Convict: A Bad Boy Romance (34 page)

I don’t like it, and something deep inside me is fighting against it.

Why not?
I think to myself.
What does it matter that she’s a woman?

“If Ned talks, we’re fucked,” Manny says, and I know how right he is.

“Just this once,” I say, reluctantly.

I reach out and take the vial, putting it in my pocket.

“Just this once,” he says solemnly.

That’s
why this man is so dangerous: not only does he have an armory the size of a mansion, command a ruthless paramilitary organization, and have a
shocking
number of cops on his payroll, but he could sell ice to an Eskimo. He’s
that
convincing.

I look at Tessa’s picture again, trying to memorize every line of her face and every curve of her perfect body. I wonder what she’d look like naked, beneath me on a bed or even on top, riding my cock as her tits bounced.

God, what does she sound like when she comes, does she talk dirty or just moan —

“You’re good?” Manny asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m good,” I say, standing.

For a moment I want to ask if I can take the picture with me — for
research
— but I know I can’t be found with it.

“You’ve got a tuxedo fitting tomorrow at eight,” he says. “Get some rest before your big day.”

I nod, then walk to the door. As my hand touches the knob, Manny speaks up again.

“Alex,” he says. “Thanks for doing this. We’re really in a bind.”

I turn around and thump one fist against my left pec, just below my collarbone.

Manny does it back.

We’ve got the exact same tattoo in that spot. Everyone in La Carretera does.

I turn and head out the door.

The two girls are still standing by the booth, talking to each other, while the other guys ogle them but don’t approach. They know better.

The girls are still hot and still ready to go, but suddenly I don’t feel like it anymore. It’s almost two in the morning, and this wedding is actually fucking
important
.

If the accountant goes to the feds, shit’s gonna get ugly, so I should get some sleep.

Tessa Fulbright and her sensible business outfit don’t have a goddamn thing to do with it.

I turn and take the back stairs down to the street, then drive home with the stereo blasting.

“
E
ddie
,” the bride says, her voice shaking as she speaks into the microphone. “I was falling and you were my parachute. You are my rock, my fortress, my life preserver in troubled waters.”

God, this is cheesy,
I think.

I have to look away for a moment, I’m so uncomfortable. I’ve known Karen for years, and I always knew she was one of those hopeless romantics, but this is really over the top.

“I love you like a fat kid loves cake,” the bride goes on, her voice breaking.

I hold my breath.

Did she really just say that?

I try to look around surreptitiously, just to see if anyone else is
hearing
this, but they’re all staring straight ahead, some of them dabbing at their eyes with tissues. Totally enthralled by a crying girl wearing white.

Shoulders shaking, the bride hands the microphone back to the officiant, and he starts droning on about something else. I shift in my chair yet again, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like it’s breaking my spine.

No luck. These chairs obviously look a lot better than they feel.

At least it’s almost over,
I think, and look around at the other guests. They’re all crying.

Am I an unfeeling monster?
I wonder.

Everyone else seems really touched
.

“I now pronounce you,” the officiant says.

He takes a dramatic pause.

Come the fuck on
, I think.

“Man and wife! You may kiss the bride.”

Eddie grabs Karen in his arms and swings her backwards. She flails, clearly not expecting this, and my hands fly to my mouth involuntarily. Her veil catches on something on the wedding arch and tears off of her head.

Eddie goes into the veil face-first and then shakes his head back and forth, holding Karen in his arms, trying to get the gauzy white fabric off of himself. It’s a long couple of seconds, and then it finally works and he kisses her.

I clap automatically, relieved that this part is finally over.

Karen and Eddie walk back down the aisle, followed by their enormous wedding parties. The veil’s still hanging on the arch like some kind of dead bird.

I feel weirdly bad for it.

The guests start filtering out, and as they do, I swear to God I can feel someone
watching
me. I stare straight ahead, holding my clutch with both hands.

It’s just Andrew again
, I think.
Trying to figure out what he’s going to tell Nick about how I’m doing
.

Nick, my most recent ex, isn’t here, but his best friend is, and he’s a grade-A dickbag.
He’s
the one who convinced Nick that I only wanted him for his money.

Fuck you and your tiny penis
,
Andrew
, I think.
I hope you get syphilis and it falls off
.

I can still feel him staring.

Finally, I give up and look.

No. I
glare
.

It’s not Andrew. It is very, very much not Andrew — Andrew is short and scrawny, but the guy staring at me is a good six-foot-plus of
man
. His eyes meet my death glare and I my heart hitches in my chest. I look away as fast as I can, my pulse racing.

I don’t know what to do. Very hot men don’t stare at
me
, not ever, and definitely not when they’ve got blue eyes, black hair and a jawline straight out of a black-and-white movie.

I glance to my right, trying to figure out who he’s
actually
looking at, but it’s a mix of old ladies and kids.

Maybe one of them is his mom or something
, I think.

I take a deep breath and look over again. He’s walking into the aisle with the throng, not looking at me anymore.

He can
seriously
fill out a tux, though. I tend to like my guys in jeans and t-shirts, but I’d be willing to change my ways for
that
.

Behind me, someone clears her throat and I realize my row is empty, so I quit my perverted staring and join the other guests walking into the reception.

* * *

A
fter two glasses of champagne
, I feel better. The guy passing trays looked at me funny when I grabbed them both at once, but fuck it. I barely know anyone here besides my ex-boyfriend’s douchebag bestie, what else am I supposed to do?

I sidle up to a conversation with a couple of people whose names I think I might know, and they’re polite enough to act like they recognize me.

Karen and I were freshman roommates in college, and even though we stayed friends after that year was over, we don’t have any
other
friends in common. Well, except Andrew, who she introduced me to, who introduced me to Nick.

They all went to high school together in Santa Monica, some swanky private school, while I was at public school in Encino. Now I’m at Karen’s half-a-million-dollar wedding.

“Oh, I know,” a girl in the group I’ve infiltrated says. “I would
never
go to St. Bart’s in
March
, of course not!”

She laughs, showing off a mouthful of teeth so white and perfect they’ve gotta be fake. I smile into my glass and drain it, then step away, searching for the guy with the tray. There’s an open bar, but the line is still on the long side.

I have to walk carefully, lifting my dress out of the way of my feet with one hand. The wedding is black tie,
of course
, and I ended up renting a dress for it — meaning I couldn’t get it hemmed and had to wear four-inch heels instead.

I’m beginning to regret that choice, especially since it’s still a touch too long.

At last, I spy the tray of champagne. I put my empty glass down on a cocktail table, grab my dress in both hands, and follow him like I’m a
panther
, my eyes on the prize, stalking my prey through the jungle.

I will have you
, I think to the champagne tray.

You are my prey. You will be mine
.

I slip through the crowd unimpeded, and the tray is ten feet away. There are two glasses left, and then someone takes one. I grit my teeth.

Then I go
flying
.

One second I’m walking and the next my arms are in the air and I’m hurtling toward the ground with no warning, totally off-balance and ungainly, like a newborn giraffe instead of a panther.

The only thing I have time to think is
oh,
fuck
.

Out of nowhere someone catches me with an arm around my waist and I’m just staring down at the floor.

For a moment I stay still, not at all sure
what
the hell just happened.

Then he pushes me up to my feet, and I look at Mister Quick Reflexes.

It’s the blue-eyed, black-haired dreamboat.

He looks at me, and his face breaks into a mocking grin.

“Easy, tiger,” he says in a low, almost-raspy voice. “Might wanna ease off that champagne a little.”

“Oh, my goodness, I am
so
sorry,” I hear from behind me. I turn to see a middle-aged woman with both hands over her mouth. “Did I step on your dress? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

Dreamboat still has one arm around my waist and his hand on my bare shoulder, and I wish he wouldn’t. I’m turning bright red and everyone’s
staring
at the girl who just tripped, and now he’s telling everyone that I’m trashed.

“I’m really sorry,” she says again, and I shake my head and wave her off.

“You can let me go,” I tell Dreamboat. I’m already humiliated, and I don’t need some guy standing around like I’m an invalid.

But when he does let me go, there’s a tiny twinge of disappointment.

“And I’m not drunk,” I say, as if I want to make
extra special sure
he’s not interested in me. “My dress is just too long.”

“If you say so,” he tells me. “But if you’re on the dance floor later grinding with someone’s grandfather, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I snort.

“I don’t know how many women
you
know, but we’re not all two-drink drunks,” I say.

I’m two-drink tipsy
, I think.

He smiles.

“All right, you win,” he says, then backs away and sweeps his hand to one side, in an
after you
gesture that still manages to be sarcastic. “Don’t let me get between you and alcohol again. Lesson learned, tiger.”

I look at him stiffly, gather every remaining shred of my dignity that I can find, and walk away. The guy with the champagne is long gone, but I pretend I’ve got a destination and walk towards it with a
purpose
.

Moments later I’m looking a wall, because that’s what you find when you walk
with a purpose
indoors.

Bathroom
, I think.
Just act like you’re looking for a bathroom. No one questions that
.

Just as purposefully, I find the women’s room, head still high. Even the bathroom is fancy as hell, but I walk past a few other girls and into the handicapped stall.

Then I exhale, slumping against wall. Each stall in this place is a mini-room, tiled walls and all - no plastic stall separators for the Beverly Hills Resort.

This one’s got a picture of flowers over the toilet. For a moment I wonder if it’s
supposed
to symbolize a vagina, or if I’m reading too much into it.

Probably reading too much into it.

The tile is cool against my exposed shoulder, and I try to gather myself, just a little. It feels good to be here, all alone, where no one is looking at me or thinking I’m too drunk or deciding what to say to their best friend about me when they leave.

I wish I hadn’t come
, I think, but it’s not quite true. I’m glad I showed up for Karen, even if her vows were awkward and I already mouthed off to another guest after he prevented me from falling on my face.

Seriously, though.

Why are the hot ones always assholes?

Why couldn’t he say,
Hey, are you all right
, instead of
Reel it in, you crazy drunk?

I wonder if he’s here with someone
, I think. He probably is. Even when they’re assholes, men that good-looking never last in the wild.

Quit thinking about it
, I tell myself, taking a deep breath.
Don’t talk to him again, have a couple more drinks, and leave the second they cut the cake.

You can make it through this.

I pee since I’m already in the bathroom, then wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror. For a sloppy drunk I’m not bad. I was afraid a one-shouldered gown might fit funny, but it actually looks pretty good. Even my hair is holding up for once.

Okay
, I think.
Let’s do this
.

I leave the bathroom, head high, and go back into the wedding reception.