We’re excited to share the first chapter to Helena Hunting’s upcoming release, HOOKING UP.Β Enjoy!!
One
Wedding Unbliss
Amie
This is the happiest day of my life. I allow that thought to roll around in my head, trying to figure out why it doesnβt seem to resonate the way it should. This should be the happiest day of my life. So Iβm not exactly certain why the uneasy feeling I associate with cold feet is getting worse rather than dissipating. Iβve already done the hard part; walked down the aisle and said βI do.β
My husband excused himself to go to the bathroom several minutes ago and, based on Armstrongβs itinerary for the day, speeches are supposed to begin promptly at eight-thirty. According to my phone, thatβs less than two minutes from now, and heβs not here. The emcee for the evening is awaiting Armstrongβs return before he begins. And then the real party can start. The one where we get to celebrate our commitment to each other as partners for life. As in the rest of my breathing days. Dear God, why does that make my stomach twist?
I sip my white wine. Armstrong pointed out that red is not a good idea with my dress, even though itβs my preference. Besides, I donβt want it to stain my teeth. That would make for bad pictures.
I glance around the hall and see my parents, who are probably celebrating the fact that I didnβt walk down the aisle with a convicted felon. And frankly, so am I. My dating history pre-Armstrong wasnβt fabulous.
The sheer number of people in attendance spikes my anxiety. Speaking in front of all of these people makes me want to drink more, which is a bad idea. Tipsy speeches could lead to saying the wrong thing. I check my phone under the table again. Itβs after eight-thirty. The longer Armstrong takes to return, the further behind weβll get. The music playlist, devised by Armstrong with painstaking efficiency, leaves no room for tardiness. If we donβt start on time Iβll have to take out a song, or possibly two, to compensate for his delay and heβs selected the order in such a way as to make that difficult and that will annoy him. I just want today to be perfect. I want it to be reflective of my decision to marry Armstrong. That I, Amalie Whitfield, can make good choices and am not a disgrace to my family.
βWhere the hell is he?β I scan the room and take another small sip of my wine. I should switch to water soon so I donβt end up drunk, especially later, when all of this is over and we can celebrate our lifelong commitment to each other without clothes on. Iβm hopeful it will last more than five minutes.
Ruby, my maid of honor and best friend for the past decade, puts a hand on my shoulder. βWould you like Bancroft to find Armstrong?β
Bancroft, or Bane for short, is Rubyβs boyfriend who sheβs been living with for several months. Recently I find myself getting a little jealous of how affectionate they still are with each other, even after all this time. Cohabitation hasnβt slowed them down on the sex or their PDA. I have hope that Armstrong and I will be more like Bane and Ruby now that weβll be sharing the same bed every night.
Iβm about to tell Ruby to give him another minute when a low buzz suddenly fills the hall. It sounds like a school PA system. I start to panicβthey canβt start the speeches without Armstrong at my side. Whatβs the point of speeches if the groom isnβt present?
Iβm halfway out of my seat, ready to tell the deejay, or whoever is behind the mic, he needs to wait, when a very loud moan echoes through the room. The acoustics are phenomenal in here, itβs why we chose this venue.
I glance at Ruby to make sure Iβm not hearing things. Her eyes are wide. The kind of wide associated with shock. The same shock Iβm feeling.
Another moan reverberates through the sound system, followed by the words, βOh, fuuuck.β
A collective gasp ripples through the now-silent crowd. While the words themselves are scandalous among these guests, itβs the voice groaning them that makes me sit up straighter, and simultaneously consider hiding under the table.
βFuck yeah. Ah, suck it. Thatβs it. Deep throat it like a good little slut. Fuuuuuccckkkkk.β
My mouth drops and I look to Ruby to ensure I have not completely lost my mind. βIs thatββ I donβt finish the sentence. I already know the answer to the question, so itβs pointless to ask. Besides, Iβm cut off by yet another loud groan. I clap a hand over my mouth because Iβm not sure Iβm able to close it, my disbelief is as vast as the ocean.
Rubyβs expression mirrors mine, except hers is incredibly animated since sheβs an actress. βOh my God. Is that Armstrong?β Her words are no more than a whisper, but they sound very much like a scream. Oh no, wait, thatβs just Armstrong on the verge of an orgasm. But these sounds are nothing like the ones he makes when heβs in the throes of passion with me.
I clutch Rubyβs hand. The next sound that comes from him is a hybrid between a hyena laugh and a wolf baying at the moon. And every guest at our wedding is hearing the same thing I am. Our wedding. Someone other than me is blowing my husband at my own wedding. My mortification knows no end.
I grab the closest bottle of wine and dump the contents into my glass. Some of it sloshes over the edge and onto the crisp white tablecloth. It doesnβt matter. Thereβs plenty more where it came from. I chug the glass, then grab Rubyβs.
People lean in and whisper to each other, eyes lift to the speakers. A few people, the ones who are probably just here for the social-ladder-climbing potential, question who it is.
βIs the deejay watching porn?β That comment comes from a table full of mostly drunk singles in their early twenties.
Several eyes shift my way as I carelessly down Rubyβs wine and someone asks where the groom has disappeared to.
The grunts and groans grow terrifyingly louder. This is nothing like what Iβm used to in bed with Armstrong. The dirty words arenβt something he ever uses with me, mostly itβs just noises and sometimes a βRight thereβ or βIβm close,β but thatβs about it. Heβs never talked to me like he is to the woman currently providing oral pleasure. And Iβm very adept at oral. Although with Armstrong itβs very polite, neat oral, with no sounds other than the occasional hum. Slurping is uncivilized and a definite no-no.
I reach past Ruby for the bottle of red since I donβt really give a flying fuck about purple teeth right now. As I sink low in my seat I pour another glass of wine, surveying the people in the ballroom from behind the cover of the centerpiece. The centerpieces are huge and excessive and I donβt like them at all, but at least provides a protective barrier between the guests and my disgust, which Iβm certain they must share. He sounds like a wild animal rutting. It is entirely unsexy. I have no idea who heβs getting intimate with, but Iβm suddenly very glad itβs not me.
And doesnβt that tell me more about our relationship than it should.
Itβs only been about thirty secondsβthe most humiliating thirty seconds of my lifeβbefore Armstrong comes. How do I know this? Because he says, very clearly, βKeep sucking, baby, Iβm coming.β
And βbaby,β whoever she is, makes these horrific gurgling noises. It sounds like some form of alien communication. Itβs way over the top, and apparently Armstrong is loving it, based on the string of vile profanity that spews from his asshole mouth.
βHoly crap. Is this for real? That was really fast,β Ruby mutters.
I guzzle my glass of wine. Then decide the glass is unnecessary and take a long swig from the bottle before Ruby snatches it away. Wine dribbles down my chin and onto my chest, staining the white satin purple. My dress is ruined. I should be freaking out. But I really donβt care.
βCome on,β Ruby tugs on my hand. βWe need to get you out of here while people are still distracted.β
My older brother Pierce and the emcee are standing in the middle of the hall, gesturing wildly to the speakers above us. My other brother, Lawson, is on his way toward the podium in an attempt to do something. I donβt think thereβs anything he can do to stop this train wreck from there.
Ruby tugs again, but Iβm frozen, still trying to figure out what exactly just happened. Well, I know whatβs happened. I just canβt believe it.
The sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothes follows. βThanks for that, now Iβll be able to last later tonight,β Armstrong says.
βWhat about me?β A female asks. Her voice is nasally and whiny.
βWhat about you?β
βWell I helped you, arenβt you going to help me?β
βDidnβt you come with a date?β
βWell, yes, butββ God her voice is familiar. I just canβt figure out where I know it from.
βMy cousin, right? He loves my sloppy seconds. Speeches are starting. I gotta get back to my ball and chain.β
Gasps of horror ripple through the room, followed by a few giggles. These people really are assholes.
I think Iβm going to throw up. I canβt believe heβs going to come out here and pretend nothing just happened. Like some other woman didnβt just have her lips around his cock. His distinctly average cock. Maybe even slightly below average in length, if Iβm being one hundred percent honest.
A door opens and closes.
Lawson turns on the mic behind the podium and taps it, sending screeching feedback through the room, making people cringe. Too bad no one did that a minute ago.
Murmuring grows louder and glances flicker to the head table and then away as Brittany Thorton, a seriously skanky debutante, comes strutting through the doors, using a compact to check her lipstick. Sheβs made it her mission to attempt to get into the pants of half the eligible men in this room. Sheβs followed, not five seconds later, by a very smug-looking Armstrong.
βIβm going to kill him.β I grab the closest steak knife, but it appears my hasty, and possibly felonious, plan is unnecessary. My brothers leave their respective posts and stalk toward him. Across the room my mother is gripping my fatherβs arm, whispering furiously in his ear. Great. Just what I need, additional family drama.
βOh shit,β Ruby gasps.
I follow her gaze to find Bane converging on Armstrong with my brothers. Bancroft is a tank and he used to play professional rugby. Iβve seen him with his shirt off, heβs built like a superhero and heβll probably crush Armstrong, or at least break something. Possibly multiple somethings.
For a second I consider that Ruby should probably stop Bane from destroying Armstrongβs pretty, regal face, but then I realize I donβt actually care. In fact, the possibility that he might break Armstrongβs perfectly straight nose fills me with glee. Armstrongβs wellbeing is no longer my concern, itβs more about Bane ending up in prison for murder.
βI hope Armstrong has a good plastic surgeon, heβs going to need it once Bane is done with him.β Ruby echoes my internal hopes and her chair tips as she jumps up. βCome on, letβs get you out of here.β She nods to the right.
I notice my mother and father engaged in a heated discussion with Armstrongβs parents. I really donβt need this right now. Not the drama. Not the humiliation. All I wanted was a nice wedding. Instead I end up with a husband who gets a blow job during our receptionβand itβs broadcast to everyone attending.
Ruby urges me into action. βDonβt worry about them. Get your stuff and weβll get you the hell out of here. Iβll have the limo meet you by the entrance near your bridal suite as soon as I can.β
I nod and stumble unsteadily to my feet, thanks to having consumed the better part of a bottle of wine in the last minute and a half. Itβs amazing how ninety seconds can change a personβs entire life.
All hell breaks loose as more men jump in to either pummel or extract Armstrong from the pummeling. I grab my clutch and phone from the table, gather up my stupid, too puffy gown, and head for the bridal suite, where I had prepared for what was supposed to be the most amazing day of my life. And now itβs likely the worst, at least I hope the mortification level Iβm experiencing canβt exceed this. I feel like the foulest version of Cinderella ever.
I rush down the empty hall and grab the doorknob as I fumble around in my clutch for the key. Iβm surprised when it turns. I thought Iβd locked it before we left for the ceremony. Regardless, I need to get away from everyone before I either lose it or commit a felony. Maybe both. Murder in the first. Armstrong will be my victim. And maybe that horrible skank, Brittany.
I thrust the door open and slam it closed behind me, locking it from the inside. Tears threaten to spill over and ruin my makeup. Not that it matters since thereβs no way Iβm going out there again. I canβt believe my forever lasted less than twelve hours. I canβt believe the man Iβm supposed to spend the rest of my life loving couldnβt be faithful to me for even one day. What the hell is wrong with me? With him? Iβm as devastated as I am angry and embarrassed. Once I annul this farce of a marriage Iβll become a spinster. I should probably go ahead and adopt six or seven cats tonight.
βI need to get out of this dress,β I say to myself. I reach behind me and pull the bow at the base of my spine. Instead of unfurling, it knots and I only succeed in pulling it tighter. Of course my dress has to be difficult. I growl my annoyance and rush over to my dressing table where my makeup and perfume are scattered from earlier today. Half a mimosa sits unconsumed beside the vase of red roses Armstrong had delivered.
The card read: I canβt wait to spend forever loving you.
What a load of bullshit. I drain the contents of the champagne flute, not caring that the drink is warm and flat. Then I throw the glass, because it feels good and the sound of shattering crystal is satisfying. Next I heave the vase of roses, which explodes impressively against the wall, splattering water and shards of glass across the floor.
I yank out a couple of the drawers and find a pair of scissors. They actually look more like gardening shears and seem rather out of place, but I donβt question it. Instead I reach behind me with my back to the mirror and awkwardly try to cut myself free. Itβs not easy with the way I have to crane my neck.
βGoddammit! I need to get out of this stupid dress!β I yell at my reflection. I think I might actually be losing it just a touch now. I stop messing around with the laces in the back and shove the scissors down the front. I nearly nick myself with the bladeβtheyβre a lot sharper than I realizedβbut that doesnβt slow me down. I start hacking my way through the bodice; layers of satin, lace, and intricate beading sliced apart with every vicious snip.
I just want out of this nightmare.