The man is speechless for a second before shrugging and shooting me one of those “bro” type looks despite the fact that he is very much a New England old-moneyed blue blood and very much not my “bro.”
“Don’t judge me, all right?” he asks with a laugh. I could punch him in his smug face, but I won’t do that to Olivia. “Just wanted one last little rendezvous before the big day.”
“Ah, so it’s totally cool then.” My words are infused with sarcasm.
He swallows a breath, his head cocked. He’s readying a response when in walks a leggy brunette, striding across the bar in heels so loud they drown out the ambient music and a dress so tight it lifts her fake tits to an unnatural height.
“I’m so sorry,” she says to the man, taking the seat beside him.
She’s pretty, but in a cheap way. Too much makeup. Too much perfume. Too much desperation oozing out of her every pore.
Apparently this guy’s tastes are as diverse as they come. Small town American sweetheart. Imitation Barbie. Two very different ends of a single spectrum.
Leaning closer, she lifts her hand to his cheek and kisses him on the mouth. Long. Wet. Unapologetic.
Classless.
She leans away and his fingertips graze the top of her thigh, trailing closer and closer to her hips.
“You know I hate when you keep me waiting,” he says, indicating this is definitely not his first time with her.
“Sorry, babe, but I had to dry my hair and the hotel dryer sucks,” she says, scrunching her fingers through dark waves that cascade down her shoulders. I’m not an expert in women’s hairstyles, but it would appear she did a bit more than blow dry it. If I had to guess, I’d say she curled it and sprayed it and put in a lot of goddamn effort to impress a man who probably doesn’t give two shits about her at the end of the day.
“You realize it’s almost one in the morning and we have to be in a fucking wedding tomorrow, right?” he asks, speaking as if it’s someone else’s wedding. And I suppose it is. The man sitting here with his hands all over this woman is not the same man who’s going to be exchanging vows with Olivia tomorrow. That man, the man she thinks she’s marrying, is nothing more than a farce.
An act.
Clearly this is a man who’s used to getting everything he’s ever wanted and knows exactly how to go about getting it.
But what I don’t understand is if he could have any woman in the world, why her? Why the sweet-natured, humble soul who trusts he has her best interests at heart?
This man, this douche, reminds me of a client I had last year. The guy was a forty-something former trust-fund baby who was divorcing his first wife, a woman he’d been with since high school.
Twenty something years and at the end of it, he had the nerve to leave her for a much younger woman and refer to his ex as a fucking starter wife. Not only that, but he claimed he knew from the moment they said “I do” that it wasn’t going to be a forever thing.
“Let’s get back to my room before anyone sees,” he says, rising from his chair and sliding her off hers. His hands rest at her hips and he buries his face in her neck.
I bet he gets off on the thrill of getting caught, though obviously that’s yet to happen because I highly doubt Olivia would be marrying him tomorrow if she knew she was marrying this.
“I haven’t finished my wine yet,” she protests in one of those sticky-sweet baby voices that sound horrid on grown adults.
I slam back the rest of my drink.
I can’t stick around for another minute of this bullshit.
But before I leave, I snap a casual photo of the two assholes with my phone, ensuring it’s on silent so it goes unnoticed. I know from experience that people don’t always want to believe something until they see it with their own eyes. I also know from experience that hearsay is just that. And that a picture is often what wins or loses a case. Evidence. That’s all this is. I might not even need it or use it, but I’d rather have it than not.
Heading back to my room, I climb into bed a few minutes later and flip on the TV for some background noise because my thoughts are loud as hell.
He doesn’t deserve her.
And while I’m not normally in the habit of injecting myself into other people’s business unless they’re paying me by the hour … I’d make an exception for Olivia because five years ago, I’d have given anything for someone to have warned me before I made a fool of myself.