The Wedding From Hell: Part 2: The Reception

by J. R. Ward

  * * *

  Anne had been sure Danny would talk some sense into Moose. But then the groom announced it was time to head up to the narthex and start seating people. Left with no other choice, she’d made sure her clip-on bow tie was straight, and then she’d done up her jacket and headed out with the others.

  Lot of funny looks as she escorted folks to their seats.

  Particularly from the grandmothers.

  But Anne got used to it as she did her groomsmen job. And after about an hour, she and the rest of the 499 crew were lining up on the right side of the altar.

  She’d been convinced Deandra wouldn’t show at the last minute. Even as the woman’s Pepto-Bismol bridesmaids had beauty-queened it down the aisle. But then the organ music swelled and people were standing and the double doors all the way at the other end of the cathedral were being opened.

  Beneath the soaring arches, bathed in candlelight and the glow of stained glass, Deandra stepped and paused, stepped and paused, stepped and paused, all the way down the red carpeted aisle on the arm of her father, her veil over her features, her train a wake of white stretching behind her.

  As her father lifted her veil, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her hand to Moose, Anne looked at Danny.

  He was stone-faced and standing in disapproval—until he glanced at her.

  All at once, the heat returned between them, charging the air, dampening all sounds.

  She had watched him as he’d tried to talk to Moose and told herself it was because she was trying to read lips to see what he was saying. But that hadn’t been why she’d stared. He looked positively edible in that tuxedo, his rough workman’s hands a delicious contrast to the satin lapels and satin stripe down his slacks.

  Anne looked away. There were a good two hundred people in the church, which, considering the place could seat at least five hundred, meant there were a lot of empty pews. She wished there were a thousand on the invite list.

  At least that way, maybe she could see someone, anyone, other than Danny Maguire.

  “Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him . . .”

  As the priest stared speaking those words, Anne thought about the chances of her ever doing this, and not as a groomsmen but as the bride. She had had a couple of relationships—what twenty-something-year-old woman hadn’t? But they’d never intruded on her drive to perform on the fire service and blow away all the preconceptions about women and what females could do in that job.

  Her career had been the most important thing.

  So why in the hell was she suddenly looking to complicate things by having sex with Danny? She’d gone online and checked the night before. There was absolutely a no-fraternization rule in place for people inside the same firehouse.

  They might be able to have a single hookup, but a relationship was out of the question unless one of the two of them relocated—and she wasn’t looking for a one-night stand.

  She glanced at Danny again. Focused on his full mouth. Pictured him shirtless, his tattoos and his muscles like something out of a firefighters’ calendar.

  No, she told her libido. She absolutely was not looking for a one-nighter.

  chapter

  3

  It was every kitschy, Pinterest, Brides magazine bright idea crammed into the ballroom of the Hyatt Regency New Brunswick.

  Tables with tall crystal displays you couldn’t see around were marked with a different meaningful song, and as you checked in, you had to find your name on a placard and locate the title inside. Which meant two hundred people were stuck walking through the whole setup because there was no numerical or alphabetical order to anything. Then there was the endless lull as pictures were taken of the bridal party. Followed by a plated dinner of rubber chicken, gelatinous risotto, and some kind of green vegetable that might have been deconstructed beans, but could have been pea puree.

  At least Anne could people watch to pass the time. And she was also not at Danny’s table.

  She had won the Crazy Aunt Lottery.

  “—as I was saying, my sister, Melinda, would have been here tonight, but she has problems with her knees.”

  Anne turned to her left. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  The old woman who was speaking smiled, revealing dentures that were as even and round-topped as a picket fence. Courtesy of her sequined purple dress, sparkles flashed up her wrinkled neck and highlighted her eroded jawline. Her hair, tightly permed and dyed the same deep red as her lipstick, made her a candidate for Willy Wonka’s mother.

  “It’s just too much for Melinda, you know. She’s younger than I am, but not in as good shape. I’ve told her she needs to get out more with her walker. She’s getting a Hoveround chair—have you seen the commercials on TV?”

  Her name was . . . Margie? Marianne?

  “I work out,” she said proudly. “I’m seventy-eight and I bet you never would have guessed.”

  “Ah . . . no, I wouldn’t have.”

  “Have you ever heard of Prancercise?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “It’s all the rage. You might want to try it. Here, let me show you on my phone. I have a Samsung—”

  “Oh, Mary Ellen, will ya give it a rest. No one gives a shit about your stupid Prancercise bullcrap.”

  Anne turned to her right. Unlike Mary Ellen, this sister had retained a strong Fall River accent, her cigarette- and whiskey-fried vocal cords making her sound like a foghorn that had developed a shocking competency with some version of the English language. She was clearly over eighty, and dressed in a pantsuit that would have fit right in with Mike’s Tuxedo Rentals’ changing area.

  “Well.” Mary Ellen sat back and lifted her chin. “I don’t understand why some people can’t live and let live.”

  “ ’Course ya can’t. ’Cuz you’re always pushin’ ya shit on other folks.” The pantsuit aunt leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s always been like this. Bettah than everybody else.”

  “Can we not fight?”

  Anne looked across the table. This other sister looked worried in the way someone on a train who might, or might not, be developing stomach issues would get if they weren’t sure where the bathroom was.

  And there were three other octogenarians seated around, all first cousins of the ones with the names that started with “M.” Along with the vacant chair that Melinda of the Hoveround should have been in.

  “Tell me, dear,” one of the cousins asked, “when are you getting married? Now that your kind can do that.”

  “Excuse me?” Anne asked.

  The little old lady lowered her voice. “You know, the . . . gays,” she whispered. “You people.”

  Across the way, Deandra mashed a piece of wedding cake into Moose’s beard, and then the eighties cover band started up a beat.

  I have to get out of here, Anne thought. Right now—

  “Dance with me?”

  She jumped as Danny’s voice spoke over the din of the music. Glancing over her shoulder, she nearly jumped up and grabbed onto him like he was a life raft.

  “Yup. Absolutely.” She put her napkin on the table. “Will you excuse me?”

  She didn’t wait for permission. She bolted out of there, grabbing Danny’s hand and going Olympic sprinter to the dance floor.

  Under any other circumstance, she probably would have thought better about it, but when your evac away from the frontlines appeared, you didn’t stop to criticize the fact that the SUV lacked air-conditioning.

  Or that the guy you’d agreed to dance with was someone you were desperate to be with, against your better judgment.

  Danny swung her around, and then brought her close—spun her out, tugged her back in. He was a great dancer, a Channing Tatum who knew where his body was in space, rather than a Duff who—yup, was right now hard-angling it with one of the bridesmaids.

  The poor man was like an arthritic before a visit to the chiropractor.

  As she and Danny danced, she thought
of when they’d been measuring her at the tux place, him looming, powerful and strong behind her, that heat kindling. Then she remembered the two of them in that back alley, unwitting saviors to that prostitute and her boyfriend and the pimp.

  Then that kiss.

  Anne looked up, into his eyes. He stared back at her. They moved together.

  The song ended. Another began. And still they danced.

  It was easy to forget there were other firefighters around, other colleagues they worked with, other people who knew them both. With the lights lowered, and the lasers streaking across like shooting stars, and the beat of the music, it was as if they were alone.

  What are you going to do, Anne, she asked herself. Because everything about this was an invitation.

  Four songs in, she made her mind up.

  Leaning into him, she said, “Let’s finish what we almost started.”

  Danny’s eyes flared and he stilled, his body throwing off heat.

  “No one can see us leave.” She stepped back. “And no one can ever know.”

  “I don’t care if you forget my name right afterward. I just . . . I need you, Anne.”

  She wasn’t a fool. She knew this was just a hookup. But she didn’t want to do the good and sensible thing tonight.

  Tomorrow she would regret this. Right now? She just wanted to be naked. With him.

  “I have a room,” he said. “Upstairs. Eleven-oh-nine. I’ll go up now and leave the door open. Meet me there in ten minutes.”

  Her heart started hammering. “Okay.”

  Danny took off, shuffling past the tables, beating feet for the door. A couple of people tried to stop him to talk, and when Duff tried to stand in his way, it was pretty clear Danny was prepared to pick the guy up and throw him across the entire ballroom.

  Anne put her hand on her sternum. Holy crap, was she really going to do this?

  * * *

  Up on the eleventh floor, Danny stepped out of the elevator and ripped off his bow tie, shoving the clip-on into his jacket pocket. Desperate to get naked, he started unbuttoning his shirt before he’d even made it to his room, and the only reason he kept his fucking pants on as he ditched the pleated monstrosity was because he wanted to give Anne a chance to tell him no.

  Assuming she came up.

  Fuck, what if she didn’t come up?

  The room had a king-sized bed, a kitchenette, and a flat-screen TV you could pivot in any direction. It also had a minibar. Opening the cupboard of little bottles, mini mixers, and crackers, he took out an itty-bitty Jack Daniel’s, cracked the top, and downed the shot and a half on a oner.

  Thing was probably going to cost him eight bucks.

  And it was the first of three.

  Even though he’d been with an embarrassingly large number of women—thank you, college frat house—Anne made him feel like a fumbling virgin, all nerves and thumbs.

  Pacing around, he went over to the window and looked out over the city: Twinkling towers of the four skyscrapers New Brunie had. Streams of traffic showing white headlights as they came toward the hotel and red brakes as they went away from it. Glowing pockets of suburbia on the outer rim.

  Shit, he hadn’t turned any of the lamps or overheads on. He was just here in the dark—

  The slice of light that penetrated the room spun him around. And there Anne was, in her tuxedo, the woman he had hoped was coming to see him the night before.

  “Anne . . .”

  His voice was needy and hoarse, and as she stepped inside, his erection got even stiffer behind the zipper of his pants.

  She closed the door behind her softly. And when she kicked off her shoes, he broke out in a sweat, his breath starting to pump.

  He’d never thought this was going to happen, he realized. But like so much in life, here it was.

  Anne came forward to him, her feet whispering over the carpet. Dimly, he was aware of voices out in the corridor, a woman’s laughter, a door closing with a loud thunk.

  “I just don’t want anyone to know.” She stopped in front of him. “It’s hard enough being a woman on the service without getting slapped with a bimbo label.”

  Danny frowned. “No one will ever think that of you.”

  “If they know I slept with a firefighter, they will.” She shook her head. “You will be a hero. I will be a slut. And don’t argue with me.”

  “I won’t.” And if you want me to beg? Just tell me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Reaching out, his hand trembled, but he didn’t give a fuck. “I’ve wanted to do this for years.”

  Drawing her forward, he lowered his lips until they were a hairsbreadth away from hers.

  “Stop me now,” he said in a guttural voice. “If you’re going to stop me, do it now.”

  In response, she pulled him down to her, the kiss direct, explosive, desperate. He’d wanted to be slow and considerate, but the taste of her, the slick slide of her tongue against his own, the clinging warmth of her body put bullshit to all that take-it-easy pre-planning he’d lectured himself on while riding up in the elevator.

  In all of his life, he’d never expected to drop a tuxedo jacket from the shoulders of someone he was going to make love to, but Anne had always been a shocker to him. And as that coat she’d rented hit the floor, he went for the buttons of her shirt as he kept their mouths fused. The bastard fastenings were tiny and obstinate, but they did what his willpower had failed at: They pumped the brakes.

  He penetrated her again with his tongue, learning what she liked as, one by one, he freed those cocksucking, motherfucking, piece-of-shit—

  “I want to rip this shirt apart,” he said into her mouth.

  “I don’t want to have to pay for it.”

  “I’ll just do it in my mind, then.” As she laughed, he smiled and kissed her some more. “God, you taste amazing.”

  And then the shirt went the way of the jacket and—

  No. Bra.

  Danny swayed in his fancy shoes. Her breasts were in perfect proportion to her athletic body, high and tight, tipped with nipples that were pink.

  Sweeping his hands up, he captured them and then bent down, sucking one and then the other into his mouth.

  The groan she let out almost left him coming in his pants.

  chapter

  4

  Anne let herself arch up to Danny’s mouth as he kissed and sucked at her, the velvet of his tongue lapping and licking, driving her higher and higher. Spearing a hand through his black hair, she held him in place against her breasts, wanting more.

  “On the bed,” he said. “We gotta get on the bed.”

  He picked her up as if she didn’t weigh a damn thing and laid her out on the bedspread. As he joined her, kneeling over her body, she ran her hands up his six-pack and traced his tattoos. So much ink marked him, but it was not the kind that had been added to impress others. Rather, it was to memorialize that which was important to him: What he’d had put into his skin was a map of grief, the birthdates and quotes and images and portraits of those who had been lost on the service forever with him, forever a part of him.

  “Don’t go there,” he said roughly. “Don’t look at them.”

  He took her hands from the tattoos.

  “Stay in the present with me,” he whispered. “Now we’re alive. Now . . . we’re together. I don’t want to waste a second of this if it’s my only chance.”

  There was sadness in his voice, and that was a surprise. She had assumed he’d be relieved that what was happening between them was a one-night-only, a secret, a nevermore instead of an evermore.

  His reputation with women was not one of longevity, no matter what he’d said in that rehearsal speech.

  “Please,” he said. “Stay with me.”

  Danny was magnificent as he hung in the air, on the precipice above her, his broad chest rising and falling like he’d been running, his shoulders bunched up, his biceps and veined forearms striated and strong. He was the male animal, and he was ready
to mate.

  His arousal was obvious behind his fly.

  Anne drew him back to her mouth, and his heavy body came willingly, finding a home between her thighs. Rolling her hips against him, she stroked his erection with her core through their slacks, and the growl that came back to her made her feel sexier than any compliment could ever have.

  Slipping her hands between them, she freed the button at his waistband and he twisted to the side so she could unzip him.

  What shot out at her was thick and hard and hot.

  Commando, she should have known. And shit . . . that was erotic.

  “Anne, fuck!” he groaned as she circled him with her hand and stroked him.

  He didn’t let her get far with that. He grabbed both her wrists, pulled her away and stretched her arms up, pinning them to the mattress.

  Dropping his head, he breathed hard as a freight train. “You’re going to make me finish way too early if you keep that up.”

  Moaning in the back of her throat, she arched again and he cursed in her ear.

  This time, when he kissed her, he didn’t hold back. His lips ground down on her own, and she wanted the passion, she needed him, all of him.

  Her slacks were off her next. Then his were all the way gone.

  And her panties went flying across the room.

  “Condom,” she said. “Do you have—”

  “Hold on. I think so. Wait here.”

  Danny was usually as coordinated as any athlete, and yet he stumbled as he got off the bed, catching himself on the bureau before he face-planted on the carpet. Over at his bag, he threw shirts and boxers over his shoulder—

  “Fuck.”

  As he hung his head, she put her hands to her face. She hadn’t expected to have sex, so she certainly didn’t have anything with her. And there were probably condoms down in the gift shop, but if he bought them, it was going to cause talk—