“Fucking…?” A light dawns in Curie’s eyes. “Oh my God. Is this your anonymous one-night stand from Z?”
And, of course, at that precise moment, Dad finally runs up. Why couldn’t he have waited five more seconds? Maybe I’ll get lucky and get swept away by a person-sized tsunami.
Usually, Dad’s calm, with an even temper. He’s
not physically imposing, despite his height. But right now, his face is red as though he’s been burned, which is impossible, because Mom’s fanatical about sunblock. He’s clamping his teeth so tightly that I’m afraid steam’s going to start coming out of his ears, and his brown eyes are bulging. The last time he was this mad was when I was ten. I climbed a tree he explicitly told me not to and fell down and broke my arm.
“One-night stand? Do you know this man, Pascal?” he demands in a booming voice.
Why don’t you speak louder, Dad, so everyone on the island can hear it?
Embarrassment crawls over me. If I could, I’d bury myself under the sand. “Yes.” So much for anonymous fun. Next time, I’m not doing it unless I’m in Tibet…or at least some place twelve time zones away from anywhere in America.
“Can we continue? Kiss my bride? Have our reception?” Joe asks.
“Yes,” Whiskey answers, the hand still over his eyes. “And sorry for the, uh, you know. Interruption.”
Joe helps Curie out of the car, and they leave together. The guests who were inching closer for better view follow them back to the altar.
Dad gives Whiskey a look.
Whiskey drops his hand and looks at him. “Hi.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “I know you. You’re—”
“A lot of people do,” Whiskey says with a tight smile.
They do? How come I didn’t recognize him, then? “Are you famous?”
“Not really,” Whiskey says.
Dad shakes his head at me, and I brace myself for some scathing words. Well deserved, since I screwed up, but that doesn’t mean they won’t hurt.
“We’re going to talk about this later. Without the audience,” he says.
“Yes, Dad.” I look down at my toes. Can this be a puke-induced nightmare? Maybe I fell asleep on the bed after Curie left. But given how raw I feel in my worthless stomach, all this is probably really happening.
He follows the couple. Palpable disapproval radiates from his retreating back.
My gut twists. He’s probably going to disown me now. After he fires me. And you know what? I can’t even fault him for it. I’d do the same if I were him.
And that’s not all. My instinct says something else is very wrong with the situation, except I can’t quite grasp what that is. By the time I figure it out, it’s probably going to be too late.
Suddenly, my stomach roils violently. I try to turn away, but it’s too late. I projectile-vomit all over the shiny hood.
“Oh shit!” Whiskey jumps out of the car.
Since there’s no food in my belly, it’s mostly clear liquid. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t gross. I yank my hands off the metal and take a couple of steps back, too sick to calculate what it’s going to take to clean this thing.
If only my day would end now. This craptastic incident is going to culminate in Whiskey yelling at me over this damned fancy puke-mobile, even though this is one hundred percent his fault for trying to kidnap my sister. I gird myself for a fight, but all he does is put a gentle hand on my back. “Are you okay?”
“If you hadn’t tried to kid—” Wait. Did he just ask if I’m okay? I frown at him. “What did you say?”
He gives me the slightly exasperated look of a man annoyed with a dimwitted toddler. “I asked if you were okay.”
“Uh.” I glance at the car and finally notice it’s a Maserati, the kind of vehicle men fantasize about. The kind they worship. “You aren’t upset about the car?” Everyone I know would be pissed off. Hell, I’d be pissed off.
“Huh?” He notes the condition of the hood, then shrugs. “Nothing that can’t be washed.” His eyes skim over my face. “You don’t look so good.”