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The words hadn’t fully left her mouth when her mom swung back and delivered a punch direct center to my mother’s face. My mom screamed in pain, while the entire restaurant seemed to gasp in shock as one. Blood poured out from around her fingers and splattered on her designer dress.
“If you ever call my child a whore again, a broken nose will be the least of your worries, bitch,” Lana seethed, shaking out her hand.
Drake grasped her hand, inspecting it for any damage she may have caused herself. Briefly, he lifted his head and snapped his fingers at a waiter. “Get my angel a bag of ice for her hand,” he commanded before turning his focus back on his wife’s already-bruising knuckles.
“You need to have a better rein on your wife, Stevenson,” my father grumbled.
Slowly, as if he were a predator capturing his prey in his sights, Drake turned his head and looked at Miles. I heard him gulp at the feral look in the rock legend’s blue-gray eyes. “I suggest you take your bitch wife and go, dickhead. Before I start spilling your dirty secrets here in this packed restaurant with people who know you.”
“Belinda,” Miles snapped. “Let’s go.”
Even holding her still-bleeding nose, my mother was able to toss her hair back and hmph as she walked past Lana. With a little growl, Lana started to grab for her, but Drake stepped into her path, lightly tightening his grip on her injured hand. “Easy, Angel. You already made your point.”
The waiter returned with the bag of ice—and the manager. “Sir, I’m afraid you and your party will have to leave, or I will be forced to call the police.”
“Gladly,” Drake gritted out. “If you allow trash like that in here, then I’m sure the food isn’t nearly as good as your accolades claim.”
“Sir,” the manager began again, a look of outrage on his face. “Please don’t make more of a scene.”
Carefully releasing Lana’s hand, Drake pulled out his wallet and extracted several bills. Tossing them on the table, he lifted his chin at the waiter who had brought the bag of ice. “For you, kid.”
Chapter 3
Nevaeh
Pushing my glasses up my nose, I went through my emails, trying to decide which ones I could knock out before I went to bed. Summer grad school classes were no joke, and I was thankful that my mom and Aunt Emmie were the ones handling the intimate little wedding I’d asked for.
If it were up to me, Braxton and I would have had a quickie wedding in Vegas and been done with it. But Mom had pleaded for the whole shebang, and a few kisses from my groom had tempted me into agreeing. At least Mom wasn’t all psychotic over the details like Aunt Layla had been for Lucy’s wedding. I’d told them something simple; the rest was up to them. All I’d had to do was find a dress, and that had taken several different trips to the designer before I’d finally decided on one.
I wasn’t picky about what I wore. Give me some comfy sweats and a pair of fuzzy socks, and I was ready to go. Whether I was working on schoolwork at home, shopping, or going to classes, it didn’t really matter. Comfort was everything. Choosing a wedding dress had been a difficult feat for me, but I’d finally picked one I thought looked nice on me.
Halfway through the tedious list of things my professors had assigned for the week, I noticed that Braxton had left his own emails open when he got a notice. Ugh. I fucking hated when notifications popped up. That little red circle always annoyed me, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
Clicking on the email icon, I was just going to mark the message as read, but the heading caught my eye, and I paused with the cursor over the X. After I blinked a few times, the words finally penetrated through the numbers and formulas I’d been working on for homework, and I reached for my phone without giving it a second thought. My laughter was a mixture of dry humor—because this had to be a joke—and hysteria—because if it wasn’t a joke, someone was going to lose a set of balls.
Me: You’re my matron of honor. You better make my bachelorette party worth it.
Since Mia was a new mother, I expected her to take longer to reply, but instead, it was only a matter of moments before I saw those three little dots pop up.
Mia: Brax is letting you have one????
I read over the message again and gritted my teeth.
Me: What Brax doesn’t know won’t hurt him…
Mia: You’re going to get us in SO much trouble, but I’m in.
She was right. Any parties Mia planned for me had to meet Braxton’s approval. I hadn’t been nearly as OCD about it since Barrick was the best man and anything he did would have to pass Mia’s approval. I hadn’t really cared—then.
Now, I fucking cared.
Me: Nothing TOOOOO wild. But I’m thinking a stripper would be fun.
Mia: Oh gods, you’re going to get someone killed.
Again, she wasn’t wrong. Someone was going to die, and if what I’d just read actually happened, then it was going to be the motherfucking groom.
Mia: You do actually want to marry Braxton, right? Not send him to prison. Because that’s exactly where he will end up if he kills a fucking stripper.
