by Lee, Nadia
“Yeah.”
“You want to borrow the Learjet?”
“I gotta get to Maui.”
“To do what?”
Oh geez. Hundreds of thousands of possibilities spin in my head. But there’s only one logical option. “Confront Skittles.”
Chapter Nine
Pascal
Whoever came up with the phrase “tossing one’s cookies” is a moron. They obviously never throw up because if they did, they’d know there’s nothing cookie-esque about throwing up.
I clutch the toilet rim, feeling like my stomach lining’s being ripped raw. My throat is aching like a million microscopic bees have stung the delicate tissue there.
Curie crouches next to me, her gentle hand on my back. “Are you all right?” she asks.
I nod, panting, even as cold sweat beads on my face. “Give me a second.”
That’s such a lie, though. I need at least a week, flat on my back. Damn it. I clench my teeth as my stomach churns dangerously, sloshing its contents like a raft in a storm.
I look down and see the lace trimming on Curie’s white gown. Crap. Today’s the day, and I’m here, trying to empty everything from my stomach…and then some. I feel like I’m going to empty my liver and gallbladder as well.
“You don’t have to come, especially if you feel this bad,” she says softly, blotting the sweat off my hairline with a Kleenex.
“It’s your wedding. Once-in-a-lifetime deal.”
The whole thing comes out in a whispery whine, and if I had the strength, I’d smack myself silly for that. I, Pascal Snyder, do not whine. Not so pitiably, anyway.
Besides, I’m being unreasonable. There’s no way I can stand next to her as her maid of honor when my stomach is roiling to a “Ride of the Valkyries” that only it can hear. The worst thing is, whatever vile substance is making me puke should be out by now, but my belly is refusing to settle. It’s like a rowdy hamster on crack.
It’s so unjust. I really wanted to be part of her wedding. I’ve been looking forward to it all year long.
“Sorry. Letting you down,” I say, finally turning to face her.
She hands me a small towel to wipe my mouth. “It doesn’t matter. What I care about is you getting better soon. I’m going to miss you at the ceremony.”
“I should’ve just fasted. I’d look better in my dress.” The joke is flatter than a road-kill possum.
Still, Curie’s awesome and manages a smile. “Yeah, but there’s gonna be photographer…and of course the video. You can watch it later.” She squeezes my hand.
“Okay.” The response comes out listless and pathetic. Even though she and I are trying to be positive, we both know it’s not the same thing. But what can I do? If I could will myself to be healthy, I would.
Even squatting next to me on the bathroom floor, Curie’s gorgeous. And I’m not just saying that because she’s my identical twin.
Her dark brown hair is twisted into a simple, elegant updo. Subtle makeup brings out the blue in her eyes and adds fullness to her lips. The dress is perfect too. It’s not too heavy or complicated, since the wedding’s going to be on the beach. The bodice fits her tightly, pushing her breasts up. The long skirt is made of a light material that should move freely to the breeze from the Pacific on the beach.
“You’re the most radiant bride ever,” I say. “I’m so happy for you.”
“I couldn’t have planned all this without your help, Pascal. I love you so much.” She hugs me tightly.
Mom sticks her head into the bathroom. She’s in her new hot-pink dress and full makeup. “It’s time.” She turns to me, looking sympathetic. Curie and I took after her. “How you feeling, hon?”
“Could be better.” I turn to Curie. “You should go.”
She starts to bite her lip, then catches herself. Her carefully penciled eyebrows pinch together. “I hate leaving you alone when you don’t feel good.”
“I’ll be fine. Just gonna go lie down.”
I’m not letting my hateful stomach of evil ruin Curie’s special day. I even force a smile for her behalf, although the worry stays on her face. Still, she leaves with Mom.
My legs shake a little as I stand up, but they hold. I rinse my mouth and look at myself in the mirror. My makeup is useless. It can’t hide the greenish pallor underneath. The blush makes me look actively ridiculous. Like a color-blind clown who’s trying too hard.
The mascara and eyeliner are smudged from sweat. I scowl at the dark rings around my eyes. Waterproof, my ass. But if I try to sue them for false advertising, I bet their lawyers would say, “We never claimed it was sweatproof.”
It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be at the wedding anyway. Who cares how I look?
Slouching, I prop my hip against the edge of the sink and sigh. Damn it. I really wanted to be there. Curie’s only getting married once. It’s unfair that I’m going to miss it…
But do I really have to? I could go stand in the back and watch the ceremony from a distance, even if I can’t take part. Hell, given the amount of time and effort I put into helping her, I deserve to see it live, not on some TV screen later.
I take a sip of water and wait a couple of minutes. My stomach stays relatively okay. I take another small swallow and give myself five minutes. The bathroom remains stable; my stomach does not rebel although it still feels queasy.
I sigh softly. Even though I’m not a hundred percent, this is a sign. If I lie in bed, I’m going to regret missing Curie’s wedding for the rest of my life.
My mind made up, I grab a plastic bag—just in case—and leave the room.
Chapter Ten
Court
I object.
The phrase hack scriptwriters insert into a wedding scene for drama when they’re out of fresh material. Who would’ve thought I’d be using it?
But this ceremony definitely calls for it.
And the décor isn’t even that nice. I mean, it’s not bad if you like pastel and white and girly-girl shades. But I expected a more…vivid liveliness.
Even the flowers are pastel pink and lavender.
It’s so pervasive that I feel the colors ought to leach from my clothes and shoes to fit in.
What the hell happened to your taste, Skittles?
She isn’t the woman you thought she was. Nate’s words haunt me. They circle like a vulture waiting for my heart to die. I don’t think she’s worth it. You can do better.
Still, he lent me his jet because that’s how our friendship goes.
I arranged for the Maserati. I’m not stealing her away in a cheap rental.
Set off against the picture-perfect beach in Maui, the bride and the groom face each other and hold hands. Their vows are as lovely as a jackhammer starting up at seven a.m. on a Sunday.
“So amazing.” A busty blonde next to me tears up.
I look at her, wondering if she’s talking to me. Nobody else is sitting on the other side of her, so maybe she is.
I don’t have any Kleenex to offer, so I let her sniffle away. She’s probably mourning the inevitable outcome.
Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. Pretty shitty batting average if you ask me.
Now, if the bride slept around as late as two weeks before the ceremony… Well. I’d wager all my voting shares in Blackwood Energy that that particular marriage is definitely going to fail. Probably within the first year, if not the first week.
I squint at the altar. The bride’s gown is blindingly white under the dazzling Hawaiian sun. Her dark chocolate hair is perfectly coiled over her crown, the pearly bodice fitted over her slim body. Although I can’t quite make out her eyes from this distance, I know they’re the pretty aquamarine of the Caribbean.
And they deepen into the color of the Pacific when she comes.
I shove my hand into my pocket. Feel the crisp texture of the fifty-dollar bill, folded neatly in half. I’ve carried it around the last two weeks, wondering about its meaning, why Curie left it on the dresser after our night
together, and why the hell I needed to track her down so badly…even after TJ told me she was marrying somebody else.
Just walk away. She isn’t worth it.
Logically, yeah, she isn’t. But logic doesn’t matter when my mind keeps recalling her brilliant smile, how she made me feel that night—carefree, hot and happy.
Sharp nails scrape against my belly lining at the idea of some other guy making her his, receiving that stunning smile. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Groom Dude. You must be an epic failure in the sack if she went out looking for bedroom action with someone else.
Probably impotent. He looks a little young for that, but erectile dysfunction is an equal-opportunity medical condition.
“They’re going to be so happy together.” The blonde next to me weeps openly into her hands.
No, they’re not. I’m going to stop this farce before it hits its climax.
Almost time. I wait for the officiant for my cue, all the words ready. I rehearsed them during the long, long flight from LAX.
The man grins like a mule on ecstasy. “Now I pronounce you husband and wife.”
What the hell? Why is he skipping the only question that really matters at a wedding? What if someone has a serious problem with this union?
I didn’t sit through this dull joke of a ceremony for nothing. Screw it. I don’t need the officiant to ask.
Outrage sizzles through my whole body like electricity. I jump to my feet, leap to the center of the row and take a step toward the altar, then point my finger at the bride, so she knows she’s the reason. My heart pumps with hot—and slightly petty—anticipation as I shout the words I’m here to say. “I object!”
The guests’ gasps are loud over the sound of waves. Satisfaction surges inside me over this ceremonious interruptus. Everyone’s heads swivels in my direction. The couple turns as well.
Hundreds of gazes bear down on me, making my scalp tingle, but I don’t care. I’m finally going to say my piece.
The groom frowns in confusion, which I understand. But the bride is staring like she has no clue who I am.
Which only pisses me off more. Not just because my pride is hurt. Something else more volatile is churning.
I whip out the fifty-dollar bill like a triumphant prosecutor whipping out a murder weapon with the perp’s bloody fingerprints all over it. “Remember this, Skittles?”
The bride’s looking at me like I’m off my meds. She glances at her almost-husband.
Outrage knots into a ball so big that it sticks in my throat. Oh no, you don’t. “You dropped it on the bed after we had sex. Two weeks ago.”
She turns pale, then red, and says something to her intended, gesturing with her bouquet. The groom turns bright crimson, murder in his eyes as he glares at me. Everyone else is looking at me like I should be committed.
After the groom beats me up, that is.
It annoys me that people can’t see I’m right and she’s not. Do they have any idea how much a decent divorce costs these days? It’s like five hundred dollars per billable hour.
My hands clenched into fists, I walk up to the altar. The groom—Joe the All-American High School Sweetheart—steps in front of Skittles.
Yeah, like that’s going to stop me now. If I were going to let this small an obstacle get in the way, I wouldn’t have bothered to fly all the way to Maui.
I shove him to one side. Before Skittles can slip away, I grab her and toss her over a shoulder. She doesn’t weigh much, but she’s wriggling like an eel.
I smack her ass once. She gasps, then hits me with the bouquet. It kind of tickles. I run down the row like a receiver rushing toward the end zone. Somebody cue up the Rocky theme song.
The guests stare, their mouths open.
Hell yeah. Bet this isn’t the show they thought they’d see when they flew to Hawaii. At least the weather’s gorgeous. They can enjoy the champagne and banquet food under the pristine blue sky.
I have a list of questions I made in my head on the flight here.
Why did you go to the Aylster with me?
Why did you sneak out?
Why did you leave the money?
Why are you marrying that guy?
And a hundred other whys…
As soon as I get Skittles away, we’re going to have a talk.
Chapter Eleven
Pascal
I have to be seeing things. Throwing up all night long has probably messed up my vision. Or maybe this is just a fever dream.
I squint at the ceremony. Some tall guy is dashing off with Curie over his shoulder, her veil billowing out behind in the Maui breeze. Thankfully she’s sensible enough to not smack him too hard with her bouquet, because she’ll need it for later.
I slap my cheeks lightly and blink a few times. But nope. Not seeing things.
If he weren’t ruining the wedding, I’d be admiring the stamina and strength required to do what the man is doing. He’s moving faster than even Joe, who is in hot pursuit.
It’s hard to see the bastard with the sun behind him, although something about him seems familiar. Probably a member of the Curie Admiration Association. I can’t remember the last time she didn’t have a stalker or two.
My sluggish mind finally kicking into gear, I look at the distance between me, the creep and Joe. I’m closer to the kidnapper. It’s up to me to stop the scum.
Don’t worry, sister. I’ll save you!
Adrenaline pumping through me, I kick off my heels and run toward him. My belly protests—a lot—but I clench my teeth and keep going. I can heave after I rescue my sister.
The kidnapper dumps Curie in the passenger seat of a fancy convertible. I have to keep him from leaving, so I jump in front of the car. He slams on the brakes.
“You fucking crazy?” he screams. “I almost ran you over!”
Yeah, he did. My legs are shaking, and it’s not all from the sickness earlier. I breathe hard and place unsteady hands on the scorching hood of the car for balance. I’m afraid my knees are going to fold otherwise.
Come on, Pascal. Keep it together. Just long enough until Joe gets here.
Then, after two gulps of air, I lift my chin to face Curie’s kidnapper.
What the… Whiskey?
Shock punches me in the chest. My mouth parts, but then I close it again quickly to forestall more puking.
What is he doing here? Why is he trying to steal Curie from Joe?
“Skittles?” he says slowly.
“Yeah,” I croak, my throat still raw.
He takes a quick look at Curie, then turns back to me. He flicks a thumb at my sister. “Who the hell is this?”
What? He doesn’t know? “You’re asking me?” I try to straighten, but it doesn’t work. Now that the adrenaline is waning, I feel entirely too weak.
So I settle for a harsh rebuke instead. “You’re the one who kidnapped her!” Except…it doesn’t come out very strongly. Damn you, stomach bug!
“Hey, you! Shithead!” Joe finally arrives, puffing and red-faced. He immediately softens his voice. “Are you all right, darling?” he says to Curie.
“I guess…?” She finally pushes the veil out of her face. “I don’t think I’m hurt.”
“Are you guys…sisters?” Whiskey asks.
Given that his gaze is jumping from me, to Curie, to Joe then back to me, I have no idea who he’s talking to. But I should probably step in and fix this. After all, Whiskey is my mess, and I’m supposed to be the maid of honor. Comes with the job.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Twins.”
He looks at the sky, then places a hand over his eyes. “Oh for… Fucking TJ.”
“Fucking…?” A light dawns in Curie’s eyes. “Oh my God. Is this your anonymous one-night stand from Z?”
And, of course, at that precise moment, Dad finally runs up. Why couldn’t he have waited five more seconds? Maybe I’ll get lucky and get swept away by a person-sized tsunami.
Usually, Dad’s calm, with an even temper. He’s
not physically imposing, despite his height. But right now, his face is red as though he’s been burned, which is impossible, because Mom’s fanatical about sunblock. He’s clamping his teeth so tightly that I’m afraid steam’s going to start coming out of his ears, and his brown eyes are bulging. The last time he was this mad was when I was ten. I climbed a tree he explicitly told me not to and fell down and broke my arm.
“One-night stand? Do you know this man, Pascal?” he demands in a booming voice.
Why don’t you speak louder, Dad, so everyone on the island can hear it?
Embarrassment crawls over me. If I could, I’d bury myself under the sand. “Yes.” So much for anonymous fun. Next time, I’m not doing it unless I’m in Tibet…or at least some place twelve time zones away from anywhere in America.
“Can we continue? Kiss my bride? Have our reception?” Joe asks.
“Yes,” Whiskey answers, the hand still over his eyes. “And sorry for the, uh, you know. Interruption.”
Joe helps Curie out of the car, and they leave together. The guests who were inching closer for better view follow them back to the altar.
Dad gives Whiskey a look.
Whiskey drops his hand and looks at him. “Hi.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “I know you. You’re—”
“A lot of people do,” Whiskey says with a tight smile.
They do? How come I didn’t recognize him, then? “Are you famous?”
“Not really,” Whiskey says.
Dad shakes his head at me, and I brace myself for some scathing words. Well deserved, since I screwed up, but that doesn’t mean they won’t hurt.
“We’re going to talk about this later. Without the audience,” he says.
“Yes, Dad.” I look down at my toes. Can this be a puke-induced nightmare? Maybe I fell asleep on the bed after Curie left. But given how raw I feel in my worthless stomach, all this is probably really happening.
He follows the couple. Palpable disapproval radiates from his retreating back.
My gut twists. He’s probably going to disown me now. After he fires me. And you know what? I can’t even fault him for it. I’d do the same if I were him.