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“Ah…well, this is a special wedding. One that I don’t want to go to but am.”
“What would be so special about it?”
“My ex-wife’s.”
Molly’s facial expression drops. “Oh.”
I nod and take a large swig of my beer, avoiding any more questions that Molly may have about what happened to my marriage, and why I’m forcing myself through the shit show after I took the fall for her infidelity.
Olivia gave me two beautiful daughters, and then smashed our lives into pieces when she began fucking my manager and sent the paparazzi on my ass when I was in the middle of a launch party.
The media was sniffing around after a story leaked that my manager, John, was seen with my wife at a five-star hotel and, surprisingly, they showed up the same night while two blondes began making out in front of me.
Apparently, that’s cheating.
However, instead of confirming or denying the story, I just beat the shit out of John and sent him back to my wife.
Now, she’s marrying him.
And our girls are in the wedding, begging me to come with them to watch them in their pretty dresses and to dance with them all night.
The idea is nauseating as all fucking hell and I don’t want to be within the same missile launching distance as Olivia and John on that day.
In fact, I wish them nothing but the worst.
“Sounds like you need someone that’s going to keep your mind off of it,” Molly proclaims instead of prying.
“I just need for it to be done already.”
“Well, since you haven’t displayed any superpowers, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards for you.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“Burning down the church is going to be frowned upon.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
Molly glances down at the hundred-dollar bill in her hand. “Or I can take this money and go buy a dress then go with you.”
My face lifts that she would even offer herself as a tribute even though she definitely doesn’t know what she’s getting into.
However, she fits the bill to a tee.
I’m not into blondes, for one. Maybe because Olivia is one and the idea of touching one makes me sick. Plus, my dick has gone on strike from ever touching one again, going limp in my boxers when one tries to flirt or weasel their way into my bed.
Molly is the perfect version of what my cock has been in the mood for. And, even though fucking her isn’t in the cards or something that I want to give in to, she’d do just fine at coming off as my so-called girlfriend.
“You don’t even know when it is,” I retort, even though I’m not against this idea.
“I got a lot of time on my hands as of late,” she replies simply. “Besides, if she’s an ex of yours she must’ve fucked up something.”
“How do you know it wasn’t me?”
“Because you don’t want to go.”
Observant.
Smart.
