Passionate Bid

Passionate Bid

By

Tierney O’Malley

Julian Ravenwood clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack from the pressure. But having cracked teeth was better than punching someone.

He”d already humiliated his grandma and wouldn”t do it again in front of people eager to hear more gossip.

Son of a bitch. Standing inside this church was the last place he wanted to be—wearing a tuxedo, polished shoes, and about to get hitched.

Damn wedding. In his opinion, how fucking insignificant it may be, marrying a very young woman was a high price to pay for one mistake he barely remembered committing. Too bad his soon-to-be father-in-law thought otherwise. A thought that his grandma shared.

How could she pick Saint Claire”s side? He couldn”t believe it. His own grandma, who knew him since birth, agreed that he acted foolishly and should face his responsibility like an honorable man.

I am a fucking honorable man. Never tried pot, cheated on my girlfriend or ex-girlfriends, never cut in line. But, according to Saint Claire, I am the son of Satan who took advantage of his daughter’s innocence. Innocent, my ass.

Julian had been drunk; Joanie sober. Easy to see who took advantage whom?

But no matter how hard he tried to explain that simple fact when the unthinkable happened, they didn”t believe him. How could they not see that Joanie was an accomplice and not a victim?

What he received was a hard slap on the face. It was the first time he”d seen his grandma that angry.

Julian groaned and rolled his eyes as the pianist played the old universal tune, Here Comes the Bride. A reminder that he fucked up his life. Big time. He looked to his left where the old lady in her bright pink sweater hunched low in front of the organ. Her body spoke excitement. She was practically dancing. Well, at least someone appreciated the occasion because he, the stupid groom, definitely didn”t care.

Yup, I don’t give a damn about this wedding.

The handful of guests turned from their seats expecting the bride to appear at the door. A minute later, no bride appeared. Good. Maybe she and her father came to their senses and realized that this whole thing was a mistake and they both went home.

Perhaps to cue in Joanie to take the spot by the door where she should be, the organist pounded harder on the keys, repeating the music”s intro, as she looked up and craned her neck.

Damn song. Here comes death would be the apt title for it, Julian thought, because this wedding was exactly that. A funeral. Curses fell from his mouth. Damn, he”d never been this angry. He should feel ecstatic or at least nervous. After all today was his wedding day. The beginning of a new chapter in his life. However, today was anything but.

Standing by the altar with ornery—what was his name? Ah, Father Keeley—breathing down his neck was the last place on earth he thought he would be in right now. He should be in Florida with his buddies, enjoying the beach, beautiful women in their skimpy bikinis, and cans of cold Coors beer. Not sealing his doom.

Julian searched deep inside himself for any signs of excitement or giddiness.

Anything at all. Nothing. What he felt was the need to escape and hot boiling anger for not being able to.

God damn it! He”d rather be anywhere but here.

Stomach sick, he kept his eyes focused on the church”s stained glass window just above the arched doorway. Through his peripheral view, a froth of white appeared. His heart sank low in his gut.

So the Saint Claire’s are still here. Fuckin’ eh. He kept his gaze glued on the rainbow colored cross and ignored the hushed whispers that seemed to get louder every minute.

Father Keeley cleared his throat. The sound grated on his nerves. The priest had been doing it all morning as if he was a child being reminded to behave. He bet he”d have a real sore throat when the ceremony was over. This time though, he knew why the priest made an even louder ehem.

But he didn”t need Father Keeley”s reminder. He knew what he was supposed to do—look at Joanie Saint Claire, the part that he found hard to do. No, not that he didn”t want to see her. He”d seen her around, and didn”t find any problems with that. It was what she represented that he didn”t like at all—a bride.

His bride.

Julian lowered his gaze to look at Joanie. Oh. My. God. He shuddered inwardly at the sight of his bride.

Joanie”s face was pale, her eyes swollen, and her lips trembled the way one would when left out in the freezing cold. Shit, he”d never seen a bride who looked ready to cast out her stomach”s contents. With Joanie”s father on her side, she walked with a speed of a snail, unsmiling, and she looked on the verge of spilling tears. She held her bouquet like a heavy basket dangling on her side. Her old man, who Julian often referred to as Saint Claire, held her other hand at the crook of his arm.

Saint Claire looked twice as bad as his daughter did. His face resembled a dark cloud during winter—heavy and thunderous as if a mere poke would make him burst and shower everyone, particularly him, with his wrath.

Julian bet that if Saint Claire could have his way, he”d blast him with his .38

Special to the center of the earth for what he had done to Joanie. Or what Saint Claire believed he”d done.

When Saint Claire requested—no, demanded—that he explained what happened, why his daughter ended up in his bedroom, Julian told him everything to the best of his ability. With the way the old man glanced at Joanie with his brows deeply furrowed, Julian could tell that he believed what happened in his room was consensual. But the fact that Joanie was still seventeen, underage for legal consent, Saint Claire found a way to make him face the consequences—

marriage.

One fucking mistake and his life turned upside down.

Julian watched Joanie take baby steps. Good, he thought. The longer it took them to reach the altar the better. He needed every second to prolong his bachelorhood.

Change your mind, old man. Take your daughter back to your home, not to me.

But the isle wasn”t long enough to give Saint Claire time to think about the stupidity of their situation. To his chagrin, Joanie and Saint Claire reached the altar.

Julian stole a quick glance at his grandma sitting at the front pew. Their gazes met. Grandma shook her head. A simple gesture, but it caused him pain that wound its way to his heart. He didn”t want to hurt her, but he did. And nothing he could do about it but apologize.

“This is your fate, Julian. Accept it.”

Those were his grandma”s words. He liked to believe her, but he knew the truth. They were all gathered in this cold, gray church because he’d consumed too much alcohol, and it had fucked with his brain.

Willing his gaze to focus on Saint Claire, the old man gave him a chilling look, sending him a silent warning. Oh yeah, I get the message in that look. It’s the I-will-kill-you-if-you-hurt-my-daughter look. Julian met the stare with his own hot glare. He would rather give Saint Claire an imprint of his knuckles, but the man carried a gun under his coat. Nah, he would never hurt an old man physically, but it felt just as nice to think about it. Besides, his grandma hadn”t raised him to become a disrespectful ass.

Saint Claire, Julian noticed, had to pry Joanie”s fingers off his arm. He heard the old man murmured, “It”s going to be okay, poppet,” before giving her a tight embrace that bespoke his unwillingness to give her away.

When Joanie finally let go of her father, Saint Claire turned to pierce him with eyes shiny from unshed tears.

Julian wanted to tell him, Hey, I’m not the only one to blame here. But it wouldn”t do them any good since the other person to blame wasn”t even considered an adult.

Saint Claire broke eye contact and took his seat beside his grandma. They greeted each other with a short nod.

With his spirits sinking even lower, he let out a deep sigh while waiting for Joanie to face the priest.

Joanie”s chin quivered and her eyes, like her father”s, were bright with unshed tears. But when she focused her gaze on him, he saw something he couldn”t exactly discern. Courage, anger, fear, maybe sadness? He couldn”t tell. Whatever it was, he didn”t care. All he wanted was to end this lunacy.

He acknowledged Joanie with a nod, which made her already flushed face deepen into crimson. She lowered her lashes and began chewing her lips.

Lord, this is why virgins are supposed to stay in convents.

He faced Father Keeley, who showed his displeasure openly by scowling.

Fuck, why was everyone looking at him as if he sinfully offered Eve an apple and ruined the innocence and harmony in the Garden of Eden? This Eve, also known as his future wife Joanie, may be young, but innocent she wasn”t.

Joanie knew what she was doing that night. Considering he didn”t have scratches on him or any sign that she fought him, showed what was obvious—she willfully opened her legs to him.

She, Joanie Saint Claire, did nothing to stop him from breaking her hymen that night therefore making her a contributor to his impending doom.

Their doom.

She should have screamed, clawed his face, and kicked his groin. But what did she do? Opened her legs wide then dug the soles of her feet on his ass. That last part he remembered well. Why? Who the fuck knows?

Maybe it was that good. Hell. The word flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He heard Joanie breathe a deep intake, but before he could apologize, Father Keeley reprimanded him in his nasally sounded tone.

“Watch your mouth, boy. You are in the house of God.”

“Sorry, Father.” Fine, he”d been acting like a jerk since he arrived this afternoon, but he had his reason—he too was a victim in this mess. So whoever thought him was a jerk could go to hell.

Not knowing what to do with his hands, he clasped them in front of him.

Father Keeley scowled, his nostrils flaring.

Julian raised his brows in silent question. What? Was he supposed to hold hands with Joanie? He glanced at Joanie. Her head bowed while picking the petals on her bouquet. Well, she wasn”t complaining so why offer his arm to his bride or touch her fingers?

Besides touching Joanie was his downfall. Doing it again would be plain stupid. No way would he hold his unwanted bride”s hand. Not going to happen again, not in this fucking lifetime. Never.

There wasn”t much he could do to prevent the wedding from happening, but at least he could show Saint Claire he opposed it. Old man Saint Claire was probably seething right now and wished he could pull out his gun from its hiding place to shoot him. But he knew better. The man was hell bent on seeing this wedding done and tightly sealed. He wanted to see Joanie married to save her reputation.

What”s up with that? Losing virginity in the twenty-first century wasn”t a big deal anymore. Even girls in middle school let their boyfriend”s finger fuck or have sex with them. Virginity wasn”t that precious and important. Not to him.

Obviously to some it was, he thought. Like Saint Claire and yeah, his grandma, who still valued morals.

Christ, who would have thought, at this modern age, a woman who wasn”t promiscuous still existed? And he fucked her. He often wondered what it was like to deflower a tight, untried woman. Now that he finally experienced it, he could only remember parts of the deed.

Joanie was a virgin, but for fuck”s sake, he was so drunk he couldn”t tell how he”d broken her hymen. Was he rough, gentle? Did she cry like his friends told him virgins always do when they lost their precious maidenhead?

Avoiding looking at Joanie, he gave his attention on the wooden crucifix dangling from Father Keeley”s hand and tried to think of something, anything, just to block the priest”s droning voice.

Without a doubt, Julian was beyond pissed and truth be told—nervous.

How could he not be? In a few minutes, he”d be a freaking married man because he got fucking drunk at a party and his wife would be… the town”s clumsy untidy nerd. Again, he glanced at Joanie Saint Claire and quickly assessed her from head to toe.

Joanie was still looking down at her bouquet, scrunching up her nose with her lips moving from side to side as if something bothered her. Seeing her bouquet”s condition, he thought any bride would be making faces, too. The bunch of white orchids looked as wilted as she was. Julian”s eyes widened when he noticed her paint-stained cuticles. It looked like Joanie didn”t prepare for this wedding at all. And if she did, damn, she totally failed. She wasn”t wearing earrings or a necklace, no bracelets or rings… not even lipstick. The white silk ribbon holding her hair was already undone. Brown ringlets escaped her lopsided bun and a few curling wisps dangled down her temple and nape. He”d seen her with her hair down before. The shade resembled a thick mop dipped in caramel and milk chocolate.

Joanie reminded him of a beer diluted with ice—bland.

The first time he went to Joanie”s house to face Saint Claire”s accusations and hear the consequences if he didn”t accept his condition, Joanie sat on a chair wearing a pair of faded paint-stained blue jeans and sneakers with a shoelace untied. He assumed she looked that way because Saint Claire failed to inform her about his visit. Today, she proved his assumption wrong. On her freaking wedding day, Joanie looked like a crumpled bed sheet. She couldn”t even keep the ribbon in her hair.