THAT MAN: The Wedding Story

by L'Amour, Nelle

  “How’s Jennifer’s father doing?” asked my old man, after pouring the brandies.

  I’d told my parents what had happened. Both were genuinely heartbroken and had not only called Mrs. McCoy but had also sent an array of exotic get-well flowers to his room that must have cost a small fortune. I filled my father in on the latest—that Harold had been released from the hospital and was determined to walk his little girl down the aisle.

  My father chuckled and took another puff of his Cuban cigar. He blew out a curl of smoke. It faded into the night air. “I’m glad to hear that. If there’s anything your mother and I can do to help, just let us know.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I smiled. My billionaire parents were generous to a fault.

  We imbibed our brandies in unison. My dad set his tumbler down on the round table between us. “So, how’s the wedding shaping up?”

  My father hadn’t been involved. It was my mother’s thing and he gave her total control. Not wanting to create any kind of friction between my parents, I hadn’t told him about the issues we had with Enid and Katrina. Fucking Kat. The velvety brandy seeped through my veins and warmed me. It had been a stressful week, but now I was loosened up. The urge to tell my dad about Kat’s antics burnt my tongue and the words tumbled out. My father listened intently, his lips pressed into a thin grim line. He plunked his tumbler down on the table again—this time with a loud, angry bang.

  “You should have had security arrest her,” he grumbled when I finished relaying the Saks incident. “She’s pure trouble, that girl.” Dad had never liked or trusted Kat despite the friendship between her mother and mine.

  “Yeah, I should have.” I took another sip of my brandy. “Dad, could you talk to Mom and try to get Kat out of our lives?”

  My father flicked a thick layer of ashes into the Baccarat ashtray on the table. “Son, I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’ll blow up in our faces. That crazy girl might go to the tabloids, and that’s the last thing we all need.”

  My wise old man hated negative publicity. It wasn’t good for our family or the company. Fortunately, the incident was handled in a way that had kept it out of the press all these years. I sucked in a deep breath. There was more than just negative publicity at stake.

  “Dad, what if she tells Jennifer?”

  My father’s steel-gray eyes narrowed as he furrowed his bushy brows. “She doesn’t know?”

  I told him how I’d flown to Boise to tell her, but with Jen’s dad’s accident, it just wasn’t the right time. And though Harold was now on the way to recovery, I didn’t want to shake things up by phone or e-mail.

  My understanding father nodded his head of silver hair. “When is she coming back?”

  “Tomorrow.” Friday.

  “Skip Shabbat and take her out for a nice dinner. She’s got to hear it from you. Don’t waste any time.”

  My stomach twisted. Just as fast as my tiger had walked into my heart, just as fast she could walk out. “What if she—”

  My father cut me short. “Blake, no amount of guilt can solve the past, and no amount of anxiety can change the future.”

  My old man’s words of wisdom. I hoped he was right.

  Friday couldn’t get here soon enough or late enough. As much I coveted Jen in my arms—and in my bed—my stomach was in knots. Tonight, I was going to tell her the truth about my past with Kat. I wasn’t sure how she was going to take it. Yes, the past was the past, and with Jen, I’d turned over a new leaf, but I’d kept it from her. My father had once said, there are two different types of sins: sins of commission and sins of omission. I’d committed both.

  We touched base in the morning before she left for the airport. Upon landing, she was going straight to the set of Bound to You, the latest erotic romance we were shooting. She’d managed to score Jessica Chastain and Alexander Skarsgård to play the lead roles. I told her I wanted to meet her for dinner and picked a small romantic French restaurant not far from the set. I couldn’t wait to hold her in my arms and fuck her brains out, but I had to get the truth out first. I owed it to her; she had to hear it from me. It was fucking killing me.

  Shortly after I made an eight o’clock restaurant reservation, an unexpected e-mail showed up in my inbox. My chest tightened. Balls. It was from Kat and marked URGENT in shouty caps in the subject line. Fuck. Had she contacted Jen and told her the story? With apprehension, I opened it.

  Dear Blake~

  I’m really, really sorry about what happened at Saks last week as well as in Vegas. My behavior was totally out of line, and I would like to make it up to you. I hope you’ll agree to meet me for a quick drink so I can apologize in person. There are also some important wedding details I’d like to share with you. I’m planning a big surprise for Jennifer and I’d like to get your input. Please don’t let me down. I hope you don’t mind meeting at Greystone at 6:00 p.m. as I have dinner plans there immediately following with another client.

  Yours~ Kat

  My fingers drummed the keyboard while I stared at the e-mail. Should I agree to see her? Hear her out? Had she finally turned over a new leaf? Or was this just another ruse? Torn, I finally hit reply, driven by my curiosity to find out what surprise she had in mind for Jennifer. I typed three words: See you there. I could spend an hour or so with her and have time enough to meet Jen for dinner. While the bistro I’d chosen was not far from Greystone, traffic in LA on a Friday night was usually brutal, and I didn’t want to be late. In the blink of an eye, Kat replied with a smiley face emoticon.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Burns,” said the flirty mini-skirted blond hostess, who stood by the entrance to Greystone Manor. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  The truth, though I still had a membership, I hadn’t been back to the trendy club since the Conquest Broadcasting Christmas Ball last December. That night I’d fucked my tiger for the first time. Following that unforgettable night, I had no need for my fuck pad. I made a mental note to give it up permanently.

  I told the attractive hostess I was here to meet Kat Moore. Smiling, she told me she was already here and led me through the uncrowded club (which wouldn’t start filling up until much later). She deliberately swayed her hips. While her sexy walk got my attention, it didn’t turn me on. I might still be a looker, but only one woman aroused me.

  A big toothy smile flashed on Kat’s face when she caught sight of me. She was seated at my regular table in the corner. There were plenty of empty tables in the vast club at this hour, but she’d chosen this one. An uneasy feeling settled in me. I was having second thoughts. Maybe agreeing to meet her here was a bad idea.

  My skin prickling, I sat down facing her and crossed my legs under the table. Call it cock protection. My eyes took her in. Dressed in a strapless black dress, she looked, as usual, like a sophisticated goddess. Her wavy blond hair fanned over her broad shoulders, and she was perfectly made up. A bottle of champagne was anchored in an ice bucket beside the table. Kat was already sipping a fluteful of bubbly and had poured one for me.

  “Blake, thank you for meeting me here on such short notice. I hope you don’t mind I ordered a bottle of champagne.”

  She took a small sip. “Your favorite. Cristal.”

  “Actually, I appreciate it. I don’t have much time. I’ve got to be somewhere at eight.” I raised my crystal flute to my lips.

  “Wait, Blake. Don’t drink it until we toast to your wedding.”

  Hesitantly, I clinked my glass against hers, and as the crystal tinged, another smile slithered across her face. I guzzled my champagne as if it were soda water while she took another dainty sip. She then set her glass down and licked her upper lip.

  “So what are you planning for Jennifer?” I asked, wanting to get straight to business. Her body language was unnerving.

  She ran a hand through her thick mane of golden hair. “Oh, Blake. First things first. I’m terribly sorry for what happened in Vegas and at Saks. I spoke to my shrink about the incidents, and he insisted I apolog
ize face to face. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Apology accepted. Now, what do you have in mind?” My words were rushed. Despite what sounded like sincerity, I wanted to get out of here as fast as I could.

  Smiling, she circled the rim of her champagne flute with her long manicured finger. “Well, this is what I was thinking. Why don’t we put together a video montage of you growing up to show at the wedding? I bet Jennifer would get a kick out of that.”

  I thought about the idea. Not a good one. I was sure even if I scrutinized it, Kat would find a way to slip in footage of the two of us. Especially Capri. I still didn’t trust her one fucking bit.

  “I don’t think so. I’d prefer if you did one starring her.”

  “Blake, a wonderful idea.” Still smiling, she paused. “And Blake—”

  “Yes?”

  “You have my word I won’t ever tell Jennifer about our little secret. My lips are sealed.” She slid her finger across her glossed lips.

  I twitched a small grateful smile. “I really appreciate that, Kat.”

  Relieved, I reached into the ice bucket to refill my champagne glass. I fucking loved Cristal. A few more sips and I was out of here. Was I still going to tell Jen about the past? My thinking had grown cloudy.

  As I poured the champagne into my flute, my hand shook. A sudden rush of nausea like I’d never known rose to my chest. The room began to spin. The bottle slipped out of my hand. I heard it shatter, and then everything faded to black.

  Chapter 6

  Jennifer

  I got to Le Petit Café, the small intimate French restaurant where Blake had made a reservation, just a little before eight. I was the first to arrive, and the hostess showed me to our corner table. Blake knew how much I loved this rest­aurant with its can­dle­lit, red-check­ered-clothed tab­les and bis­tro menu; it reminded me so much of Paris where we’d filmed part of Shades of Pearl. Though we’d spoken and Skyped several times a day while I was in Boise, I was so eager to see Blake. I missed him terribly. My blood was streaming through me like champagne—happy little bubbles zapping me with giddiness.

  Over a glass of Bordeaux, I perused the menu and thought about my day. It felt good to get back to work and be on a set. The filming of the first episode of the delightful Vanessa Booke’s Bound to You had gone off without a hitch. I was so excited about this telenovela which we would be airing in the Fall. Today we had filmed the opening scenes that took place in Los Angeles. Rebecca, the spunky curvy heroine played by redhead Jessica Chastain, had said good-bye to her actor boyfriend Miles, played by Matt Bomer, after discovering he was cheating on her with his sexy co-star Scarlett—supermodel Kate Upton. The way Jessica had powerfully delivered the closing line—“I gave you everything, Miles, but you ripped it away. You chose her instead of me.”—had me close to tears. My viewers were going to swoon over this adaptation of this popular erotic romance. Next week, pre-production started up in New York City where the rest of the filming would take place after the holidays. After I got back from my honeymoon.

  The handsome, sandy-haired waiter, who looked to be an aspiring actor, came by and asked if I wanted an appetizer. Though ravenous, I passed and told him I was waiting for someone. I glanced down at my cell phone. It was 8:15. Blake should be here soon. He must be tied up in Friday night traffic. I called him. No answer.

  Taking a small sip of the velvety red wine, I decided to catch up on e-mails. Intermittently, I called and texted Blake. Still no answer. I was growing edgy, and the wine did little to take the edge away. My eyes kept darting to the front of the restaurant, with the hope of seeing Blake fly in.

  It was now going on nine p.m. I was worried. Worried sick. Where was Blake? I called his cell phone every five minutes, but each time it went to his voicemail. I texted him. No response. I called his office and our home phone. No answer. I called Mrs. Cho and then his best friend Jaime, but they hadn’t heard from him either and had no clue where he was. Mrs. Cho, however, did mention he’d left the office early for a meeting. What meeting? He hadn’t mentioned one to me, and unfortunately, Mrs. Cho didn’t know the details. Strange.

  The server came by again to take my order. “I’m still waiting for someone,” I told him glumly. With an irritated shrug, he marched off, leaving me alone. I tried all of Blake’s numbers one more time, but still no Blake. A sudden chill ran through me. My heart hammered. Maybe something had happened to him. Like he’d gotten into a bad car accident. Or mugged. Maybe, I should call the police and all the local hospitals. Oh, God, please, please, please no! And then another equally horrible thought hit me with the force of an avalanche. His secret meeting. Blake always kept Mrs. Cho abreast of his whereabouts. My blood ran cold. Was he seeing someone else? Someone new he met while I was in Boise? All my insecurities and trust issues flooded my brain, and nausea rushed to my chest.

  My cell phone pinged. An e-mail. From Blake? I glanced down at the screen. It was from the last person I wanted to hear from. Kat. She was probably just e-mailing me to confirm my fitting appointment tomorrow. With reluctance, I opened it. The body of the message was all of two words: Please review.

  There were several attachments. All jpegs. Bridesmaid dresses? Seating arrangements? The latest tropical fish that would be swimming in the Bernsteins’ salt-water pool?

  While I was in no mood for wedding detail, I opened the attachments, one at a time. My heart fell to my stomach. And all air left my lungs. The phone shook in my trembling hands.

  “Oh my God,” I heard myself say as I viewed one photo after another of Blake and Kat bared to each other and entwined in a familiar bed. The satin-sheeted one in his fuck pad at Greystone Manor—where he’d fucked me for the first time the night of the Conquest Broadcasting Christmas party. The photos ranged from heated embraces to Kat sucking his cock. And so much more. By the fifth photo, I’d had enough. Scorching tears poured down my face. Oh my God. How could I be so blind? In so much denial? Reality hit me like a crashing meteor. Blake was still into her.

  The server came by again. “Have you decided what you want to order? The kitchen will be closing down soon.”

  I looked up at him with my tear-flooded eyes. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t be staying for dinner.” My voice was a mere rasp. Barely a whisper.

  The server regarded me with compassion. I guess he’d seen a lot of girls stood up in his time. But none as crestfallen as me.

  “No problem, madame.”

  Madame. The French word for “Mrs.” Mrs. Blake Burns was not in my stars.

  “Thank you for understanding.” I dug through my bag and found my wallet. I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. The hundred-dollar bill Blake had given me when I’d stripped for him in that seedy motel; I’d kept it as emergency money. This was an emergency of the worst kind. I plunked it down on the table.

  “I’ll be right back with your change,” the sweet waiter said.

  “No need,” I stammered. While my glass of wine came to only twelve dollars, the hardworking server deserved the money for his time, patience, and compassion.

  “Are you sure?” His eyes lit up with surprise.

  “Yes, please.” I rose from my seat, my knees so weak I thought I’d fall down. The kindly waiter pulled out my chair and helped me up.

  “Merci, madame. I hope you have a lovely evening.”

  That wasn’t happening.

  I don’t know how I made it back to Blake’s condo. Tears blurred my vision, and twice I almost got into a major auto accident. The ache in my heart was so great I thought I might have a coronary. First, Bradley. Now, Blake. But the pain this time was exponentially worse. Unbearable. I needed windshield wipers to wipe my tears away.

  Fortunately, Blake’s condo was not far from the restaurant, and traffic along Wilshire Boulevard was light. I got there in no time. I valeted my car, skirted past the doorman, and hurried upstairs. I made a couple of calls and then collapsed onto the couch. I could no longer share Blake’s bed. It was already ancient history. Tomor
row, I would be gone.

  You chose her instead of me.

  Chapter 7

  Blake

  “Fuck,” I heard myself murmur. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  My head was spinning; my mouth felt like the Mohave Desert, and nausea consumed me. Slowly, I peeled my eyes open—well to be honest, only one. It took me several long, nauseating moments to realize where I was. I was in my Greystone fuck pad, sprawled naked on my bed. I had no fucking idea how I’d gotten here, and the shitfaced way I felt didn’t make remembering any easier. I glanced at my watch. Squinting with the one eye open, I made out the time. It was six o’clock. Except in my windowless suite, I had no idea if it was six in the morning or the evening.

  The bed was a rumpled mess with the covers half off, and I noticed my clothes were strewn on the floor. How did they get there? How did I get here? I hadn’t been back to my fuck pad since the time I’d fucked Jennifer at the office Christmas party. And that was almost a year ago.

  I crawled out of bed. In my sorry state, I could barely stand up. My legs felt like Jell-O and another tidal wave of nausea descended on me. Close to passing out, I collapsed onto the floor and crawled on my hands and knees to the adjacent bathroom. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the toilet in time, but thank fucking God I did. Perched on my knees, I puked my guts out until my throat burned and my insides were torn. Believe it or not, I actually felt a little better. And despite my headache the size of Texas, a little more clear-headed. But I still couldn’t piece together how I’d gotten here or what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  I managed to get to my feet and noticed my cock was flaccid. I’d never woken up without a big boner. Poor Mr. Burns was as wasted and confused as I was. This was bad. Really bad. I quickly brushed my teeth and then staggered out of the bathroom after passing on a hot shower. I didn’t think I was steady enough. One glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed that. I looked like death warmed over. Like someone had painted me with chalk and left me in Death Valley to die. Roadkill.