THAT MAN 5 (The Wedding Story-Part 2)

by Nelle L'Amour

  Inked across Kat’s breastbone was one word. Of course, I should have known. With all her tattoos, Pussy’s girlfriend Swell was a tattoo artist.

  “I was going to ink “BITCH,” but this is so much better.”

  BUTCH. I was laughing so hard I wet my pants.

  Kat couldn’t stop shrieking. Libby raised Kat’s cell phone to take a photo.

  “Stop it!” wailed Kat.

  Too late. CLICK.

  “Lib, make sure you e-mail me everything.”

  My bestie gave me a thumbs up. After my laughter died down, my eyes clashed with Kat’s.

  “What the fuck do you want?” she seethed.

  “It’s simple. I want you to leave the country by tomorrow and not come back until Blake and I are married.”

  “Is that a threat?” Venom poured from her mouth.

  “No, it’s an ultimatum. If I don’t have proof, I’m going to send the footage and photos to your mother. And post it on YouTube and all over Instagram.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would.”

  Libby chimed in. “And it would be perfect for the new show Blake’s developing—America’s Sexiest Home Videos.

  Kat’s mouth dropped open, forming a perfect O.

  I shot her a wry smile. Oh, and by the way, if one word of your past with Blake leaks out—Which. I. Know. All. About.—you can count on the same.”

  Kitty-Kat was too shocked to say a word. Her wide-opened mouth remained frozen.

  Grinning, Libby handed me Kat’s cell phone and I slipped it into a pocket. The four of us pivoted toward the door.

  “You’re leaving me here?” Kat called out in a panic.

  “I’ll call security shortly. Enjoy your stay at The Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  With that, my production staff and I said adieu to my shrieking and cursing nemesis and headed to the Polo Lounge to celebrate a job well done. Our own little wrap party. We couldn’t stop laughing.

  Two hours and two bottles of champagne later, an e-mail dinged on my phone. It was from Kat, who must have made her way home. No message. Only an attachment. A round-trip ticket to Rio in her name. The date of return was not till January. A triumphant smile lit my face as I put my cell phone away. Fingers crossed Blake and I wouldn’t be honeymooning there.

  A waiter came by, and I took care of the bill.

  Fuck the Bitch was a fait accompli.

  Chapter 11

  Jennifer

  When I told Blake the story of how I took Kat down, he doubled over in laugher. Then, recovered from his drugging, he gave me an epic fucking that for sure belonged in The Guinness Book of World Records. I had so many orgasms I lost count.

  We couldn’t be happier that Kat was out of the picture. But things were no less stressful. In fact, they were more stressful. With the wedding only a month away, Enid was in panic mode. In addition to losing Kat, Jeffrey, the receptionist, quit on her. Little did she know he was starting up his own event planning business and had stolen her list of “preferred” vendors. I knew this from Chaz, who now was dating Jeffrey. It was hot and heavy and I was so happy for him.

  I spoke to my mom everyday. Dad was doing great. Except he’d become a little bit of a kvetch, complaining constantly about how slowly my mother drove. She begged Blake and me to go to Boise for Thanksgiving, but as much I wanted to, I couldn’t. In addition to catching up on my crazy workload (which I was frantically trying to wrap up before the wedding), there were so many last minute wedding details to attend to, including meeting with Blake’s rabbi…a wedding cake taste-testing…a meeting with the bandleader to go over our playlist… applying for a marriage license…and going for Monique Hervé’s final dress fitting as well as Chaz’s first one. Last not but least, there were also all those thank you notes to write. The wedding gifts kept pouring in. The final headcount was at 1150!

  On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, which we celebrated at Blake’s parents’ house, I was going to meet Chaz downtown for my first dress fitting. I couldn’t wait to see what he’d designed. He knew the vintage look I wanted but had been very secretive, wanting to surprise me when it was close to finalized. At the crack of dawn, I got a call. With Blake still sound asleep, I reached for my cell phone on the nightstand. It was Chaz.

  “Jenny-Poo, it’s gone,” he said, before I could even say hi. His voice sounded frantic.

  I bolted upright to a sitting position. “Chaz, what are you talking about?”

  “Your dress. There was a fire in the studio last night. Everything was destroyed.”

  “Oh my God!” I said the three words so loudly I woke up Blake.

  “Baby, what’s going on?” he asked groggily.

  “Chaz, sweetie, hold on.” I turned to Blake and told him the news. He was almost as devastated as I was. I returned my attention to Chaz.

  “Chaz, where are you?”

  “I’m here at the studio. You wouldn’t believe what it looks like.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Chaz, who had always been there for me, needed my moral support. Though Blake insisted on going downtown with me, I told him to stay put. In five minutes, I was dressed and out the door.

  *

  Libby and Jeffrey were already at Chaz’s studio. Or should I say former studio. We stood in a line like four zombies taking in the damage. It was worse than I’d imagined. In addition to the smut-covered walls and charred bolts of fabric, the fire department had gutted and flooded the loft-like space to put out the fire. The studio was a shell of what it had been with puddles of water everywhere and exposed wires and beams. And it was still smoking.

  “Do they know what caused the fire?” A dark thought crossed my suspicious mind. Did Enid or Monique possibly set it? I wouldn’t put it past those two wicked women to do something so evil. Or did Kat have something to do with it from wherever she was to get back at me? That psychopath was capable of anything.

  Chaz twisted his lips. “The fire department determined it was definitely due to an electrical short. The wiring in this old building is not up to code.”

  “That’s awful,” I murmured, relieved that none of those horrid women had anything to do with it. But it didn’t make things any better.

  My stinging eyes gravitated to a blackened mannequin in the corner. On it were charred remnants of tulle and lace. The dress was burnt beyond recognition. My heart sunk. My fairy-tale gown had gone up in smoke. It belonged in a morgue.

  Chaz followed my gaze. “Oh, Jenny-Poo. It was so beyond.”

  “Maybe you can make another one,” chirped Libby, the optimist, before I could utter a word.

  Chaz’s shoulders slumped. “I wish, but not a fat chance in hell. I have to find a temporary studio, deal with the insurance company, and then replace all the samples for my upcoming Spring line. Plus, it would take over a month to get the imported fabrics I used. Oh, my Jenny-Poo, I’m so sorry.”

  Masking my disappointment, I wrapped my arm around Chaz’s deflated shoulders. “Chaz, shit happens. The most important thing is you’re okay.”

  Jeffrey clasped my despondent friend’s hand. “Honey, I’m going to be there for you. Maybe, I’ll do a small fundraiser and invite your top clients and our friends to get things going.”

  “Count me in.” I smiled for the first time, grateful that Chaz finally had a significant other in his life who genuinely loved him. If I ever had to spearhead an event, I knew who was going to be my coordinator.

  “And wedding girl, if that bitch Enid gives you any grief, you let me know. I’ve got plenty of dirt on her and her slutty cohort Monique.”

  “Oooh, like what?” cooed Chaz, instantly cheered up by juicy gossip.

  “They give each other pussy.”

  My eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “No way. They’re gay?”

  “Way. Gayer than eight guys blowing nine guys. Enid’s husband doesn’t know she’s a lesbo.”

  Over breakfast which I treated everyone to, Jeffrey shared more titil
lating tidbits about Enid and Monique. Enid was a screamer and used a whip. Why should that surprise me? And Monique liked it in her bony butt. We were shrieking and howling at everything Jeffrey revealed—from their feather fetish to their lesbian video fetish. Wow! If I ever had the need to send Enid the video I shot of her daughter she might actually get off on it. I couldn’t wait to tell Blake.

  *

  December was here in no time. Things for the wedding were falling into place. The wedding rehearsals—and dinner following at The Bel Air Hotel—were all set up for the night before the monumental event. To my delight, Mrs. Cho’s adorable little daughters were going to be my flower girls and walk down the aisle with Marcy’s twin sons, the ring bearers. Mom and Dad were flying in that morning. And true to his word, Dad would be walking me down the aisle albeit with a cane.

  Gloria Zander gave me a surprise bridal shower. Jeffrey, whose client list was growing rapidly, helped her plan it. Held at Shutters, a chic beachside hotel in Santa Monica, Libby was there along with some of my friends from USC and my rape support group. And guess who else was there—Grandma!—though Blake’s mother couldn’t make it as she was being honored at some long-standing luncheon for her philanthropic accomplishments. To my delight, Vera Nichols, Blake’s sassy Vegas manager, also attended as well as Pussy and Swell. And so did Mrs. Cho. The only person whose presence I sorely missed was my mom; she was afraid to leave Dad alone though he’d insisted she fly out. Libby, God bless her, Skyped her in, so she virtually attended. By the end of the lovely afternoon champagne tea, we were all buzzed, and as Grandma rightly said, “Bubala, you have enough sexy shmexy undies for Blakela to tear off to last a lifetime.” I was going to start that night.

  Later that week, I had my final fitting for Monique’s wedding dress. I’d resigned myself to being the mermaid bride, not the princess bride. Knowing Monique and Enid were secretly having an affair, I could barely keep a straight face as the former made more alterations to my dress. The dress wasn’t perfect, but I hoped my wedding would be. Soon, I’d be floating down the aisle. With all the ups and downs I’d been through, my special day couldn’t get here soon enough.

  The dress had to be taken in. I’d lost some weight from stress. I’d read on some bridal blog this was common, but Blake was worried about me. He felt between the wedding and my work, I was taking on more than I could chew. He was right, but that’s just the way I was. I couldn’t wait for our honeymoon—which Blake had planned all on his own. He was mum on the destination. I couldn’t suck—or fuck—it out of him. All I knew was it some place neither of us had ever been.

  There was one other problem—Bradley. Ever since that restaurant incident, he’d e-mailed me constantly. I refused to open his e-mails and simply put them in my trash file and then deleted them permanently. I wanted nothing to do with him, and I never wanted to see him again. I didn’t tell Blake about the e-mails. For all intents and purposes, Bradley Wick, DDS, was dead to me.

  On the Tuesday of the week before my wedding, I had my last support group meeting of the year. I wasn’t feeling well. All day long, I’d been experiencing cramping. For sure, stress. Blake didn’t want me to go. Not only because of my rundown state, but because there had been a recent chain of gang-driven crimes in the Venice Beach neighborhood where we met. But I insisted. We were going to have a small Christmas party with a gift exchange. Plus, I wanted to thank Dr. Williams for her kindness as well as hug my friends who’d shared and learned to face their fears like me. Blake wasn’t thrilled, to put things mildly. He still had to learn I was a big girl and could take care of myself. And he couldn’t always control me.

  The meeting lasted about an hour. Instead of our normal routine of taking turns to talk about our rape-related issues, we feasted on eggnog and snacks we’d each brought along and shared what we were doing over the holidays. Dr. Williams and my sweet fellow rape victims had been invited to the wedding and were all looking forward to attending. Before leaving, Dr. Williams and I exchanged a hug. She’d helped me so much—especially with my trust issues. I was grateful Blake had urged me to join the group after the Springer attack.

  The mid December air was chilly, especially for LA. Wearing only a lightweight wool sweater, I hugged myself as I walked quickly to my car which was parked a few blocks away. The poorly lit streets were dark and desolate. Nearby sirens sounded in my ears. And then I heard footsteps. So I thought. I anxiously looked over my shoulder. No one. My weary, distrustful mind was playing tricks on me. Paranoia was a recurring feeling among rape victims. We feared being followed and thought it could happen again. Holding my car keys, I picked up my pace until I reached my vehicle. Before I could unlock the door, a harsh voice called out my name.

  Startled, I flipped around and accidentally dropped my keys. I bent down to retrieve them, but another hand got to them first.

  Chapter 12

  Blake

  As much as I loved my tiger, she still knew how to piss me off. She could be as stubborn as a mule. I didn’t want her to go to her rape support group. She was overworked and rundown. Plus, knowing there had been a bunch of gang-related incidents in the seedy Venice Beach neighborhood where they met bugged the shit out of me. If something happened to my tiger, I’d just about die. I’d almost lost her once; I couldn’t lose her again. It wouldn’t have killed her not to go, but it would kill me if something bad happened to her. I was as protective of her as I was possessive.

  Despite my protestations, she insisted on going and told me to take a chill pill. There was nothing I could do to stop her—except tie her up and hold her down—which, in retrospect, I should have done. My cock twitched at the image of her all tied up in ropes. It made me horny as hell. Later when she got home, I was going to live out this fantasy and give her a fucking she wouldn’t forget.

  She’d left the office early to head over to her group, which met weekly at seven p.m. At 7:30, I packed up my briefcase and headed to my car. Once settled inside, I flipped on the radio. Breaking news. The body of a badly beaten young woman had been discovered in Venice, close to Jennifer’s support group center. Her wallet had been stolen and her identity was still unknown. Police and paramedics had rushed to the scene of the crime and were still there. My heart leapt into my throat. I yanked my stick shift into first gear and peeled out of the parking lot.

  Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

  Chapter 13

  Jennifer

  Crouching, my unexpected companion and I were face to face. His nostrils flared. My pulse sounded in my ears.

  “Bradley, what are you doing here? And what do you want?”

  One word: “You.” His fetid breath assaulted me. Shit. He was uncharacteristically drunk.

  I tensed but tried to remain calm and thought I could reason with him. But before I could get my lips to move, he shoved me against the car. My head banged against the frame, and in a painful breath, his slimy lips were all over mine and his hands were groping my breasts. The words “Stop it” stayed lodged in my throat as I tried to fight him off. Tearing at his thinning hair. Pushing him away. He bit my lip with his monstrous teeth and I could taste blood in my mouth. His balls! Go for his balls! But before I could reach for them, he grabbed my wrists tightly.

  “Fuck you, Jennifer,” he hissed.

  “No. Fuck you, you bastard.” Another voice. A voice I recognized.

  In a split second, Bradley was off me. Dangling by his collar in the hands of the man I loved. Blake! My hero!

  Burning with rage, Blake set Bradley on his feet, spun him around, and—POW!—punched him hard in the face. Wincing, Bradley staggered against the car. Blood poured from his nose. Wiping my own bloody lip, I crawled away and stood up. My heart pounded as I watched Blake punch him again. Bradley moaned loudly and put his small hand to his bloody face.

  Blake lifted his hand once more, his fingers balled into a tight fist. Bradley turned his head away and cowered.

  “Man, don’t hit me again!” My despicable ex was practically so
bbing.

  A sudden rush of fear surged inside me. Blake was capable of murder. He had killed for me once and he could do it again. As much as I despised Bradley, I couldn’t let that happen.

  “Please, Blake,” I pleaded. “Leave him alone! He’s had enough.”

  Without acknowledging me, Blake held Bradley fastened in his fiery gaze. My heart galloped and my throat clenched. To my relief, he lowered his fist and then slapped both hands on Bradley’s shoulders, shoving him against my car door. Bradley’s blood-stained lips quivered.

  “Let me go,” he whimpered.

  Blake’s lips snarled. “Don’t you ever mess with my girl. She’s mine now. You fuck with her, you fuck with me.”

  Bradley trembled.

  “Trust me. You’ll be asking Santa for your two front teeth.”

  Bradley parted his lips as if wanted to say something. Blake stopped him.

  “And if I ever see you touch her, I’ll cut off your little dick. You’ll be sucking thumbkin.”

  I watched as Blake kicked him square in the balls. Groping his groin, Bradley groaned and crumpled to the ground. Blake spat at him.

  “Now get the hell out of here, Dickwick. I never want to see you again.”

  I watched as Bradley crawled away.

  Blake’s rage didn’t die down. With pounding steps, he moved my way. I gazed up at him. His razor-sharp eyes pierced me as he held me fierce in his gaze.

  “What the fuck was he doing here?”

  “Oh, Blake! He must have followed me. He’s been stalking me online.”

  “Screw ‘Oh Blake.’” A rage that frightened me swept over Blake’s face. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  I shriveled against the hood of the car. “You’ve been away. Busy. Preoccupied.” I stuttered every word.

  “Fuck you, Jennifer.”

  I shuddered at his angry words.

  “You didn’t listen to me. I had a bad feeling about tonight. I told you I didn’t want to come here, but you did.”