I should’ve dumped him the instant I saw that denim tuxedo. Then I would’ve never slept with him. And I would’ve never been forced into this situation.
It’s all I can do not to bury my face in my hands and start screaming. But I don’t because I don’t want to smudge my makeup, and unlike Aaron, I know that appearances count.
I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’m already coming up with ways to murder Aaron without getting caught. Poison, probably. Or accidentally pushing him in front a speeding semi. Or maybe I could put him in utterly hideous clothes and ship him to Italy, where some fashion-conscious local will kill him for the betterment of humanity. He’ll never see it coming.
“I’m hungry,” the witness for the ceremony says, his voice nerve-gratingly nasal.
“So is the baby in my belly,” I say with growing annoyance. The ceremony was supposed to start at one. It’s already a quarter past, and I haven’t eaten anything because I don’t want to barf again. But maybe I should. Puking on Aaron was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. And a repeat would be so satisfying.
After a lot of thought yesterday, I’ve come to realize that the reason I pick bad men is because I find them at bars, clubs and parties. It’s like street shopping for formalwear in Bali. You simply don’t have a decent pool of goods to choose from. I once bought a magenta-pink business-casual outfit with an orange flower print. It looked all right when I was handing over my hard-earned money, but once I sobered up and got over the vacation high, I realized I couldn’t even donate it to a homeless shelter.
“I’m hungry,” the witness repeats.
I finally swivel my head in his direction. He could be the officiant’s identical twin, except for his age. His skin is smoother and less wrinkly, so I presume he’s younger. He sways like a toddler who’s torn between the desire to nap and the desire to stay awake and whine.
Something is glittering in his unbrushed hair. As some of it falls from his hair and lands on his shoulders, I realize its grains of sand that caught the light.
“Hey, can you buy me lunch?” he says.
“Ask the guy who told you to be here.” I’m not going to be responsible for these two clowns when it was Aaron who hired them. God. You would think he’d at least try to make the ceremony more…dignified. But then he’s probably going to show up in a pair of sparkly bellbottom pants, trying for Elvis, so maybe I’m expecting too much.
I start imagining all the ways I can stab Aaron for being late. It’s free therapy. Stilettos, yes, especially if they’re from last year—wouldn’t want to get blood on this year’s shoes. Hair sticks—probably okay, so long as they’re made of metal and I can dip them in bleach. I have a few I bought on a trip to Japan. Maybe grow my fingernails out and sharpen them.
The more I fantasize, the angrier I become. Aaron isn’t even paying me to do this. He’s blackmailing me, like the bottom-feeding parasite that he is. Actually, I take that back. I shouldn’t be so unfair to bottom-feeding parasites.
I’m going ahead with this farce. Then as soon as I find out where he keeps the videos, I’m going to destroy them all and push him out an open window. His condo’s on the fourth floor. He might live. Not even Satan wants him in—
The door opens. Finally!
Sarcastic, cutting words ready to fire like missiles, I turn around. They get caught in my throat.
It isn’t Aaron. The man striding in is much taller. He wears that signature serious, solemn expression like a bespoke suit from Savile Row. And his suit is… Well, it probably did come from Savile Row.
His black hair is mildly wind-blown and sexy as hell. His green eyes are intense under the slightly slanted eyebrows.
But there’s more. An aura of sheer anger clings to him like cologne. It isn’t something I’ve ever seen. He’s usually too controlled to let his emotions show.
I blink a couple of times. I must be seeing things because I’m so desperate.
But nope. He doesn’t morph into Aaron.
My breath clogs in my chest. Is my blood flowing faster and hotter? My heart is definitely racing. Can you feel such visceral reactions in a dream? Because this can’t be real.
Edgar has no business being here, in this particular chamber, in this particular courthouse in Los Angeles! I didn’t tell him. I didn’t even tell my friends, afraid they might run to him to ask him to do the impossible and rescue me.
“Is that the groom? I thought it was that other guy.” The officiant whistles. “You’re one lucky bish. For that face and body, I’d forgive him for being late.”
“He’s not the groom,” I say.
“Can he buy me lunch?” the witness asks plaintively.
Edgar stops a foot from me. I take a whiff and almost whimper. He smells sooo good. A hint of musk and male mixed with some kind of body wash. Without meaning to, I lick my lips. I only r
ealize when his gaze drops to my mouth, making it tingle like nobody’s business.
To hide my embarrassment and try to gain control of the situation, I place my hands on my hips and look up at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Preventing you from making a mistake.” That voice cracks like a silken whip.