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 herself; 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.”