Page 1 of My Bloody Valentine

CHAPTER 1

Candice

My heart pounds in my chest. My palms sweat… so much so that I feel the intense urge to wipe them on something, anything. But, unfortunately, the only thing in close proximity is the wedding dress that’s squeezing me so tightly that it steals my breath.

Groaning, I bend at the waist, placing my palms against the cold granite of the bathroom sink. If only my face wasn’t already made up. It would be so nice to just place my blazing cheeks against the implacable stone.

All around me, my bridesmaids buzz about, the happiness palpable in the air. I feel it too. It’s not as if I’m immune. It’s more that my brain is constantly working, constantly calculating.

When I say I do, it’s forever. That’s just the way it is. My parents were like that, my grandparents, and so on. It’s not as if I have something against divorce. Trust me, if someday Grant decides to get a wild hair up his ass and gets out of pocket, I’m out.

But honestly, most things can be worked through. At least, that’s my personal opinion. Just like with my work life, all I need is to have the numbers add up. With Grant and I, they add up.

Most people would find us boring, but there’s something to be said about a quiet life at home. As long as the sex stays hot, everything will be nice and calm. Easy.

Easy is the perfect word for what we are. Taking in a deep breath, I repeat that word like a mantra. Easy. Once we’re married, that will be the last thing to slide into place. Easy.

Ugh. But why, oh why, did I let him talk me into getting married on Valentine’s Day? Only people deep in their emotions would do something this sappy. It’s not me.

I’m just not sentimental. Grant isn’t either. At least I don’t think he is. Perhaps there’s some financial significance to this day that I’m not thinking about. Leave it to Grant to find some deal. It’s one thing I love most about him.

Gathering my courage, I breathe in and out, looking at the cheerful faces beaming at me. All but one. I squint, counting them out, and repeating their names.

Something’s not right. Where is Jessica my maid of honor? Shaking my head, I push through the girls and go into the main room. Her dress is gone.

Like the others, she must already be dressed. Perhaps she wanted to go to a different bathroom while we were in here? But then, as my best friend, we heard everything from each other in the bathroom. Why go run away now?

Pushing out of the room, I go down the hallway, looking for the other room. It’s not that I just had to have her there, but something feels wrong. I can’t put my finger on it.

Though I never gave much stock to women’s intuition, this time, my gut screams at me so freaking loud that I can’t ignore it. The very worst thing that could happen is that she’s hurt somehow.

Not only would it throw off the even number, which, yes, I know isn’t the absolute worst part, but the thought of my bestie being in pain is something I don’t even want to contemplate.

Unbidden, my brain races back to the time she broke her arm jumping off of the roof of my house. Granted, we were kids then, giving to bouts of imaginative madness. As adults, I know she wouldn’t do something so reckless. But I could never forget the way she screamed.

The pain and terror in her voice stuck with me. Even now, it bounces around my mind, flooding my veins with some unnamable fear. She has to be okay. She just has to.

Flinging open the door to the other bathroom, I freeze, my brain and eyes fighting with each other, trying to make sense of the scene in front of me. Instead of being sprawled out, injured, and unable to call for help, she is on all fours.

Her mouth hangs open as lurid sounds pour out, decadent and heady. Before, I thought the very worst thing that could happen to me was to find her hurt. But I was wrong. So very wrong.

My sensible, light blue bridal party gown is hoisted up about her hips, wrinkling, and probably already covered in fluids I’d rather not think about. But that still isn’t the worst part.

It isn’t the wild abandon, the slack, relaxed pose of her body as she’s being reamed from behind. It isn’t the fact that I envy the look of sheer joy on her face, an ecstasy I somehow have never seemed to experience. It isn’t even the loud cries of pleasure that reach a crescendo mine never have.

No.

It’s the fact that the person giving her this, pleasuring her in this way, on my fucking wedding day, is none other than my fiancé. I want to leave, to put these images out of my mind, but I can’t bring myself to do that.

It’s as if I’m locked in some nightmare that I can’t escape. Maybe that’s it! Maybe I’m just having a pre-wedding nightmare! Though, granted, I never expected my subconscious to bring this up.

To my knowledge, I’ve never had any worries about my betrothed sleeping with someone else, much less my best friend. Interesting what the mind will conjure. Since this is a dream, however, I figure it’s best to watch it to its conclusion and see if I can learn something from it.

However, the longer I stand there, the more I wonder if this is in fact my reality. Once more, sweat gathers on my palms, hot and sticky. I rarely felt things in dreams. Yet another conundrum to pick at my brain.

Jessica’s cries pierce the air, punctuated, loud, in time with Grant’s forceful thrusts. Does he enjoy that position? He always seems content with the missionary sex we have.

He got off. I got off. What more is needed? But as I watch, my stomach twists painfully. I find my breathing matching theirs. I gulp for air but find none.