by JA Huss
I tsk my tongue. “I’m not gonna badmouth him in public. But I will tell my brothers.”
“That would be enough to make me set things right.”
My brothers take their sibling responsibilities seriously. Of course, they are much calmer now that we’re all grown up, but back when I was a teenager? Yeah, buddy. Anyone who messed with me learned to never do it again. Except Karen Krakken. Because that bitch had a hold of Lonz back then. Normally though, they do swoop in to rescue me any time I need it. They are very suspicious of Jesse and I never even told them about how he broke my heart all those years ago.
So yeah. Fingers should be trying his best to make this right. You do not mess with the Dumas family.
Even though I’m hopeful, I’m super skeptical as the car takes us further and further from the Strip until we’re outside the city limits completely and pull into a Santa Fe-style resort with dozens of well-dressed people milling about in front.
“That’s them, huh?” I ask, leaning into Jesse to try to get a better look at everything.
“I guess so,” he replies.
But there’s no time to say anything else because the moment the car stops there’s a valet opening his door. Jesse gets out, adjusting his puffy pirate shirt uncomfortably, and then extends his hand to me, and helps me exit with grace. Even though there is absolutely nothing graceful about me in this moment. I’m a hot pirate-wench mess.
Immediately a horde of women attaches themselves to me and all of them are speaking Italian. So I have no idea what they are talking about.
I look back at Jesse, and he’s being equally monopolized by a group of men. Old, young, even a few teenagers. They have him by the arms and are dragging him off.
“I’ll see you at the altar,” he yells, smiling big.
I don’t know what to say. The women are all pushing and tugging me off in the complete opposite direction. And then he disappears around the corner of the building and I’m being ushered through a wooden gate and into a small courtyard paved with cobblestones.
The women are all speaking to me. From their tone I can tell they are excited and happy. So I relax and think about the upcoming bubble bath, then hair and makeup. Finally, for the first time today, I will feel special.
Yeah. OK. I’m in. I can do this. Fingers will come through for us and this wedding… it’s gonna be the dream wedding. So what if they’re not my family? Maybe Vinnie was right? The Shotgun Wedding just might be the golden ticket as far as Vegas elopements go.
Besides, eventually—probably next spring as planned—I’m sure Jesse and I will have the ‘real’ wedding. And my mother can boss her way through that one all she wants. Who cares? Jesse and I get this one crazy day all to ourselves.
They lead me into a spa. I’m talking there’s half a dozen mani-pedi chairs, all of them filled with my new female family members, and a massage table—empty at the moment. But boy, what I wouldn’t give for a thirty-minute massage right now. Four ladies doing hair, and yes! A room with a huge circular bathtub filled with bubbles and steam flowing up into the overly-cold air-conditioned room.
I am peeling my clothes off as I walk, that’s how good that bath looks. And by the time I get to the other side of the room, I’m naked. In front of strangers. And I don’t even care.
One of them—a woman about my age—says something cheerful in Italian and then ushers everyone out and closes the huge double doors behind her.
I dip one foot in the water and groan with happiness. Then climb all the way in and sink down into the hot water with a sigh.
I might never get up.
Everything is wonderful. This whole mess of a day just fades away as I duck my head under and get my hair wet, then reach for the bottles of shampoo off to the side. There are several to consider in pretty, unmarked bottles. I sniff them all and choose one with a faint scent of cherries. It’s not overpowering and when I lather it up on my head, the bubbles feel luxurious and thick.
The tub has a handheld sprayer so I rinse and then use a conditioner in a matching bottle. Once that’s done, I spend several minutes scrubbing the theatre make-up off my face. And that’s when I feel like myself again.
There’s a knock at the door almost in that same moment. The same young, pretty woman who ushered everyone out earlier pokes her head in and says something quick and cheerful in Italian.
I have no clue what she’s talking about, but this is a wedding and I’m the star attraction. So I assume she’s telling me to hurry. She points to a thick, white robe hanging on a peg near the tub and yup. It’s time to get out.
As great as the bath felt, I’m ready to get this show on the road. I really think Fingers will come through for us and even though I have a feeling the dress will be a little more… full than I imagined in my dream wedding, I’m also confident it will be gorgeous.
This whole place is pretty. And I caught a glimpse of some of the bridesmaids as I was ushered into the bathroom. The dresses were a pale yellow. Very tasteful. Very sophisticated.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll love the dress?
I get out, wrap the robe around me, and then step out of the bathroom. The cheerful woman points me over to a chair for hair and four mani-pedi women appear in a swarm and get started on my hands and toes.
I sigh as I look in the mirror, listening intently to the hairdresser as she explains what she’s going to do in Italian. Luckily, she uses a lot of hand gestures and I get the gist.
Updo. Nice.
A hair dryer whirls into action as I smile down at my hands and toes, and then close my eyes and enjoy it, thinking, If Fingers keeps this up, I might have to tip the man.
I doze a little, still pretty worn out from our crazy adventure. This time yesterday we were just getting ready for the street party.
Shit. I wonder where my family thinks we are? We’ve definitely been missed at this point. It’s nearly four in the afternoon. Note to self: Once the wedding is over, I will call home and explain everything.
My mother will be livid. But she’ll get over it. And besides, we’ll be home by tomorrow for sure. We have to be home by tomorrow because I have to give Jesse his Christmas present.
Let me tell you, buying presents for a man who has everything? Not easy. I could get him anything he wants. But he could get himself anything he wants too.
So the trick is to get him something he wants, but won’t get himself.
I figured out exactly what that was months ago and tomorrow, on Christmas Day, he will be surprised.
I wonder what he’ll get me? I’m the same as Jesse. I can afford to buy myself any present I want. But is Jesse clever enough to come up with something I want, but can’t buy with money?
We’ll see, I guess.
But even if he does get me something material, like a piece of jewelry or a car, or a trip—I don’t care. This day, even with all its faults and disappointments, it’s one in a million. There’s no way we could’ve planned this crazy adventure.
So I don’t care what he gets me for Christmas. As far as I’m concerned, this is my present and I love it.
Yup. This wedding is the one. I’m sure of it.
I really do doze off after that, because the next thing I know I’m being shaken awake. I open my eyes and the woman staring back at me in the mirror is… “Wow!” I smile up at all the ladies. “Wow, you guys! I look amazing!”
And I do. My dark hair is up in a pretty updo with just enough tendrils falling down the side of my face to be artistic, but not messy. And I have a little tiara on my head with a short veil that covers just my eyes.
And my eyes. Wow! They are smoky gray with a little shimmer of bronze and gold, but not depths-of-hell dark like the pirate wedding makeup. My cheeks are the perfect shade of rosy, and my lips are the perfect glistening pink.
I nod in approval and clap my hands. “I love it!” I beam at them and they beam back. “So great, you guys!”
Then they’re urging me up and leading me over to… “Holy s
hit!” That dress is spectacular. No, I wasn’t imagining a poofy Cinderella dress with layers and layers of tulle and off-the-shoulder-satin for sleeves when I pictured my fantasy wedding, but… I’m not complaining about this. It’s a million times better than anything the mean Russian Stasia could come up with, that’s for sure!
A whole crew bustles around me, helping me put on the corset lingerie, tying me up tight, but not too tight. These girls really know what they’re doing.
But what do I expect? They are professional bridesmaids, I guess.
I put the garters and stocking on, thinking that Mr. Boston is really gonna get a neat little treat when he finally gets to lift my dress up afterward. Then they help me step into the gown.
Because that’s what this is. Not a dress, a gown. With more underskirts than I’d prefer, but when they spin me around after hooking up all the buttons in the back, and I see myself in the mirror—holy shit, yes. Yes! This is what Emma Dumas, the Bossy Bride, should look like!
But I only have a few moments to appreciate myself in the mirror before the music starts playing somewhere outside and everyone starts chattering away in Italian.
I figure this is my cue.
It’s time to get married.
I let them bustle me outside and back into the courtyard. Then they grab my hands and we move forward as a team towards the chapel.
And Vinnie was right. The chapel is gorgeous. And that’s just the outside of it. Its white walls with artfully placed patches of crumbling plaster make it look like something built hundreds of years ago. It has quaint wooden shutters painted a pale blue that matches the sky above us. The steps are a wide, gently sloping half circle leading up to the double front doors.
The sweet scent of peonies and roses—in yellow and peach—fills the air as I follow them up the steps and stand in the doorway.
The music changes and the Bride’s March begins. And I am desperate—simply desperate—to see past all of my bridesmaids and get a peek at my handsome, charming, perfect groom.
The ladies shuffle around and pair off, then they start their walk. The little flower girl hops in front of me like this is her big moment, not mine.
An older man appears on my right. He’s dressed in a very nice black tux. He says something in Italian to me and offers me his arm.
Damn. Fingers went all out. He got me a stand-in father.
But… I have to admit, I really do wish it was my real father escorting me down the aisle.
He says a few words that I interpret as, Are you ready?
I nod. And then we begin to walk.
That’s when I look up at the altar and see Jesse Boston in a fancy black and gray tux in contrasting colors—wearing a top hat!—hands folded in front of him, and grinning at me like… Yup, babe. Fourth time really is the charm.
He looks like a billion Boston bucks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - JESSE
When the wedding music starts and the fake bridesmaids start lining up at the chapel door, it all becomes real. And even though this is the fourth time today Emma and I have been through the start of a wedding, this is the first time that I get proper butterflies.
The rollercoaster wedding wasn’t even ours. It was fun to be on the ride and I guess if we’d been the real bride and groom, that sick nervous feeling I had at the top of the first hill would’ve counted as butterflies. But it wasn’t our wedding and so that feeling was just the anticipation of the wild ride to come.
Which, now that I think back on it, could be interpreted literally.
The pirate wedding wasn’t a wedding but a show and if I had known it was a show, I’d have been properly nervous about it. But we had no clue what was happening. It kinda pissed me off when I realized it was a scam and we were not even going to get married at the end, but looking back on it now—hell, I was kind of badass swinging on those ropes trying to save Emma from all those hot, shirtless pirate dudes.
The skydiving wedding did give me butterflies, but not in a I’m-about-to-marry-the-love-of-my-life way. More of a I’m-gonna-die-in-the-next-thirty-seconds way.
This wedding though? This is how it’s done. As soon as we arrived and she was whisked off one way, and I was dragged off another, it was different. These fake Italian family members are really invested in this wedding. I have six groomsmen. All my age, all pretty good-looking dudes. And now that I see the bridesmaids coming down the aisle, I’m confident our wedding pictures will be amazing. I’m talking wedding planner brochure kind of amazing. I would not be surprised if Fingers uses our ceremony photographs to sell this Shotgun Wedding package in the future.
I spent most of the day second-guessing our spur-of-the-moment decision to elope in Vegas, but I’m pretty satisfied now.
Of course, that has a lot to do with the groom treatment I got while Emma was off getting ready. All of my groomsmen were very determined that I enjoy all the things waiting for me in the little groom cottage.
It was set up like a gentleman’s study. Think dark paneled walls, leather chairs and couches, a polished bar with every kind of top-shelf alcohol you can think of. They even had cigars.
I did puff a cigar for a little bit, just trying to relax after our crazy day. Of course, I didn’t drink, but that’s OK. They did enough of that for me.
They laughed and talked to me in Italian like I could understand them. And I nodded and smiled and just generally kicked back in a huge leather chair.
Then we all went into the steam room. I’ve never been a guy who likes a steam, but I have to admit it was a very nice touch. My sore muscles certainly thanked me afterward. We just sat in there for a good twenty minutes and I listened to them all talk. They’re very animated, these Italian dudes. And they all kinda look alike, so I think they’re really family.
The first three weddings were pretty cheesy, but this one… An A-plus effort, Fingers, my man. A-fucking-plus.
After the steam I took a long, cool shower and when I got out, there was a barber there to give me a proper shave. I’m talking this dude oiled me up, wrapped a lemon-scented hot towel all the way round my head to relax me, and then worked that shaving cream into my jaw until I had a fluffy cloud on my face. He skimmed that straight-cut razor down my jaw like an expert, gave me a face-wash mask, hot-toweled me again, cleaned off the mask, and then massaged some post-shave balm and moisturizer into my baby’s-butt-smooth skin so thoroughly, I felt like a new man.
He even trimmed and styled my hair.
Then they showed me the tux.
I have to admit, I was a little worried it was going to be shiny and cheap, but Fingers pulled through for me with a charcoal-gray jacket with tails and matching slacks, light gray waistcoat, white shirt with light gray pinstripes, and a yellow tie. Not what I would’ve chosen for my wedding day. It’s a little bit contrast-y for my tastes and it came with a top hat. But that’s kind of the cool thing about letting other people make choices for you. You get what you get and even if it’s not really ‘you’, you can embrace it because it wasn’t your choice.
I decide I love the suit and when I see all my groomsmen lined up before we walk, I think we look damn good.
None of them speak English. Or so they say. But they come with names like Marco, and Giovanni, and Leonardo, and I actually start picturing myself with these dudes as my buddies. I could use a few buddies. I wonder if the Shotgun Wedding is their day job or if they have other careers? I start picturing Marco as a finance guy in the city. He’s a fast talker with a loud voice and lots of hand gestures. Leonardo is slim and blond and comes off as an artist, moody and quiet. I picture him agonizing over color choice in his paintings. And in my head, Giovanni is some kind of professor. Probably history. Probably weird history. Like… gladiators. Or Vikings. Or the Persian Wars.
Yeah. I like my new friends. I could see myself hanging out with these guys.
There’s even a little dude called Edwardo who is gonna carry our rings.
Haven’t seen the rings yet, but from the looks
of this wedding so far, I’m fairly confident that they’ll be expensive and maybe even tasteful. Hell, we might even keep them. I’m sure Fingers will mark them up two hundred percent, but you can’t put a price on memories, right?
Well, you can. I know this because Joey, Huck, Wald, and Brooke bought a whole lifetime of memories when they were trying to get custody of Maisy. But that’s not the point. I think we’ll probably keep the rings. I think this wedding is gonna be something we’ll want to remember for the rest of our lives.
There’s some fussing at the chapel entrance as the bridesmaids begin their walk and then… there. There she is. My bride.
I start grinning like a madman. I can’t help it. I’m bobbing my head from side to side, trying to see past all the bridesmaids—and then… well, shit. Then I actually catch myself looking for Jack. Because he should be the one walking her down the aisle.
Now… now I feel bad about this wedding.
Jack should be here. Silvia should be sitting right up front where that middle-aged Italian mother-in-law stand-in is. And even though I kinda dig Marco, Giovanni, Leonardo, and Edwardo—it should be Joey and Johnny standing up here with me. Huck and Wald too. And fuckin’ Lonz. And Tony and Luke and…
Fuck. Fuck! My best man should be Zach!
But just as that regret begins to simmer in my head, the bridesmaids all make it to the altar and the wedding march begins. A little flower girl appears, tossing peach and yellow flower petals—and dammit, that flower girl should be Maisy.
But then…
“Holy shit,” I mutter. Because I see Emma. Emma. My bride. Not dressed up in jeans and t-shirt like she was for the rollercoaster wedding, not dressed up like a pirate princess like she was at Treasure Island, not dressed up in a jumpsuit at the skydiving wedding—but dressed up like a proper I’m-gonna-lose-my-shit she’s-the-most-beautiful-bride-ever kind of bride.
Her dress is… a little Cinderella. And I know she probably wouldn’t have chosen that style if we were in charge of this day, but it’s beautiful. And she looks gorgeous. All of the day’s catastrophes have been washed off and her face is bright with happiness.