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I close my laptop and guzzle the rest of my drink.
What did I think? How did I think this movie-star fling would end? I mean, wake the f**k up, Grace! He’s a user. He says whatever he needs to in order to get his way. He probably has girls stashed all over the world. He probably has dozens of kids, because that whole not using a condom thing she said, that’s true. He never used one with me.
And Jesus Christ, I need to get myself to the doctor as soon as I get home to make sure I’m not infected with some sexually transmitted disease.
I make myself another drink and then strip out of my clothes so I can change into my dress. I struggle with the zipper for a few minutes, but finally contort my body enough to pull it all the way up. It feels tighter than it was at the fitting last week. My body is slim, so the dress looks good, but I really need to put all this Asher stuff behind me and get back into my normal exercise routine. It doesn’t help that Kristi has been taking me out to lunch with her every day, and she eats like a pregnant woman.
I smile at that. I like Kristi, but I hate her husband-to-be. I’ve still never met him. He’s much too busy to concern himself with a wedding. I’ve spent the last two weeks with her planning the big day and that jerk has yet to show up for so much as a cake-tasting. Kristi and I, on the other hand, have been inseparable and she’s starting to feel like a friend. We’ve come to Vegas four times on day trips to iron out wedding details, and everything is perfectly planned, but I can honestly say that this wedding is a disaster waiting to happen.
My phone buzzes and I reach over and pluck it off the nightstand.
"I’ll be up in ten minutes," I tell Kristi, before she can even say hello.
"OK," she laughs. "We have time, but I’m lonely. I’ll do your hair when you get here if you want."
Her request betrays her nerves. Hell, I’d be a bundle of nerves too, if I was marrying Johnny Blazen. If I didn’t see him play football last weekend, I’d think he was fake because I never seen them together. "Sounds good, Kristi. Be right up."
I end the call and grab my purse and then catch my reflection in the hall mirror and stop dead.
I look… tired. Wounded. Used up.
Depressed maybe. My moods have steadily gotten worse since my last interaction with Vaughn. I’ve missed Dirty Heaven, and even girls I hardly talk to online have started sending me direct messages asking if things are OK. Bebe, thankfully, has not noticed much because she’s traveling with the competing members of whatever they do over at her sports club.
"Grace," I say to myself in the mirror. "You…" But I have no pep talk to give myself on this night. I have nothing positive to say. So I just turn away and leave the room.
Kristi is up in one of the upper-floor executive rooms, so I get in the elevator, flash the keycard required to access that floor, and massage my temples with my fingertips to try and ease the tension headache creeping up on me.
The doors open and I step out and knock on the door right across the way.
A faint, “Come in,” is called out to me from inside. The door is propped open with the metal swing lock, so I push through and close it all the way behind me. When I enter the living area, Kristi is setting up a curling iron on the wet bar. She’s so damn cute, she makes me smile. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Sit," she says, pointing to the bar stool. "Did you know I was a makeup artist at Channel 9 before all this crazy Blazen stuff started?"
I shake my head and take my seat. She produces a brush and begins to stroke it through my long hair. "Well, I was. Before Johnny asked me to quit and stay home to be a mother. That’s where we met, you know? I was doing his makeup before he went on Good AM Denver, and we hit it off." She lets out a long sigh and begins to twist up strands of hair in her nimble fingertips.
"I didn’t know that. I never watch local news. Too depressing because my neighborhood is always on there. Things I should know, but really don’t want to know. Ya know?” How the f**k would she know? She lives in Park Hill. “Do you miss it? Being a makeup artist?"
"Sometimes," she says with a smile I can see in the mirror behind the bar. "I’m bored at home, ya know? I can’t wait for this wedding to be over so we can live together."
"Why don’t you live together now? I mean, the cat’s out of the bag, right? You’re pregnant, you’re getting married. Why not just get that party started?"
"Hmmm." She pins up a section of hair before continuing. "He wants us to start out right."
"It’s kinda late for that, don’t you think?" I want to stab myself for speaking up. "Sorry." A look of hurt crosses her face in the mirror and a wave of guilt flows through me. "I’m just being a cynical bitch, I guess. I mean, normally I’m not one to rock the boat. I hate confrontation, so I’d never say anything. But this is your wedding, Kristi. This is your life."
She laughs nervously. "I hate confrontation too, so let’s just drop it and have a good time."
"But how do you cope? I mean the fact that you broke up his marriage? How do you trust him not to find another woman to take your place?"
"You don’t even know him, Grace. You have no idea what kind of man he is in private."
"Huh," I grunt sarcastically. "Where have I heard that argument before? Oh, right. The last guy I slept with, he was like that too. Oh, the private me and the public me are two different things," I say in a fake voice.
"Well, Johnny is a famous football player, so in his case, it’s actually true." She pins up the final strand of hair and then begins to curl them.
My blood is beginning to boil, because seriously. I grab a flute of champagne on the bar that’s been set out for us and give it a good long guzzle so I can control my building rage. "Kristi, I’ve never even met the guy. And I’m the wedding planner. He’s never around. I’ve been with you every day. When do you see him?"
"I just explained, Grace. He wants to keep it low-key until after the wedding. And I have no problem with honoring that request. I think it’s romantic and" —she actually stops to swoon here—"gentlemanly. He’s a gentleman."
I almost snort my champagne.
She curls the last strand of hair and then holds her arms out wide. "There, that’s pretty, don’t you think?"
What did I think? How did I think this movie-star fling would end? I mean, wake the f**k up, Grace! He’s a user. He says whatever he needs to in order to get his way. He probably has girls stashed all over the world. He probably has dozens of kids, because that whole not using a condom thing she said, that’s true. He never used one with me.
And Jesus Christ, I need to get myself to the doctor as soon as I get home to make sure I’m not infected with some sexually transmitted disease.
I make myself another drink and then strip out of my clothes so I can change into my dress. I struggle with the zipper for a few minutes, but finally contort my body enough to pull it all the way up. It feels tighter than it was at the fitting last week. My body is slim, so the dress looks good, but I really need to put all this Asher stuff behind me and get back into my normal exercise routine. It doesn’t help that Kristi has been taking me out to lunch with her every day, and she eats like a pregnant woman.
I smile at that. I like Kristi, but I hate her husband-to-be. I’ve still never met him. He’s much too busy to concern himself with a wedding. I’ve spent the last two weeks with her planning the big day and that jerk has yet to show up for so much as a cake-tasting. Kristi and I, on the other hand, have been inseparable and she’s starting to feel like a friend. We’ve come to Vegas four times on day trips to iron out wedding details, and everything is perfectly planned, but I can honestly say that this wedding is a disaster waiting to happen.
My phone buzzes and I reach over and pluck it off the nightstand.
"I’ll be up in ten minutes," I tell Kristi, before she can even say hello.
"OK," she laughs. "We have time, but I’m lonely. I’ll do your hair when you get here if you want."
Her request betrays her nerves. Hell, I’d be a bundle of nerves too, if I was marrying Johnny Blazen. If I didn’t see him play football last weekend, I’d think he was fake because I never seen them together. "Sounds good, Kristi. Be right up."
I end the call and grab my purse and then catch my reflection in the hall mirror and stop dead.
I look… tired. Wounded. Used up.
Depressed maybe. My moods have steadily gotten worse since my last interaction with Vaughn. I’ve missed Dirty Heaven, and even girls I hardly talk to online have started sending me direct messages asking if things are OK. Bebe, thankfully, has not noticed much because she’s traveling with the competing members of whatever they do over at her sports club.
"Grace," I say to myself in the mirror. "You…" But I have no pep talk to give myself on this night. I have nothing positive to say. So I just turn away and leave the room.
Kristi is up in one of the upper-floor executive rooms, so I get in the elevator, flash the keycard required to access that floor, and massage my temples with my fingertips to try and ease the tension headache creeping up on me.
The doors open and I step out and knock on the door right across the way.
A faint, “Come in,” is called out to me from inside. The door is propped open with the metal swing lock, so I push through and close it all the way behind me. When I enter the living area, Kristi is setting up a curling iron on the wet bar. She’s so damn cute, she makes me smile. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Sit," she says, pointing to the bar stool. "Did you know I was a makeup artist at Channel 9 before all this crazy Blazen stuff started?"
I shake my head and take my seat. She produces a brush and begins to stroke it through my long hair. "Well, I was. Before Johnny asked me to quit and stay home to be a mother. That’s where we met, you know? I was doing his makeup before he went on Good AM Denver, and we hit it off." She lets out a long sigh and begins to twist up strands of hair in her nimble fingertips.
"I didn’t know that. I never watch local news. Too depressing because my neighborhood is always on there. Things I should know, but really don’t want to know. Ya know?” How the f**k would she know? She lives in Park Hill. “Do you miss it? Being a makeup artist?"
"Sometimes," she says with a smile I can see in the mirror behind the bar. "I’m bored at home, ya know? I can’t wait for this wedding to be over so we can live together."
"Why don’t you live together now? I mean, the cat’s out of the bag, right? You’re pregnant, you’re getting married. Why not just get that party started?"
"Hmmm." She pins up a section of hair before continuing. "He wants us to start out right."
"It’s kinda late for that, don’t you think?" I want to stab myself for speaking up. "Sorry." A look of hurt crosses her face in the mirror and a wave of guilt flows through me. "I’m just being a cynical bitch, I guess. I mean, normally I’m not one to rock the boat. I hate confrontation, so I’d never say anything. But this is your wedding, Kristi. This is your life."
She laughs nervously. "I hate confrontation too, so let’s just drop it and have a good time."
"But how do you cope? I mean the fact that you broke up his marriage? How do you trust him not to find another woman to take your place?"
"You don’t even know him, Grace. You have no idea what kind of man he is in private."
"Huh," I grunt sarcastically. "Where have I heard that argument before? Oh, right. The last guy I slept with, he was like that too. Oh, the private me and the public me are two different things," I say in a fake voice.
"Well, Johnny is a famous football player, so in his case, it’s actually true." She pins up the final strand of hair and then begins to curl them.
My blood is beginning to boil, because seriously. I grab a flute of champagne on the bar that’s been set out for us and give it a good long guzzle so I can control my building rage. "Kristi, I’ve never even met the guy. And I’m the wedding planner. He’s never around. I’ve been with you every day. When do you see him?"
"I just explained, Grace. He wants to keep it low-key until after the wedding. And I have no problem with honoring that request. I think it’s romantic and" —she actually stops to swoon here—"gentlemanly. He’s a gentleman."
I almost snort my champagne.
She curls the last strand of hair and then holds her arms out wide. "There, that’s pretty, don’t you think?"
