of them wrapped up in each other in line at a coffee shop.

  How was this her life? The magnifying glass had lowered without her ever really preparing for it. Now she appeared in magazines. Her decision to smack Lionel with a tray had been debated on a morning talk show. The attention was oppressive. And all she could do was sit and wait for the next celebrity or gossip column favorite to do something outrageous before the rest of the city forgot all about her.

  --------

  “Come meet me for lunch,” Pru demanded.

  “I’m not showing my face in that borough until someone famous gets arrested for prostitution.”

  “You can’t let them push you into hiding. You’re Franchesca Fucking Baranski. You don’t hide from people!” Pru said, working her way into a halftime football coach pep talk.

  “I’m not hiding,” Frankie argued. “I’m laying low so I don’t get sued by an asshole whose retainer for his lawyer costs more than my MBA.”

  Jesus. She wasn’t safe anywhere. Her corporate social responsibility professor had pulled her aside and asked if Mr. Kilbourn would be interested in addressing the class on sexual harassment at the management level in the workplace.

  She was one of those bugs on a white board with a pin in it. Collected and preserved by greedy fingers.

  “Are you really going to let a little attention banish you from life? Or are you going to grow a pair, put on a gorgeous dress, and come eat lunch with me?”

  “I’m not letting anyone banish me from anything.”

  “Good. Get your ass on the train.”

  “Pru—”

  “Aiden’s worried about you. He thinks he’s ruined your life. I’m giving you the opportunity to prove to him that you’ve got a stronger spine than that.”

  “Do they teach manipulation as a Gen-Ed course in private school?
” Frankie asked.

  “I will eat a roll if you come to lunch.”

  “Ugh. Sold.”

  So, Frankie reluctantly threw on that beautiful red dress, slapped on some makeup, and strutted down Fifth Avenue with Pru. There were a handful of photographers shouting questions, but Frankie iced them out behind her oversized sunglasses.

  And damn if it didn’t feel good. Good enough that she ordered two pieces of apple pie to go.

  “I eat one multigrain roll, and you’re going to pound a thousand calories worth of pie?” Pru asked, eyeing the tasty little to go boxes.

  “They’re not for me,” Frankie laughed. “I’m dropping them off for Aiden and his admin at the office.”

  Pru shot her a smug look.

  “What?” Frankie demanded.

  “You liiiiiike him,” she sang.

  “You’re so junior high,” Frankie sighed. “I thought we’d already established the fact that I like him.”

  “Allow me my gloating time,” Pru insisted. “I knew you two would be great for each other, didn’t I?”

  Frankie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “You may have mentioned something along those lines.”

  “I can’t wait to be your matron of honor,” Pru said. “I’ve already got a proposal from a party planner for your bridal shower.”

  “We’re dating and having sex, not getting married,” Frankie insisted. The idea of a bridal shower like Pru’s, with bitchy women whispering about how much they hated each other and useless, overpriced gifts like platinum ice cream spoons, gave her the heebie jeebies.

  “We’ll see about that,” Pru mused, rising and sliding into her coat.

  Frankie ignored her friend and buttoned her coat. They were halfway to the door when she stopped short. Pru ran into her back. “Hey,” her friend muttered.

  Frankie pointed at what had caught her attention. Tucked into a quiet corner in front of the window were Elliot Kilbourn and Margeaux the Dragon Lady.

  Elliot had Margeaux’s face cupped in his hand and was moving in for what promised to be an NC-17 kiss.

  “Gross,” Pru hissed. “Go before they see us!”

  They hurried out of the restaurant, eyes straight ahead. And didn’t stop until they were halfway down the block.

  “Well there’s a match made in heaven,” Frankie said dryly.

  “You said it, sister,” Pru agreed. “An evil wench and her henchman. We should give them a couple name. Elgeaux? Margel?”

  Frankie shuddered and clutched the apple pie to her chest. Nothing good could come from a union like that.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Aiden rested his hand on Frankie’s bare thigh in the darkened back of the limo. She’d chosen a short dark purple number with a tempting halter neck that made his fingers itch to untie it. All that stood between him and Frankie’s naked, begging body was two hours at his mother’s fundraiser and a short speech. There was also the ride home from Long Island to Manhattan, but with a privacy screen and condoms stocked in the small compartment under the bar, that wasn’t necessarily a hindrance.

  “Do you like your dress?” Aiden asked, skimming his fingertips over her inner thigh.

  He watched her open her knees a little wider to accommodate his touch.

  Since her lunch with Pru earlier in the week, Frankie had declared herself cured of any worry about what a bunch of strangers with cameras and gossip blog subscriptions had to say about her. Which meant she hadn’t heard anything about what the paparazzi had dubbed Dress Gate.

  “It’s very beautiful,” she said, playing with the tulle of the skirt. It nipped in at the waist before flowing into a full skirt reminiscent of 1950s elegance. She looked stunning, fuckable, regal.

  “Do you like my hair?” she asked, pushing a pin back in place. It was pinned up in a curling mass leaving her neck bare.

  “Very much,” he admitted.

  “I watched a YouTube tutorial,” she said proudly.

  “You did it yourself?” he asked, his eyebrows winging up.

  “I didn’t have time for the salon today.”

  “What will society say when they find out you do your own hair?” Aiden teased.

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t care what they say. It’s stupid to drop a couple hundred bucks once a week just to have someone else stab pins into your head. Besides, you’d think they’d have more important things to worry about.”

  “You’d think,” he agreed.

  She was one of the few people in the world who could be completely immune to the crush of disapproval orchestrated by the media. She’d survived the attention over the Goffman incident, though he doubted the news would let it drop, especially after today.

  But she could survive it. Franchesca Baranski didn’t care what a stranger behind a computer screen had to say about her style. And it was refreshing. He’d seen stray negative blog comments destroy entire weeks of the lives of women he’d dated before. “How could they say she wore it better?” “That’s photoshopped,” they’d howl at the screen while dialing their publicists.

  It came with the territory of being considered important.

  Frankie couldn’t be bothered to care enough to read the drivel in the first place. People could have been singing her praises or tearing her down, and it wouldn’t have interested her either way.

  What remained to be seen was how she would feel about him going to bat for her. Aiden reached into his jacket pocket and produced the check.

  “Here,” he said offering it to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked peering at it in the dark. “Twenty-five hundred dollars? Aiden, I told you I’m not taking your money.”

  He tapped the top of the check. “It’s not my money.”

  He watched her as a slow smile spread across her face. “Lionel Goffman. And how did you manage that?”

  Aiden cleared his throat. There was a lot they had to talk about. But the car was easing up his mother’s drive. “We’ll talk about it later,” he promised.

  Frankie tucked the money into her clutch and leaned down to adjust the strap of her stiletto. Her breasts pressed against the fabric of the halter top, begging to be released.

  He shifted uncomfortably as his dick hardened. Would he ever stop having that reaction to her?

  Oblivious to his lecherous gaze, she sat up and reapplied her lipstick. Dark, sexy red. He wanted to see those lips wrapped around his dick, her big eyes staring up at him as she took him to the edge of reason with her magic mouth.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, snapping her compact shut and shoving it back in her bag. “You’re not getting a headache now are you?”

  “More like a cockache.”

  Not satisfied to take his word for it, she palmed his hard-on through his trousers.

  “Damn it, Franchesca! You’re not helping.”

  “Do you pop little blue pills for breakfast? You’re hard twenty hours a day. I didn’t even do anything to you… yet.”

  The car pulled up to the front of his mother’s estate. He watched her internally freak out over the opulence. Thick ivory columns graced the front of the house. The circular driveway was made from crushed shells and orbited a large fountain with white statues in various poses of what looked like grief or some kind of extra weird orgy. The cars already here made the driveway look like a luxury sedan showroom.

  “Don’t tell me what happens after ‘yet,’” Aiden begged, closing his eyes and willing his body to relax.

  “I won’t tell you that I’m going to hold my boobs like this,” she said, pressing her tits together, “and let you fuck them.”

  He hissed out a breath and reached for her. But she scooted out of his grip.

  “Don’t you dare! Someone is going to open that door in five seconds, and we both better have our clothes on.” She wrapped her coat around her.

  “Don’t play with me, Franches
ca.”

  “Or what?” she asked innocently. “You’ll come in your pants?”

  He growled and made another grab for her shapely ass. She was his tormentor, his angel, his enemy.

  The car door opened, and Frankie winked at him as she slipped out in front of him.

  She’d pay. He’d make sure of it. But for now, he’d be the one to suffer.

  He caught up with her on the steps and tucked her arm through his. “Slow down, sweetheart, before you break an ankle.”

  “If you fall right now, you might break your dick,” she mused.

  “As soon as this is over, I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit down tomorrow.”

  “Promises, promises,” Frankie said airily.

  “If I shoved my hand up your skirts right now, are you telling me I wouldn’t find you wet?” he asked.

  Her inhale was sharp, and Aiden knew he wasn’t the only one looking forward to the end of the event. They’d be lucky if they made it back to the limo.

  “Nice house,” she said, her voice strained. Her coat gapped, and Aiden caught a glimpse of hardened nipple under the satin of her top.

  “Tell me you’re wearing a bra.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to lie to each other?”

  “Jesus. Franchesca. How am I supposed to get through two hours knowing the only thing between my mouth and your perfect tits is a scrap of satin?”

  She shrugged as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “I guess you’ll just have to think about baseball.”

  He backed her up against the red brick of the entry way and flexed his hips into her so she could feel just how hard she made him. She gave a little gasp and cuddled into him.

  Aiden reached into her coat and shoved his hand into the top of her dress. Her nipple throbbed against his palm. He squeezed her breast and ran his thumb over the point.

  “Fuck, Aiden,” she hissed.

  “That’s right, baby. You’re going to be begging me to fuck you,” he promised. “I’m going to ride you until you’re out of orgasms. Until you can’t move. I’m going to ruin you.”