Hooking Up (Shacking Up 2)

I rush down the empty hall and grab the doorknob as I fumble around in my clutch for the key. I’m surprised when it turns. I thought I’d locked it before we left for the ceremony. Regardless, I need to get away from everyone before I either lose it or commit a felony. Maybe both. Murder in the first. Armstrong will be my victim. And maybe that horrible skank, Brittany.

I thrust the door open and slam it closed behind me, locking it from the inside. Tears threaten to spill over and ruin my makeup. Not that it matters since there’s no way I’m going out there again. I can’t believe my forever lasted less than twelve hours. I can’t believe the man I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life loving couldn’t be faithful to me for even one day. What the hell is wrong with me? With him? I’m as devastated as I am angry and embarrassed. Once I annul this farce of a marriage I’ll become a spinster. I should probably go ahead and adopt six or seven cats tonight.

“I need to get out of this dress,” I say to myself. I reach behind me and pull the bow at the base of my spine. Instead of unfurling, it knots and I only succeed in pulling it tighter. Of course my dress has to be difficult. I growl my annoyance and rush over to my dressing table where my makeup and perfume are scattered from earlier today. Half a mimosa sits unconsumed beside the vase of red roses Armstrong had delivered.

The card read: I can’t wait to spend forever loving you.

What a load of bullshit. I drain the contents of the champagne flute, not caring that the drink is warm and flat. Then I throw the glass, because it feels good and the sound of shattering crystal is satisfying. Next I heave the vase of roses, which explodes impressively against the wall, splattering water and shards of glass across the floor.

I yank out a couple of the drawers and find a pair of scissors. They actually look more like gardening shears and seem rather out of place, but I don’t question it. Instead I reach behind me with my back to the mirror and awkwardly try to cut myself free. It’s not easy with the way I have to crane my neck.

“Goddammit! I need to get out of this stupid dress!” I yell at my reflection. I think I might actually be losing it just a touch now. I stop messing around with the laces in the back and shove the scissors down the front. I nearly nick myself with a blade—they’re a lot sharper than I realized—but that doesn’t slow me down. I start hacking my way through the bodice; layers of satin, lace, and intricate beading sliced apart with every vicious snip.

I just want out of this nightmare.

Two: Fuck Yeah, or Maybe Not

Lexington

I take a swig from the half-empty bottle of half-flat champagne and set it on the bathroom vanity. I’m inebriated enough that it takes me two tries to unbuckle my belt. The button and zipper are less complicated. I expect my aim to be poor based on the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed.

I wish I hadn’t come to this wedding. I wish I was on a flight somewhere, or in another country. Anywhere would be better than here. Anything would be preferable to watching my jackass cousin gloat over getting the girl.

And that’s before I take into account how awful my date is. She’s the absolute worst choice in the world, but dear God, my mother seems to think that Brittany Thorton has potential. My mother has been friends with her mother since we were children and she has some romantic inclination about one of her sons ending up with her, I guess.

She tried to set my brother Bancroft up with Brittany last year, unsuccessfully. Since Bancroft is out of the question and my older brother, Griffin, is in a committed relationship, I’m the last resort. I can’t seem to say no to my mother, I never have, so here I am, hiding out in a bathroom drinking flat champagne straight from the bottle so I can get a break from my date and avoid the speeches.

All night Brittany has been telling me about her love of lollipops. We’re not talking about the candy on a stick, either. I’m not interested in finding out about her sucking skills, even if it means I’d get a break from the incessant talking. I drag a hand down my face and sigh. I wonder if I can just leave Brittany here. Slip out the back door, and send an apology text feigning sickness.

I finish my business, tuck myself back into my boxers, zip my pants, but can’t seem to find the energy, or dexterity, to buckle my belt back up. Besides, I don’t plan to return to the reception right away. Speeches are about to begin and I have zero desire to listen to Armstrong spout his bullshit about how Amalie is his future. About how he loves her more than anything in the world. How he’s devoted to her. The only thing Armstrong is devoted to is his reflection. And making my life miserable when he sees an opportunity.

There’s a TV and a couch in here, so I’m going put my feet up, finish this bottle of champagne, and watch some sports. Or news. Depending on which is less depressing. I grab the bottle and take another swig just as a loud crash comes from somewhere beyond the bathroom. This time I miss my mouth and it spills down my chin, onto my shirt, all the way to my crotch. I spit out an expletive and attempt to mop up the mess with a hand towel, but it’s already soaked in. Whatever. I’ll just stay here until it dries.

I open the bathroom door and freeze. Standing in the middle of the room is Amalie. The bride. The princess of this event. And she’s hacking apart her dress with a pair of gardening shears. For a few moments I wonder if I’ve been drugged and I’m hallucinating this, much like I thought she was a mirage the first time I met her, but I don’t feel drugged, just on the right side of extra drunk.

I consider my options, which seem rather limited. I shouldn’t be in here, and yet I am. She shouldn’t be in here, and yet, she is. By the look of things, she’s not planning on going back out there fully clothed. Which begs the question, What the fuck happened?

She’s swearing a blue streak. Dirty, filthy words pouring out of her sweet mouth as she cuts savagely through the bodice. It’s as ridiculously hot as it is disturbing. It takes quite a bit of work to get through all the fabric at the waist and she still hasn’t noticed my presence.

Instead of doing the considerate thing, which would be to go back in the bathroom, or find an alternate exit, or make her aware of my presence, I continue to stare. Amalie, who is generally very poised and elegant, gentle and polite, is gloriously angry.

“Fucking whore! Fucking asshole! Motherfucking cocksucking dickless bastard!” She grabs the fabric at her waist and yanks in opposite directions. It’s impressive the way the material pulls apart from her aggression.

She shoves the dress down over her hips, revealing a tanned, toned, stunningly gorgeous body wrapped in a white lace and satin corset with matching panties and garters. All things I have no right to be looking at right now. I take a step back, thinking it might be a good time to leave, and the champagne bottle knocks against the doorjamb.

Her head snaps up, fiery gaze meeting mine from across the room. She points the shears at me. “How’d you get in here?”

I don’t see the point in lying. “I jimmied the lock. It wasn’t very hard.”

She frowns, her confusion understandable. “Why are you in here?”

“I was trying to catch a break from my date.” I also didn’t want to watch my cousin gloat over winning again. He got the girl. He got this girl. He’s such an asswipe. Although maybe this time he saved me from a real nightmare. It would serve him right to end up with a loony toon and, from the look in her eyes, she just might be one.