Probably impotent. He looks a little young for that, but erectile dysfunction is an equal-opportunity medical condition.
“They’re going to be so happy together.” The blonde next to me weeps openly into her hands.
No, they’re not. I’m going to stop this farce before it hits its climax.
Almost time. I wait for the officiant for my cue, all the words ready. I rehearsed them during the long, long flight from LAX.
The man grins like a mule on ecstasy. “Now I pronounce you husband and wife.”
What the hell? Why is he skipping the only question that really matters at a wedding? What if someone has a serious problem with this union?
I didn’t sit through this dull joke of a ceremony for nothing. Screw it. I don’t need the officiant to ask.
Outrage sizzles through my whole body like electricity. I jump to my feet, leap to the center of the row and take a step toward the altar, then point my finger at the bride, so she knows she’s the reason. My heart pumps with hot—and slightly petty—anticipation as I shout the words I’m here to say. “I object!”
The guests’ gasps are loud over the sound of waves. Satisfaction surges inside me over this ceremonious interruptus. Everyone’s heads swivels in my direction. The couple turns as well.
Hundreds of gazes bear down on me, making my scalp tingle, but I don’t care. I’m finally going to say my piece.
The groom frowns in confusion, which I understand. But the bride is staring like she has no clue who I am.
Which only pisses me off more. Not just because my pride is hurt. Something else more volatile is churning.
I whip out the fifty-dollar bill like a triumphant prosecutor whipping out a murder weapon with the perp’s bloody fingerprints all over it. “Remember this, Skittles?”
The bride’s looking at me like I’m off my meds. She glances at her almost-husband.
Outrage knots into a ball so big that it sticks in my throat. Oh no, you don’t. “You dropped it on the bed after we had sex. Two weeks ago.”
She turns pale, then red, and says something to her intended, gesturing with her bouquet. The groom turns bright crimson, murder in his eyes as he glares at me. Everyone else is looking at me like I should be committed.
After the groom beats me up, that is.
It annoys me that people can’t see I’m right and she’s not. Do they have any idea how much a decent divorce costs these days? It’s like five hundred dollars per billable hour.
My hands clenched into fists, I walk up to the altar. The groom—Joe the All-American High School Sweetheart—steps in front of Skittles.
Yeah, like that’s going to stop me now. If I were going to let this small an obstacle get in the way, I wouldn’t have bothered to fly all the way to Maui.
I shove him to one side. Before Skittles can slip away, I grab her and toss her over a shoulder. She doesn’t weigh much, but she’s wriggling like an eel.
I smack her ass once. She gasps, then hits me with the bouquet. It kind of tickles. I run down the row like a receiver rushing toward the end zone. Somebody cue up the Rocky theme song.
The guests stare, their mouths open.
Hell yeah. Bet this isn’t the show they thought they’d see when they flew to Hawaii. At least the weather’s gorgeous. They can enjoy the champagne and banquet food under the pristine blue sky.
I have a list of questions I made in my head on the flight here.
Why did you go to the Aylster with me?
Why did you sneak out?
Why did you leave the money?
Why are you marrying that guy?
And a hundred other whys…