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Kristen
“If Demon Hart got married, his vows would go something like…” I bent my fingers into air quotes, making a funny deep voice just like him. “Do you take me to be your lawfully mindless sex robot, to fuck in all positions possible until death by orgasms parts us?” Rolling my eyes, I downed the double shot of tequila, slamming it down like it was the last golden drop left on earth, filled with all my hopes and dreams.
I swayed on my stool at the local watering hole. I had been coming to Easton’s Pub since before I was legal knowing the dual owners since high school. Andy and David Easton were good guys, and this was our group’s version of Cheers, although I had many moments, some of them recent where I wished people didn’t know my name.
My favorite red-headed waitress, Remi Kennedy, leaned over the bar speaking in her slight Southern twang. “Puh-lease girl, tell me how you really feel.”
I smiled, swaying on the seat. The alcohol burned a slow path down my throat, warming my shriveled-up heart. I swirled on the bar stool, taking in the happy couples and people filling the bar with their happy, sticky-sweet energy. My friends thought I was edging closer to being an alcoholic, but the sad truth was I only drank like this when Demon got the best of me—which, okay fine, was lately and seemed more often than I liked. I had zero control over myself when it came to that man-child. We had years of this love/hate shit to make our world go round, and I was currently waiting for it end in a fiery crash and burn of unrequited emotions.
My best friend, Taylor Jane Bryant, placed a hand over mine pausing me for a moment as I brought the margarita to my lips. “Wow, I didn’t realize your dislike of Damien went so deep after all these years.”
I gave her the side-eye that spanned over twenty years of friendship and watched her face crinkle in a smile.
I had clearly moved on from the pure shots of tequila, currently pacing myself. My BFF should have known I wasn’t going to let some guy get the best of me—not even Damien Hart. Over the rim of my glass, Taylor gave me the mom-eyes I hated as she squeezed her pale pink gel manicured fingers in front of her face.
“Honey, I thought we had grown just a teeny bit since we attended that yoga retreat at Rhinebeck.”
My response was a dramatic roll of my eyes and a second spin on the bar stool.
Yoga my ass. My attention span was on our male instructor’s fine ass between demonstrations of downward dog. Her point was made and Taylor sipped her margarita slowly, licking the salt off the rim. Her eyes were trained on me, but those fingers pinched together. Yeah, I knew plenty of teeny things, but Demon’s dick wasn’t one of them. Demon’s dick haunted me since prom. It didn’t help that she didn’t have any reason to be sour. After all, she was the lucky girl marrying her best friend. Fairy-fucking-tale-come-true. Our hot best friend, Hunter Hart, local construction god who’d flipped her house into something fit for a princess living a Barbie dream life. You might have heard of him; he’s kind of a town celebrity around here. The mere thought of him had me sighing, but not because I was a secret pervert or a bitch-best-friend out to steal her man… I just wanted a fairy tale of my own.
And the boy next door.
That damn man-child who’d haunted me for the last ten-plus years.
Instead, I got a lifelong crush on a cocksucker who couldn’t keep his hands off the… well, never mind that story right now. Taylor put her hand on my back, steadying my drunken ass like a good best friend should. I figured if I overindulged she could woman up and take care of me tonight because before long she wouldn’t be just my best girl anymore—she would be wholly and irrevocably Hunter’s wife.
His best girl.
Was I jealous much?
Definitely.
Looking down to my phone, I swiped my finger over the screen. Cute. My BFF must have changed the background on my phone to remind me why drunk texting was a bad idea. Actually, me texting in general was a bad idea. I knew numbers; numbers made sense—hence the accounting track in college. Words so much weren’t my thing. The screen showed a serene picture of our favorite group camping spot, about a half hour away from here, with a selfie photo of the two of us followed by the bold words in flowery script: “Hoe, put the phone down!”
I loved my best friend; she was the sister I nev
er had. I couldn’t even talk to my brother Chase about this. Lately my brother had turned into a mega-prick. I wasn’t sure if that was an older brother thing or something else he refused to talk about. I was lying to myself, unable to acknowledge openly that I wasn’t worried her newly engaged and soon-to-be-married status was going to change our relationship. From what I saw, married chicks always got dull. I didn’t want that for my bestie—for us.
I mean seriously, because who would hang out with me on midweek wine Wednesdays? And later in the week on Friday wing night? Who was going to slip into my bed and hold me when the next guy broke my heart and the grocery story ran out of my favorite breakup ice cream? What if our favorite show finally ended or my BOB ran out of batteries? Taylor Jane Bryant wouldn’t be there to lend me her last triple A battery because she had a hunk of a man taking care of her needs and I would be left all alone.
For the first time since I was five years old and she’d moved in next door, I would be wing-woman-less. I knew it was selfish and childish, but I didn’t know how to accept that things were changing between us and I was feeling left behind. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me this was an issue, and that I was acting out. I was well aware of the fact. Oh God, did this mean I was being forced into actualizing adulthood?
Slinging my drink back, I figured I’d worry when I made a hardcore effort to do something other than whine and complain. Maybe I needed a hobby? I was pretty sure once the excuses came for no more Saturday morning hungover yoga because Hunter was calling dibs on morning sex, I’d pretty much screwed the pooch.
Chase had been hounding me to volunteer at his animal rescue. I could do that; I already had an idea and a hundred bucks from Hunter with the promise he’d wear a tux. Organizing, fundraising, and filling my time with something worthy sounded like a solid plan to keep me mostly out of trouble. In other words, I needed to stop being a selfish brat.
Fear would have me turning into the always a bridesmaid, never a bride cliché. Feeling sorry for myself and being catty wouldn’t help the situation. I knew I was pouting over it, but damn it, she didn’t have to pair me up with my mortal enemy in her wedding party. I was sure her fiancé Hunter could have found someone hotter and more compelling than his damn cousin. Why did Damien have to be his best man?
I totally did not just call him hot, did I?
Fuck a duck.
I looked down into my partially melted frozen margarita.
I blame Jose Cuervo for this mess.
My ADD brain echoed that I needed more distractions of a healthier nature. “You know what we need?” Ignoring Taylor’s groan, I nodded to Remi to come over with fresh drinks. My margarita supplier never let me down.
Taylor grimaced, pushing her own drink back. “If you say alcohol, I’m leaving. I’ve barely eaten today, trying to pick out flowers and songs. I need to get home sober.” Her arms crossed and a censoring look stormed across her face.
“Boo hoo,” I taunted her.
“Mostly sober, Kristen. I don’t want to bother Hunter to come pick me up. He has an early day tomorrow doing job quotes in Newburg,” she reiterated.
Yeah, yeah, I heard her the first time. Hunter wasn’t against alcohol but he was pretty firm about not driving under the influence—which was smart anyway.
“What? It’s not like you’re trying to get knocked up right now.” We were in the best friend stare down and color me stupid. Maybe they are trying to get pregnant? Damn, we just transitioned past kissing under trees right to the baby carriage.
“Seriously?” I asked to clarify my timeline on becoming an aunt and semi-adult.
Taylor gave me a legitimate scowl. “No. We’re waiting on kids.”
“Um, okay, not alcohol.” Drats! She knew me pretty well. “I was going to say a bachelorette party—you know, since you’re leaving me high, dry, and single.”
Taylor groaned again, letting her head rest against the shiny varnished top of the bar. She was adorable for a twenty-five-year-old fun-killer going on fifty. If she was going to be Dorothy, then I was going to be her Blanche. I’d be damned if I let my best Golden Girl ditch me without one last bang.
“Dry? What, are you finally giving up alcohol for lent again?”
Flinging my hand in the air, I said, “Please sister, I had one of those I-need-a-man Jesus-moments last Easter, until I got the vodka open. Besides, I’m only helpless when my nails are drying.”
“Kristen, you get gel manicures same as I do. You’re never helpless.”
Whining was the only tone I knew these days, when my bestie was leaving me behind for greener pastures and bigger dicks. “Pfft, I am when my best friend decides to take a life-altering jump down the aisle without me.”
“You make it sound like I’m jumping from a plane without a parachute.” What, she thought marriage wasn’t the same? A risk was still a risk. Heck, dating these days was like going to garage sales and picking up shit nobody wanted anyway.
I went with childish taunting instead. “Come on, fun-killer!”
“Hunter is going to flip.” Yeah, and God forbid we let Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes dictate how we spend our weekends without him. If Taylor wasn’t on board, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I took my maid of honor duties seriously, even if she was trying to downplay the importance of her own wedding. Backyard picnic shit? Not for this girl if I had anything to say about it. I was pretty sure I had a secret Pinterest board stowed away with her name on it, even if I didn’t like the idea of marriage in general.
“That’s why this is going to be epic. Come on, pretty please?”
