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  And “baby,” whoever she is, makes these horrific gurgling noises. It sounds like some form of alien communication. It’s way over the top, and apparently Armstrong is loving it, based on the string of vile profanity that spews from his asshole mouth.

  “Holy crap. Is this for real? That was really fast,” Ruby mutters.

  I guzzle my glass of wine. Then decide the glass is unnecessary and take a long swig from the bottle before Ruby snatches it away. Wine dribbles down my chin and onto my chest, staining the white satin purple. My dress is ruined. I should be freaking out. But I really don’t care.

  “Come on,” Ruby tugs on my hand. “We need to get you out of here while people are still distracted.”

  My older brother, Pierce, and the emcee are standing in the middle of the hall, gesturing wildly to the speakers above us. My other brother, Lawson, is on his way toward the podium in an attempt to do something. I don’t think there’s anything he can do to stop this train wreck from there.

  Ruby tugs again, but I’m frozen, still trying to figure out what exactly just happened. Well, I know what’s happened. I just can’t believe it.

  The sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothes follows. “Thanks for that, now I’ll be able to last longer tonight,” Armstrong says.

  “What about me?” a female asks. Her voice is nasally and whiny.

  “What about you?”

  “Well, I helped you, aren’t you going to help me?”

  “Didn’t you come with a date?”

  “Well, yes, but—” God her voice is familiar. I just can’t figure out where I know it from.

  “My cousin, right? He loves my sloppy seconds. Speeches are starting. I gotta get back to my ball and chain.”

  Gasps of horror ripple through the room, followed by a few giggles. These people really are assholes.

  I think I’m going to throw up. I can’t believe he’s going to come out here and pretend nothing just happened. Like some other woman didn’t just have her lips around his cock. His distinctly average cock. Maybe even slightly below average in length, if I’m being one hundred percent honest.

  A door opens and closes.

  My brother Lawson turns on the mic behind the podium and taps it, sending screeching feedback through the room, making people cringe. Too bad no one did that a minute ago.

  Murmuring grows louder and glances flicker to the head table and then away as Brittany Thorton, a seriously skanky debutante, comes strutting through the doors, using a compact to check her lipstick. She’s made it her mission to attempt to get into the pants of half the eligible men in this room. She’s followed, not five seconds later, by a very smug-looking Armstrong.

  “I’m going to kill him.” I grab the closest steak knife, but it appears my hasty, and possibly felonious, plan is unnecessary. My brothers leave their respective posts and stalk toward him. Across the room my mother is gripping my father’s arm, whispering furiously in his ear. Great. Just what I need, additional family drama.

  “Oh shit,” Ruby gasps.

  I follow her gaze to find Bane converging on Armstrong with my brothers. Bancroft is a tank and he used to play professional rugby. I’ve seen him with his shirt off; he’s built like a superhero and he’ll probably crush Armstrong, or at least break something. Possibly multiple somethings.

  For a second I consider that Ruby should probably stop Bane from destroying Armstrong’s pretty, regal face, but then I realize I don’t actually care. In fact, the possibility that he might break Armstrong’s perfectly straight nose fills me with glee. Armstrong’s well-being is no longer my concern, it’s more about Bane ending up in prison for murder.

  “I hope Armstrong has a good plastic surgeon, he’s going to need it once Bane is done with him.” Ruby echoes my internal hopes and her chair tips as she jumps up. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” She nods to the right.

  I notice my mother and father engaged in a heated discussion with Armstrong’s parents. I really don’t need this right now. Not the drama. Not the humiliation. All I wanted was a nice wedding. Instead I end up with a husband who gets a blow job during our reception—and it’s broadcast to everyone attending.

  Ruby urges me into action. “Don’t worry about them. Get your stuff and we’ll get you the hell out of here. I’ll have the limo meet you by the entrance near your bridal suite as soon as I can.”

  I nod and stumble unsteadily to my feet, thanks to having consumed the better part of a bottle of wine in the last minute and a half. It’s amazing how ninety seconds can change a person’s entire life.

  All hell breaks loose as more men jump in to either pummel or extract Armstrong from the pummeling. I grab my clutch and phone from the table, gather up my stupid, too-puffy gown, and head for the bridal suite, where I had prepared for what was supposed to be the most amazing day of my life. And now it’s likely the wors— at least, I hope the mortification level I’m experiencing can’t exceed this. I feel like the foulest version of Cinderella ever.

  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 co
usin 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.

  Amalie steps out of the dress, leaving it in a massacred puddle as she struts across the room, those shears swinging dangerously in her hand, along with her hips. As horror-movie scary as she may be, she’s also inordinately sexy in all the white lace and garters—which I’m struggling not to appreciate in an inappropriate way, because based on the dress hacking, I don’t think now is the right time for ogling.

  She stops when she’s only inches away. Tilting her head back so she can look at my face, she pokes me in the chest, with her finger, not the shears, thankfully. “Why is your belt undone? Who else is in here with you?”

  I raise my hands in surrender, champagne bottle and all. “No one. I’m alone. I just used the bathroom and that was it.” I don’t want her to think I’m in here having sex. I’m not even sure I have the coordination for that right now. I glance down and blink a couple of times as I get caught in her cleavage. Shaking my head, I try to stay focused on whatever the fuck is going on here. Maybe I hit my head and I’m passed out and none of this is happening.

  “You brought Brittany Whore-ton as your date, didn’t you?” It’s more accusation than question.

  I’m also not sure if I heard that incorrectly or not. It’s difficult to concentrate on her words being as drunk as I am with her standing half-naked in front of me wielding a pair of garden shears.

  I gesture to her weapon. “D’ya think you could put those down?”

  She glances at the shears, then raises them so they’re only an inch or two from my neck, which is even more unsettling. “Answer the damn question! Did you bring Brittany Whore-ton to my fucking wedding?”

  “You mean Thorton? Not because I wanted to, but yeah. Now can you put the shears down, please? You’re kinda freaking me with this whole cutting-apart-your-dress, waving-around-a-weapon thing.” I’m not sure I can grab them from her without either of us getting hurt.

  “I’m freaking you out? I’m freaking you out? Do you even know what happened? Do you have any idea the humiliation I just sustained out there?” And there she goes again, waving around the shears.

  I make a grab for them, but she’s a wily one. She spins out of reach and points them at me again. “Don’t you do that!” She swipes her bangs aggressively out of her eyes. The pins in her blond hair are coming loose, tendrils falling around her face, and her cheeks are pink, her eyes on fire. She’s the hottest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on, both fully clothed and in lingerie. Fuck Armstrong and his slimy asshole ways.

  It’s time for the calm voice, the one I usually reserve for my mother when she’s upset with me over a stunt I’ve pulled. I still have to use it on occasion, which I realize is sad, since I’m pushing thirty. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re so upset about, Amalie?”

  “What I’m so upset about? Your date just blew my husband!”

  “What?” My alcohol-soaked brain is slow to process that information. I know Brittany gets around and Armstrong has questionable morals, but that’s low, even for him. I think.

  “Your date just sucked off my husband. And the whole sordid ordeal was broadcast over the goddamn motherfucking sound system. You had to have heard it. Everybody did. The entire room full of guests listened to my dickless fuckbag husband come in a mouth that wasn’t mine.”

  Well, that was graphic. I almost feel like I should offer to wash her mouth out with soap after that string of creative, vulgar profanity. But then the reality of her statement hits. “You’re shitting me, right? Is this some kind of fucked-up prank?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” She gestures behind her at the hacked-up gown, then to hers
elf; mostly undressed, hair a wreck, eyes suddenly glassy with what is most likely the threat of tears. No wonder she’s acting like she’s lost her mind. Armstrong has always had asshole tendencies, but this is just too much.

  “That motherfucker. Where is he?”

  “Probably getting his ass kicked by Bane and my brothers.”

  “I’m gonna make that shithead eat his goddamn dick.”

  I move to step around her, but she drops the shears and grabs me by the tie, eyes lighting up while an evil grin spreads across those perfect lips. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Taken off-guard, I don’t expect it when she pulls some jujitsu ninja move, kicking my feet out from under me. I smack my head on the floor as I land on my back and lose my hold on the champagne bottle. The pain in my head is as disorienting as the ninja moves, so the next thing I know Amalie’s straddling my hips.

  It’s impossible for my body not to react in ways it really shouldn’t. Amalie’s feminine curves are drool-worthy, and right now that perfect ass of hers is positioned right on top of my cock—my suddenly very achy, aware cock. She shifts back, breaking the cock-ass connection, which is probably a good thing, considering what she’s just told me. I can’t believe the one woman I’ve wanted for the past year but couldn’t have is half-naked on top of me. She’s also just married my cheating dickhead of a cousin. It’s like fate can’t get enough of kicking me in the balls.

  When her hands go to the zipper on my pants I’m forced into action. Instinctually, I want to do the exact opposite of what I should. I mean goddamn, she’s trying to get her hand in my pants and I’m compelled to stop her. It’s a damn tragedy happening here.

  She slaps my hand away and grabs my tie again. Fisting it close to my throat she leans in, eyes wild, angry and desperate. A sneer pulls up the corner of her pretty mouth. “You’re going to let me fuck you and you’re going to like it.”

  I’m so goddamn hard right now and those words only serve to make it worse, or better, depending on how one looks at it. And yes, I fully agree with that statement: If she fucked me right now I am positive I would like it, a lot. Maybe more than any other sex I’ve had with any other woman because she is the ultimate in forbidden temptations. But it’s a really bad idea. And I’m pretty sure she’ll regret it two minutes after it’s over. Or maybe even while it’s happening.