Hooking Up (Shacking Up #2)

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 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.