A sensation I’ve never felt before resembling heat mixed with primal rage, begins at my toes and rises all the way to my throat. My hands itch to punch, maim, and tear, which is totally unlike me.
I stalk over to where they stand, and wrench Roland’s shoulder away from Ridley. He spins clumsily and when his face is toward me, I shove him against the wall.
“This is none of your business, geek.”
I see red. I pick up Roland by the front of his shirt. “Everything about her is my business, because she’s my wife.”
Stunned silence from Roland.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the band stopped playing at the same time as every pair of eyes in the room is on us.
“Give me a reason to end you, punk.”
I drop him and he stumbles before standing up and bru
shing himself off. He looks between me and Ridley and then storms out the back door of the ballroom out into the back gardens.
Everyone stares at us.
Ridley turns to me. No, she’s not going to be the one to handle this. My girl is not going to be made to look ridiculous tonight.
“That’s right,” I say, “Ridley’s my wife. So everybody can just pick their jaws up off the floor and deal with it.”
I hold her tight and grope her ass while the band starts playing a slow jam.
“Hey, dummy,” she says. “This hotel is named after me. My daddy owns it. You want me to get a key to the honeymoon suite?”
If I wasn’t so turned on I would laugh. “But don’t you want to stay to get your crown, my prom queen wife?”
“I don’t even know if they voted for me.”
“Yes, you do. You know you won.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
30
Ridley
After a warm summer morning run, Crosby and I return home to find a small box waiting for me on our front porch.
We’ve moved out of my mother’s house with Sassy and her brood into a sweet bungalow downtown.
I pick up the box and examine it while Crosby unlocks the front door.
Stepping inside, the aroma of cinnamon and butter calls to me from the kitchen. I love living at Crosby’s house—correction, our house—but I’ll admit I do not dislike it when Mother sends over her assistant to make us cinnamon buns. She’s a stealthy hoe, letting herself in and out while we’re gone.
Hey, as long as I don’t have to pay for an assistant with my tips from waiting tables.
And why do I have a job as a waitress? That would be my dad’s fault. Anthony Rushmore has kept up with his newfound work ethic thing—thanks in part to his sugar baby girlfriend who turned out to be a lot more than a sugar baby. I just have to keep working physically demanding blue collar jobs to, as he says, continue forging the neural pathways. Eventually, he wants me to take over the hospitality group.
So for now, it’s either wait tables or clean hotel rooms.
Actually, I kind of don't mind waitressing. I like talking to people, if you can believe it.
I open the box with mixed feelings. It’s from my mother.
Why is she sending me parcels on the day of her wedding?