The Wedding from Hell Bind-Up Read online

  See also: Mr. and Mrs. Moose.

  Moose had been all too ready to become a shoulder for her to cry on, and things had progressed fast from there to the jewelry counter at Macy’s. And as those two had gotten together, Danny hadn’t given any other thought to Deandra, even as the woman had started coming around the apartment at all hours of the day and night.

  He’d been too busy thinking about Anne to take anyone else seriously.

  But after last night, he had to wonder what his obligations to Moose were?

  At least he hadn’t done anything wrong, Danny reminded himself.

  As the settee creaked, he looked over and sat up straight. “Anne.”

  She seemed to gather herself before she spoke, crossing those long legs in those tux slacks, undoing the button on the jacket.

  “Listen,” she said softly, “I think you need to talk to Moose. Something’s really wrong and if he doesn’t want to do this, he needs to say so and put a stop to things.”

  Danny stared into her eyes. And pictured the two of them doing this not as support troops, but the real deal, her all in white, him in this penguin suit.

  “Hello?” she demanded. “Did you hear what I said?”

  He looked across at Moose. The guy was leaning against the wood paneling and staring down at his shiny black shoes. “Yeah. I did.”

  “You’re the only one he listens to.”

  Between one blink and the next, Danny went back to being in his bedroom the night before, naked under his sheets, his in-and-out-of-consciousness all about Anne.

  When a female shape had come through his door, he’d been confused—and aroused, thinking it was Anne. But then the perfume that was all wrong had made its way across the still air, and he’d realized the hair was too blond.

  That dress Deandra had been wearing at the rehearsal dinner had been up-and-over’d quick, hitting the floor with a soft rush.

  I want you, Danny, only you.

  He’d told her to get the fuck out, but Deandra didn’t listen to anybody when they were talking shit she didn’t want to hear. And then she’d told him all about Moose going to that strip club and cheating on her.

  So of course, why not fuck your fiancé’s roommate in retaliation. Classy.

  But I love you, Danny. Only you—

  “You’ve got to talk to him,” Anne repeated. “This is wrong.”

  I’d rather talk to you, he thought as he got to his feet.

  “Okay.”

  He didn’t want to get involved, but last night had put him at the front of the line for issues those two needed to work on. Besides, he had some fucked-up idea that if he did the right thing by his roommate, maybe he would deserve Anne a little more.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said to her.

  As he walked over to Moose, the guy didn’t look up. “Hey, can we talk?” Danny asked.

  There was a long pause, and then Moose shook his head from side to side. “Nope. I’m good.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yup.”

  “Come on, Moose. This doesn’t feel right to a lot of us.”

  “Feels right to me.” The groom shrugged. “She’s what I want.”

  Then why did you go to the strip club the night before last? Danny wanted to say. With a wallet full of condoms?

  “Maybe just put things off for a little while. Take a break. Shit’s moved really fast.”

  Moose stroked his beard. “Yeah, and you know all about that, don’t you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  A couple of the other guys glanced over, and going by the way they changed their stances, they were waiting for a fight to break out. Then again, everyone knew about Danny and the Deandra thing. Except for Anne.

  “I just don’t want you to do something you’re going to regret.”

  Moose looked over, and the simmering anger in his eyes slowly drained out, revealing an exhaustion you had to feel sorry for. “Why does everybody always love you, Danny? And not me.”

  Danny looked away. To Anne.

  Not everybody loves me. At least, not the way I want them to.

  “Moose, I—”

  The guy squared his big shoulders and smiled without any happiness. “It’s gonna be fine. I’m getting the girl of my dreams. What could be better?” He turned to the assembled. “Come on, boys, let’s get hitched!”

  * * *

  Anne had been sure Danny would talk some sense into Moose. But then the groom announced it was time to head up to the narthex and start seating people. Left with no other choice, she’d made sure her clip-on bow tie was straight, and then she’d done up her jacket and headed out with the others.

  Lot of funny looks as she escorted folks to their seats.

  Particularly from the grandmothers.

  But Anne got used to it as she did her groomsmen job. And after about an hour, she and the rest of the 499 crew were lining up on the right side of the altar.

  She’d been convinced Deandra wouldn’t show at the last minute. Even as the woman’s Pepto-Bismol bridesmaids had beauty-queened it down the aisle. But then the organ music swelled and people were standing and the double doors all the way at the other end of the cathedral were being opened.

  Beneath the soaring arches, bathed in candlelight and the glow of stained glass, Deandra stepped and paused, stepped and paused, stepped and paused, all the way down the red carpeted aisle on the arm of her father, her veil over her features, her train a wake of white stretching behind her.

  As her father lifted her veil, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her hand to Moose, Anne looked at Danny.

  He was stone-faced and standing in disapproval—until he glanced at her.

  All at once, the heat returned between them, charging the air, dampening all sounds.

  She had watched him as he’d tried to talk to Moose and told herself it was because she was trying to read lips to see what he was saying. But that hadn’t been why she’d stared. He looked positively edible in that tuxedo, his rough workman’s hands a delicious contrast to the satin lapels and satin stripe down his slacks.

  Anne looked away. There were a good two hundred people in the church, which, considering the place could seat at least five hundred, meant there were a lot of empty pews. She wished there were a thousand on the invite list.

  At least that way, maybe she could see someone, anyone, other than Danny Maguire.

  “Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him . . .”

  As the priest stared speaking those words, Anne thought about the chances of her ever doing this, and not as a groomsmen but as the bride. She had had a couple of relationships—what twenty-something-year-old woman hadn’t? But they’d never intruded on her drive to perform on the fire service and blow away all the preconceptions about women and what females could do in that job.

  Her career had been the most important thing.

  So why in the hell was she suddenly looking to complicate things by having sex with Danny? She’d gone online and checked the night before. There was absolutely a no-fraternization rule in place for people inside the same the firehouse.

  They might be able to have a single hookup, but a relationship was out of the question unless one of the two of them relocated—and she wasn’t looking for a one-night stand.

  She glanced at Danny again. Focused on his full mouth. Pictured him shirtless, his tattoos and his muscles like something out of a firefighter’s calendar.

  No, she told her libido. She absolutely was not looking for a one nighter.

  chapter

  9

  It was every kitschy, Pinterest, Brides magazine bright idea crammed into the ballroom of the Hyatt Regency New Brunswick.

  Tables with tall crystal displays you couldn’t see around were marked with a different meaningful song, and as you checked in, you had to find your name on a placard and locate the title inside. Which meant two hundred people were stuck walking thr
ough the whole set up because there was no numerical or alphabetical order to anything. Then there was the endless lull as pictures were taken of the bridal party. Followed by a plated dinner of rubber chicken, gelatinous risotto, and some kind of green vegetable that might have been deconstructed beans, but could have been pea puree.

  At least Anne could people watch to pass the time. And she was also not at Danny’s table.

  She had won the Crazy Aunt Lottery.

  “—as I was saying, my sister, Melinda, would have been here tonight, but she has problems with her knees.”

  Anne turned to her left. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  The old woman who was speaking smiled, revealing dentures that were as even and round-topped as a picket fence. Courtesy of her sequined purple dress, sparkles flashed up her wrinkled neck and highlighted her eroded jawline. Her hair, tightly permed and dyed the same deep red as her lipstick, made her a candidate for Willy Wonka’s mother.

  “It’s just too much for Melinda, you know. She’s younger than I am, but not in as good shape. I’ve told her she needs to get out more with her walker. She’s getting a Hoveround chair—have you seen the commercials on TV?”

  Her name was . . . Margie? Marianne?

  “I work out,” she said proudly. “I’m seventy-eight and I bet you never would have guessed.”

  “Ah . . . no, I wouldn’t have.”

  “Have you ever heard of Prancercise?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “It’s all the rage. You might want to try it. Here, let me show you on my phone. I have a Samsung—”

  “Oh, Mary Ellen, will ya give it a rest. No one gives a shit about your stupid Prancercise bullcrap.”

  Anne turned to her right. Unlike Mary Ellen, this sister had retained a strong Fall River accent, her cigarette- and whiskey-fried vocal cords making her sound like a foghorn that had developed a shocking competency with some version of the English language. She was clearly over eighty, and dressed in a pantsuit that would have fit right in with Mike’s Tuxedo Rentals’ changing area.

  “Well.” Mary Ellen sat back and lifted her chin. “I don’t understand why some people can’t live and let live.”

  “ ’Course ya can’t. ’Cuz you’re always pushin’ ya shit on other folks.” The pantsuit aunt leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s always been like this. Bettah than everybody else.”

  “Can we not fight?”

  Anne looked across the table. This other sister looked worried in the way someone on a train who might, or might not, be developing stomach issues would get if they weren’t sure where the bathroom was.

  And there were three other octogenarians seated around, all first cousins of the ones with the names that started with “M.” Along with the vacant chair that Melinda of the Hoveround should have been in.

  “Tell me, dear,” one of the cousins asked, “when are you getting married? Now that your kind can do that.”

  “Excuse me?” Anne asked.

  The little old lady lowered her voice. “You know, the . . . gays,” she whispered. “You people.”

  Across the way, Deandra mashed a piece of wedding cake into Moose’s beard, and then the eighties cover band started up a beat.

  I have got to get out of here, Anne thought. Right now—

  “Dance with me?”

  She jumped as Danny’s voice spoke over the din of the music. Glancing over her shoulder, she nearly jumped up and grabbed onto him like he was a life raft.

  “Yup. Absolutely.” She put her napkin on the table. “Will you excuse me?”

  She didn’t wait for permission. She bolted out of there, grabbing Danny’s hand and going Olympic sprinter to the dance floor.

  Under any other circumstance, she probably would have thought better about it, but when your evac away from the frontlines appeared, you didn’t stop to criticize the fact that the SUV lacked air conditioning.

  Or that the guy you’d agreed to dance with was someone you were desperate to be with, against your better judgment.

  Danny swung her around, and then brought her close—spun her out, tugged her back in. He was a great dancer, a Channing Tatum who knew where his body was in space, rather than a Duff who—yup, was right now hard-angling it with one of the bridesmaids.

  The poor man was like an arthritic before a visit to the chiropractor.

  As she and Danny danced, she thought of when they’d been measuring her at the tux place, him looming, powerful and strong, behind her, that heat kindling. Then she remembered the two of them in that back alley, unwitting saviors to that prostitute and her boyfriend and the pimp.

  Then that kiss.

  Anne looked up, into his eyes. He stared back at her. They moved together.

  The song ended. Another began. And still they danced.

  It was easy to forget there were other firefighters around, other colleagues they worked with, other people who knew them both. With the lights lowered, and the lasers streaking across like shooting stars, and the beat of the music, it was as if they were alone.

  What are you going to do, Anne, she asked herself. Because everything about this was an invitation.

  Four songs in, she made her mind up.

  Leaning into him, she said, “Let’s finish what we almost started.”

  Danny’s eyes flared and he stilled, his body throwing off heat.

  “No one can see us leave.” She stepped back. “And no one can ever know.”

  “I don’t care if you forget my name right afterward. I just . . . I need you, Anne.”

  She wasn’t a fool. She knew this was just a hookup. But she didn’t want to do the good and sensible thing tonight.

  Tomorrow she would regret this. Right now? She just wanted to be naked. With him.

  “I have a room,” he said. “Upstairs. Eleven-oh-nine. I’ll go up now and leave the door open. Meet me there in ten minutes.”

  Her heart started hammering. “Okay.”

  Danny took off, shuffling past the tables, beating feet for the door. A couple of people tried to stop him to talk, and when Duff tried to stand in his way, it was pretty clear Danny was prepared to pick the guy up and throw him across the entire ballroom.

  Anne put her hand on her sternum. Holy crap, was she really going to do this?

  * * *

  Up on the eleventh floor, Danny stepped out of the elevator and ripped off his bow tie, shoving the clip-on into his jacket pocket. Desperate to get naked, he started unbuttoning his shirt before he’d even made it to his room, and the only reason he kept his fucking pants on as he ditched the pleated monstrosity was because he wanted to give Anne a chance to tell him no.

  Assuming she came up.

  Fuck, what if she didn’t come up?

  The room had a king-sized bed, a kitchenette, and a flat-screen TV you could pivot in any direction. It also had a minibar. Opening the cupboard of little bottles, mini mixers, and crackers, he took out an itty-bitty Jack Daniel’s, cracked the top, and downed the shot and a half on a oner.

  Thing was probably going to cost him eight bucks.

  And it was the first of three.

  Even though he’d been with an embarrassingly large number of women—thank you, college frat house—Anne made him feel like a fumbling virgin, all nerves and thumbs.

  Pacing around, he went over to the window and looked out over the city: Twinkling towers of the four skyscrapers New Brunie had. Streams of traffic showing white headlights as they came toward the hotel and red brakes as they went away from it. Glowing pockets of suburbia on the outer rim.

  Shit, he hadn’t turned any of the lamps or overheads on. He was just here in the dark—

  The slice of light that penetrated the room spun him around. And there Anne was, in her tuxedo, the woman he had hoped was coming to see him the night before.

  “Anne . . .”

  His voice was needy and hoarse, and as she stepped inside, his erection got even stiffer behind the zipper of his pants.
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  She closed the door behind her softly. And when she kicked off her shoes, he broke out in a sweat, his breath starting to pump.

  He’d never thought this was going to happen, he realized. But like so much in life, here it was.

  Anne came forward to him, her feet whispering over the carpet. Dimly, he was aware of voices out in the corridor, a woman’s laughter, a door closing with a loud thunk.

  “I just don’t want anyone to know.” She stopped in front of him. “It’s hard enough being a woman on the service without getting slapped with a bimbo label.”

  Danny frowned. “No one will ever think that of you.”

  “If they know I slept with a firefighter, they will.” She shook her head. “You will be a hero. I will be a slut. And don’t argue with me.”

  “I won’t.” And if you want me to beg? Just tell me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Reaching out, his hand trembled, but he didn’t give a fuck. “I’ve wanted to do this for years.”

  Drawing her forward, he lowered his lips until they were a hairsbreadth away from hers.

  “Stop me now,” he said in a guttural voice. “If you’re going to stop me, do it now.”

  In response, she pulled him down to her, the kiss direct, explosive, desperate. He’d wanted to be slow and considerate, but the taste of her, the slick slide of her tongue against his own, the clinging warmth of her body, put bullshit to all that take-it-easy pre-planning he’d lectured himself on while riding up in the elevator.

  In all of his life, he’d never expected to drop a tuxedo jacket from the shoulders of someone he was going to make love to, but Anne had always been a shocker to him. And as that coat she’d rented hit the floor, he went for the buttons of her shirt as he kept their mouths fused. The bastard fastenings were tiny and obstinate, but they did what his willpower had failed at: They pumped the brakes.

  He penetrated her again with his tongue, learning what she liked as, one by one, he freed those cocksucking, motherfucking, piece-of-shit—

  “I want to rip this shirt apart,” he said into her mouth.