“Shhhh, it’s okay. It’ll be okay,” Lex murmurs as he pushes to his feet.
When I bury my face in his neck he cups my cheek, brushing away the tears with his thumb, which makes me cry even harder. Why does he have to be so tender? And sweet. I don’t want tender and sweet. I want revenge. I want what Armstrong did to me to be erased. I want Lex to forget everything I’ve just said and done and pretend it never happened and I want to be able do the same.
It’s loud on the other side of the door, banging and yelling muffled by the thin wooden barrier. I can hear Armstrong calling my name and what sounds like my father shouting. I just want all of it to stop. I don’t know how to manage any of this.
“We have to get her out of here. Armstrong is going batshit and so is everyone else. I think Bane wants to beat the crap out of him, if he hasn’t already, and Armstrong’s mother is having a complete breakdown. Amie can’t and shouldn’t have to deal with this right now.” Ruby’s hand is on my shoulder, gentle, as if I might shatter. I feel like I could.
“How’re we going to make that happen when they’re all outside the door?” Lex shifts his hold and grips my thigh. Not that it’s necessary, my legs are like a vice around him, thanks to my endless hours of Pilates in preparation for this farce of a wedding.
I try to tell them that I’m right here and they can talk directly to me, but all that comes out is a craggy sob. I get some more shushing from Lex and a few strokes over my hair.
“There’s a car waiting at the back entrance.”
“We’re getting you out of here,” Lex whispers in my hair.
I’m shocked by frigid air as Lex steps out into the winter night. Loud pounding along with Armstrong begging me to let him in is cut off by the slam of the door Lex just carried me through.
Moments later my butt hits cool leather and Lex’s voice is in my ear, deep, mollifying. “Come on, sweetheart, you gotta let go now.”
He’s right, but I’m so embarrassed. Not only has my husband humiliated me in front of everyone we know, and about three hundred people I don’t, I’ve thrown myself at Lex and he turned me down, and now I’ve cried all over him. This is the worst night of my entire life. Even the interrogation room in Mexico has nothing on this.
He strokes my hair again, then gently unhooks my legs from his waist. “It’s okay, baby, I get it. I know I’m irresistible.” My laugh comes out a sob. His lips touch my cheek. “No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you.”
I shiver at the admission, and wonder how much of it is meant to mend my battered ego and broken heart. I have no idea how I’m going to recover from this.
It takes effort to pry my own fingers from his neck. I can’t look at him, my mortification over my own actions finally sinking in. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Hey.” Lexington’s fingers rest under my chin. He tips my head up until I have no choice but to look at him. “I mean it. I’m going to regret this forever.”
Commotion behind him has him straightening quickly. I get a glimpse of him fastening his belt as he closes the car door and then he’s moving toward the hotel as the door bursts open. Armstrong storms out, yelling my name. I don’t know what he could possibly want to say to me. He’s done all the damage he can. His plea for me to come back is cut off when Lex’s fist connects with his face.
I watch what was supposed to be my future fall to his knees, hands cupping his face, and I wonder if his physical pain can in any way match my emotional agony. I don’t think it’s possible.
Four: Fuck You, Motherfucker
Lexington
The first hit sends a shock of pain through my fist and up my arm. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a fight. It feels unbelievably good to make Armstrong suffer in some way, even if it’s only temporary. When he drops to his knees, cupping his face, I make a grab for his lapels to haul him back up.
“You stupid fuck.” Before I can plant another fist in his face, one that will inevitably result in the necessity for some serious plastic surgery, I’m yanked back.
“Get a handle on yourself,” my brother Bane barks.
Armstrong is carried back into the hotel through the door he just came out of by a couple of his douche friends, screaming his stupid head off while I fight my brother’s hold. It’s pointless. He might be two years younger than I am, but he played professional rugby for seven years and he’s massive. Once the witnesses are gone he spins me around and shoves me, setting me off balance. I land on my ass on the asphalt and then he’s on top of me, his knee pressing into my chest.
“What the—”
He shifts his weight, his knee perilously close to my throat, significantly decreasing my air supply. “You wanna tell me what the hell you were doing?”
“What? I—” I have no clue what he saw, but I’m assuming it doesn’t look good from his point of view.
“Don’t bullshit me. I saw you, Lex. I fucking saw you. You were on her.”
“Get off and let me explain.” I punch him in the side of the leg. I could go for his knee, the one he’s had surgery on, but I don’t want to actually hurt him. I just want his weight off my chest.
He pushes to his feet, then holds out a hand as if he’s going to help me up. I slap it away and roll to the side. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. I’m still pretty drunk and now I’m winded.
Gripping the back of his neck, he paces the lot. “You better not’ve had a hand in what when down tonight.”
I glare at him. “Seriously?”
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks, Lex? Your date blows the groom. You end up in the bridal suite, on top of the mostly naked, crying bride. Look at you.” He gestures to my attire.
My belt is still half-undone, my shirt untucked, my tie hanging askew. I can see his point. “I wouldn’t try to sabotage a goddamn wedding to get back at Armstrong for being a cocksucker, Bane.”
“You sure about that? You and Armstrong have a long history of fucking with each other.”
“I would never do something like that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Really? ’Cause as long as I’ve known you, it’s been exactly like that.”
He has a point. Armstrong and I have spent a lot of time screwing each other over since we were teens. When we were kids he was my best friend. He was like another brother—my mother called us Mischief and Malice. I was Mischief, and I didn’t really understand the negative connotations of Malice until I was older. Where I was the kid who lit the firecrackers in a backyard that wasn’t mine, Armstrong was the one who would aim them toward the house instead of away from it. When we got into trouble my mom would gently remind me that I knew better. So my role had been to channel that side into harmless competitions, practical jokes that didn’t damage property or other people.