As much as I love my sister, I’ve tried to keep my distance ever since I set foot at Whitney Briggs. Suddenly, she’s a tad too maternal now that my virginity has a glaring spotlight over it—no thanks to the fact Sunday had a fire sale on her own. Nevertheless, I plan on bumping into more than my fair share of bad boys while I’m at WB—sans Dirty Boy and that greasy grin of his. I’d like to teach him a lesson out back—with the working end of my stiletto.
I clock in before heading straight to my area and cringe at the matrimonial sight before me.
A bride.
A bride seated at a table set for twenty. A very bedraggled looking, sour-faced, pissed off bride with a dress that looks as if she just yanked it out of the bottom of a trash can, wrinkled, grimy—and is that a tire track across the front? I’m guessing the nuptials didn’t go the way God intended.
“Welcome to the Black Bear Saloon,” I say, hopping next to her while whipping out my notepad. “Can I get something started for you while you await the rest of your party?” Like a good divorce attorney perhaps, I want to add but shockingly don’t. Tonight seems to be taking on a life of its own. It sure doesn’t need me running off my mouth, even though Lex’s husband, Axel, is a perfectly good attorney turned restaurateur—and this poor bedraggled bride looks as if she needs the brightest and the best in the legal department. Axel and a couple of his buddies opened up a similar bar-slash-eatery over on the ritzier, far less studious, side of town called The Sloppy Pelican. Axel’s brother, Shep, is an attorney as well. I make a face without meaning to. It’s sort of my go-to response when that public defending nuisance comes to mind, and I do my best to swat him away like the mental gnat he is.
“She’s younger than me. She’s got big boobs, too.” The bullish and yet somewhat blushing bride smirks up at me.
Whoa. I take a step back in hopes to duck out of the toxic current she’s just emitted. It looks as if she’s coming in hot with a full tank of ethanol judging by that slight slur in her speech coupled with the vodka breeze.
She slaps her left hand on the table, and I can’t help but note there’s nary a sign of any ring or bling. “Hell, he probably calls them tits because men are pigs that way.”
“Uh…right.” No matter how much I agree with her I’m about to steer this conversation in a culinary direction when a mob of women in alarmingly matching, slightly dingy, bedraggled wedding dresses storm in. And sadly, I’m not in the least surprised.
At the moment, I’m talking to who I guess to be the head bitter bride, an older woman with severe bags under her eyes. Her face looks blotchy and bloated, as worn out as that gray dress she’s donned. A ratted veil is staked into her thick blonde hair, and it looks as if she just plucked it off a corpse bride—not that she doesn’t qualify as one herself. I clear my throat. “You know what?” I muse as the bitter bride brigade falls into their seats like a coven of angry witches whose spells have all just backfired. “Why don’t you ladies take your time with the menu? I’ll be back in just a bit to take your order.”
The head bride lets out a mean whoop while waving in another whole legion of runaway brides in this direction. “Oh, honey, this is going to be one hell of a breakup bash. I came within inches of that unholy altar before I saw the light, and believe you me I’m damn thankful. You just keep the margaritas coming. Hell, we can cut out the middleman. Just send the damn bartender this way. We’ll figure out what to do with him.” The entire table breaks out into cackles over that salacious remark.
“Gladly,” I mutter as I jump out of the way and signal Cole over to take a stab at the howling matrimonial masses. Cole is handsome, classically so, dark hair, permanent naughty grin, but he’s very much taken. His plus one, Roxy, is a slit-your-throat type Goth girl who happens to bake the best darn cupcakes in town. Roxy runs her own baking business out of her apartment, and word on the street is she’s looking for a place downtown to open up a real shop in the very near future.
“Breakup bash,” I hiss as he glides by with an ear-to-ear grin. “I’m guessing she’s the one that called it off.”
“I’ve seen it all, Serena,” Cole assures me. “Don’t worry about the crowds. Roxy is coming in to help man the tables.”
Not only has Holt taken time off to tend to his wife and sweet baby, but two waitresses left for the Bahamas this morning so we’re down to a skeleton crew.
“Good thing.” I sigh as I make my way to where Sunday and Seth are seated having a seemingly romantic dinner in a darkened corner. Her belly is bloated like a beach ball, and she can hardly lean over to place her hands on the table. I can’t help but smile at how adorable she is.
No sooner do I arrive in their presence than they flick down a couple of twenties over their bill.
“No,” I whine without meaning to. “You guys can’t leave. You’re the only thing holding my sanity together.” I dip my knees while doing my best to plead with Sunday.
Sunday and I are like sisters. We just finished our freshman year at Briggs, and here she is, knocked up and engaged to the boy who did the dirty deed, her longtime secret crush, Seth. Seth’s a good guy. We’ve known him forever, too. Sure, it was pure evil of him to keep it from Sunday that he was indeed the one-night stand she had way back in December, but the truth is, they were both pretty toasted and Seth was scared spitless. But he’s admitted now, and that entire boozy nightmare is in the past. They’re both happy as can be, and that baby on the way is more than lucky to have the two of them for parents—and me as an aunt.
“We haven’t even talked about your wedding.” I try to appeal to her matrimonial side. “I’m thinking something huge at The Sloppy Pelican,” I tease, knowing full well the idea will be met with the utmost protest.
Sunday averts her eyes on cue. She is a natural beauty, even though she chooses to wield makeup as if it were a weapon. She has a popular beauty vlog on YouTube and has a bazillion subscribers who have helped land her to a semi-famous status. Plus, it keeps her bank account in the black.
I’m not that lucky or talented, and the only thing I’ve got to keep me in a pittance of green is the tips I earn on crazy nights like this.
Sunday glowers at me. “Definitely not at The Sloppy Pelican.” Seth helps Sunday out of her seat, and I’d swear on all of my unearned tips that her belly grew twice its size since I saw her a few hours earlier.
Sunday wrinkles her nose. “We were thinking something small and private at the overlook.” Ha! Lex and I called it. “You know, about ten people or so? It’s where Seth proposed, so it has meaning to us. Plus, that way, I won’t be such a public spectacle. Nothing calls out the rubberneckers like a knocked-up child bride.”
“If people are craning their necks to get a better look at you, it’s because you’re a stunner. Newsflash: you’re nineteen. You’re no longer considered a child by any public entity.”
“Yes, but I can’t legally drink at my own wedding either.” She pulls me in and lands a sweet kiss to my cheek. “Sorry I’m going to miss your date, but I’m beyond zonked. I’m half-asleep already. Growing another human really does take a lot out of you.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.” I suck in a sharp breath as her words finally register. “My date? Oh my God, I totally forgot all about that brewing disaster.”
I give a nervous glance to the door for said “date” who is supposed to show up in a yellow denim jacket. That fashion faux pas was the first red flag in this entire debacle. I can forgive a lot of fashion-based errors, but can I really forgive a yellow denim jacket—on a first date, no less?
My God, did Dirty Boy show up sporting a canary on his person? I glance to the bar and spot him—thankfully sans the yellow jacket—going at it again. This time with some dark-haired dude who looks just as slimy as he does.
I give the rest of the place a quick once-over and come up empty of that slightly obnoxious hue.
This is all my roommate Harley’s fault. She’s the one who convinced me to swipe right. I spot her near
the back laughing it up with a couple of our friends, Colby and Teagan. She’s been plotting all week on how to best corner her new crush, Tyson Swanson, basketball player extraordinaire—but really, he’s just a player. I have no idea what she sees in that perverted oaf. I spot him a few feet to her left, and I’m positive that boy is on her radar while I’m on the warpath of some yellow-loving psychotic.
“A date.” I look to Sunday and shake my head at the lunacy. “I can’t believe I’m staring down the barrel of the unknown, save for the fact he’s assured me he’s totally sane and I’ll love him to pieces. What I’m really afraid of is him hacking me to pieces. How about you stay and I toss in a free dessert? Or twelve,” I say in an effort to sweeten the deal.
Seth laughs as he pats me on the back. “You’ll be fine. This place is loaded with disillusioned brides ready and willing to do a testosterone takedown on whomever you point the finger at. Whatever you do, don’t let the guy take you to a second location.” He gives a cheesy wink while pulling Sunday in close. “But seriously, evaluate the dude. Make sure his check engine light isn’t going off.” He taps the side of his head. “And if it is, take preemptive action. Call Marlin. Tell him to bring backup.”
“Not a bad idea.” Marlin is my older brother who happens to be armed to the hilt as a decorated member of the Jepson Police Department.
I watch, forlorn, as both Sunday and Seth hit the exit, and just as they leave, an ornery jackass enters the establishment.
“Great,” I grunt just as Roxy passes me by.
“Take the left wing, would you?” She pauses on her way to the kitchen and steals a moment to glare at the bitter brides. “Sorry you have to deal with that mess. Personally, I think they’re pulling this stunt to achieve minimal fame.” She takes off again. “By the way, I called Baya. Hopefully, she’ll be here soon. But until then, we’re skating on thin ice.”
Roxy is Cole’s aforementioned better half. She’s a bit jarring to look at with her kohl-inked eyes, her Cherry Coke-inspired hair, and sardonic view of life. I, for one, happen to appreciate her nonstop sarcasm and dry humor. We redheads are known for our spicy way with words. I always seem to get along with fellow redheads, although I’m of the natural variety and my mane is anything but Cherry Coke-inspired. I’m more of a crimson hair and hormones on fire kind of a redhead with the luck-of-the-Irish green eyes to match. Although I’ve never been lucky—my Irish genes failed me long ago in that respect.
I watch as Shepherd Collins, the jackass that just made his way in, finds a seat in my newly minted wing and I groan.
“No, no, no,” I whisper as my feet lead me in that direction without my permission. I’ve known Shep for as far back as I can remember. My sister, Lex, and his brother, Axel, married last December after a rather lengthy hiatus in their relationship, so that makes us quasi-family. And speaking of family, it turns out Shep tragically lost his sister, Emilia, not too long ago while she was hiking with her boyfriend. She had a freak fall, and that was that. My heart breaks for the family, and for Shep in that regard, but it doesn’t change the fact he’s still an ass of the highest order.
Lucky for my sister, Axel is emphatically not an ass. In addition to being a successful lawyer turned restaurateur, he’s invested in my sister’s restaurant critique start-up, The Epicurean Elite. Leave it to my perennially cranky big sis to start a business that specializes in nitpicking. Okay, so maybe that’s not the point. The point is to lead the masses to quality good food—like right here at the Black Bear—where good food leads to long nights that try my sanity with the promise of great tips for yours truly.
I scowl over at the hunchbacked oaf. Okay, so I’m totally lying. Shep Collins is as far from the Hunchback of Notre Dame as one can get. He’s tall, olive complexion, dark hair, bright blue eyes that siren out like the hottest kind of flame, and, at the moment, he seems to be smoldering in my direction with a come-hither look that sets my thighs on fire. He’s ridiculously, unfairly, good-looking. And, when you get down to it, he’s really just ridiculous.
I march over and fold my arms across my chest, legs set in a defiant stance—I can’t help it. Something about the asshole in him brings out the angry self-righteous thirteen-year-old in me.
“Would you mind picking your stubborn self up and sitting in the rear of the establishment? And if you just so happen to find the back entrance, feel free to stroll right out into the wild. There’s a dumpster there somewhere, loaded with leftovers. I’m sure a wild boar like you can make a meal of it.”
His left brow arches into his forehead, and his obnoxious ocean-colored eyes light up as if someone just flipped a switch. Then slowly, ever so determined, he flashes that annoying grin across his demented face just for me.
“I see you’re in top form, Serena. You really are a brat, you know that?”
“What did you just have the blue balls to call me?” I pluck the pen from behind my ear and brandish it like a weapon.
“You called me a pig.” That obnoxious grin of his does a disappearing act, and I’m mildly proud of myself for inducing such a quick turnabout of emotion in him. I like him good and pissed, because that’s exactly what he does to me the instant I lay eyes on him—pisses me off without even trying. “You do realize a wild boar is a feral pig, don’t you?” He gives a slight nod. That condescending tone makes me want to smother him with a pillow or that banana cream pie Roxy is carrying across the room one-handed.
“Of course, I realize it. I know one when I see one, and I’m feasting my eyes on the most feral of them all. Now oink yourself to the other side of the room lest you risk your food be seasoned with saliva! And you won’t have the pleasure of it being mine. There are at least twenty frat boys in the poolroom willing to oblige me.” I smear a greedy grin of my own.
“I bet they are.” He pulls a menu forward and attempts to open it, but I slam it shut with the palm of my hand.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” A rush of fury explodes through every vein in my body. I’m so blind with rage, I could lift this building on its side with just a single acrid glance. I’ll make sure Shep is lying in wait while I tip it over. An image of him flat as a pancake flits through my twisted mind, and I can’t help but smile.
He glances up, his brows furrowed as if I had the ability to wear him thin. “It means you’re beautiful. And I’m sure an entire herd of frat boys would be glad to gift you whatever bodily fluids you request.” He winces at his own decidedly disgusting analogy.
I suck in a sharp breath. “Wow, you give pigs everywhere a bad name,” I seethe. “In fact, the more time I spend with you, the more I’m convinced your mother had a rectal delivery.”
I turn abruptly and take off for dingy, gray, wedding pastures where I see Cole has liquored up our bitter bridal party of matrimonial doom to maximum tipping capacity. It’s a fine line between happily tipping over the twenty percent line and being too drunk to define the word tip—let alone walk a straight line to your Uber.
Tip or no tip, they look just like the bitter, jaded, She-Man-Testosterone-Haters that I’m more than willing to break bread with. I’m so sick of guys like Shep and Dirty Boy ruining my night—my life.
Hey! I might soon add yet another nuisance to my list if Bee Boy shows up sporting his yellow jacket. For a second there, I totally forgot about the horny hornet looking to regale me with his stinger this evening.
I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and jolt to attention by way of Shep Collins’ devilishly handsome face, emphasis on the devilish, peering at me from less than an inch away.
“Geez!” I jump back, clutching my chest as my heart does its best to kickbox its way out of my chest. “You gave me a freaking heart attack. The restrooms are that way.” I toss a finger past him. “And so is the exit. I won’t tell you which is which. I kind of like the fifty-fifty odds that you’ll be leaving us.” I manufacture a deranged smile.
“Whoa.” He holds his hands out as if attempting to steady me. “Relax. I j
ust wanted to—”
“Apologize, I know.” I shoot a brief glance to the ceiling. Shep and I have played this game far too many times for me to care anymore. “And please for the love of all things holy, take your ornery self and find another establishment to haunt. I have a big, bad date due to arrive in just a few minutes, and he’s tall, dark, and—” A bright yellow jacket snags my attention from the entry, and I choke on my next words.
Tall, dark-haired, ratted, tatted, roided out to the point he looks like he belongs in a Marvel comic and not in any good way—and, my God, he’s got the Mr. T starter kit hanging around his neck! His muscles are bulging, creating large, meaty humps as they stretch his jacket taut over his biceps. That T-shirt he’s got on underneath is stretched to capacity itself, and there are mounds and mounds of dark curly hair sprouting from his neckline. He’s a plague of a person, huffing and puffing as he scans the crowd as if he’s got a bone to pick from an unlucky body. And not a shocker, I just so happen to be the unlucky one.
I snatch Shep by the shoulders and scream as I do my best to use him as a human shield. That hulk at the door has a serious case of toxic masculinity, and I want no part of it.
“What?” He turns abruptly and shoots a glance at the entrance. “What’s going on?” He looks back, his body relaxing beneath the death grip I have over it. “Wait a minute… Is Donald Duck—is that your big, bad date for the evening?”
“Very funny. My God, he looks downright dangerous!”
“Dangerous is right,” Shep muses. “He definitely looks like he knows where the bodies are buried.”
Summer Breeze Kisses Page 60