Découvrez en vo le 1er chapitre de ce roman que j'attends avec impatience .
One
Wedding
Unbliss
Amie
This is
the happiest day of my life.
I allow that thought to roll around in my head, trying to figure out
why it doesn’t seem to resonate the way it should. This should
be the happiest day of my life. So I’m not exactly certain why the
uneasy feeling I associate with cold feet is getting worse rather
than dissipating. I’ve already done the hard part; walked down the
aisle and said “I do.”
My
husband excused himself to go to the bathroom several minutes ago
and, based on Armstrong’s itinerary for the day, speeches are
supposed to begin promptly at eight-thirty. According to my phone,
that’s less than two minutes from now, and he’s not here. The
emcee for the evening is awaiting Armstrong’s return before he
begins. And then the real party can start. The one where we get to
celebrate our commitment to each other as partners for life. As in
the rest of my breathing days. Dear God, why does that make my
stomach twist?
I
sip my white wine. Armstrong pointed out that red is not a good idea
with my dress, even though it’s my preference. Besides, I don’t
want it to stain my teeth. That would make for bad pictures.
I
glance around the hall and see my parents, who are probably
celebrating the fact that I didn’t walk down the aisle with a
convicted felon. And frankly, so am I. My dating history
pre-Armstrong wasn’t fabulous.
The
sheer number of people in attendance spikes my anxiety. Speaking in
front of all of these people makes me want to drink more, which is a
bad idea. Tipsy speeches could lead to saying the wrong thing. I
check my phone under the table again. It’s after eight-thirty. The
longer Armstrong takes to return, the further behind we’ll get. The
music playlist, devised by Armstrong with painstaking efficiency,
leaves no room for tardiness. If we don’t start on time I’ll have
to take out a song, or possibly two, to compensate for his delay and
he’s selected the order in such a way as to make that difficult and
that will annoy him. I just want today to be perfect. I want it to be
reflective of my decision to marry Armstrong. That I, Amalie
Whitfield, can make good choices and am not a disgrace to my family.
“Where
the hell is he?” I scan the room and take another small sip of my
wine. I should switch to water soon so I don’t end up drunk,
especially later, when all of this is over and we can celebrate our
lifelong commitment to each other without clothes on. I’m hopeful
it will last more than five minutes.
Ruby,
my maid of honor and best friend for the past decade, puts a hand on
my shoulder. “Would you like Bancroft to find Armstrong?”
Bancroft,
or Bane for short, is Ruby’s boyfriend who she’s been living with
for several months. Recently I find myself getting a little jealous
of how affectionate they still are with each other, even after all
this time. Cohabitation hasn’t slowed them down on the sex or their
PDA. I have hope that Armstrong and I will be more like Bane and Ruby
now that we’ll be sharing the same bed every night.
I’m
about to tell Ruby to give him another minute when a low buzz
suddenly fills the hall. It sounds like a school PA system. I start
to panic—they can’t start the speeches without Armstrong at my
side. What’s the point of speeches if the groom isn’t present?
I’m
halfway out of my seat, ready to tell the deejay, or whoever is
behind the mic, he needs to wait, when a very loud moan echoes
through the room. The acoustics are phenomenal in here, it’s why we
chose this venue.
I
glance at Ruby to make sure I’m not hearing things. Her eyes are
wide. The kind of wide associated with shock. The same shock I’m
feeling.
Another
moan reverberates through the sound system, followed by the words,
“Oh, fuuuck.”
A
collective gasp ripples through the now-silent crowd. While the words
themselves are scandalous among these guests, it’s the voice
groaning them that makes me sit up straighter, and simultaneously
consider hiding under the table.
“Fuck
yeah. Ah, suck it. That’s it. Deep throat it like a good little
slut. Fuuuuuccckkkkk.”
My
mouth drops and I look to Ruby to ensure I have not completely lost
my mind. “Is that—” I don’t finish the sentence. I already
know the answer to the question, so it’s pointless to ask. Besides,
I’m cut off by yet another loud groan. I clap a hand over my mouth
because I’m not sure I’m able to close it, my disbelief is as
vast as the ocean.
Ruby’s
expression mirrors mine, except hers is incredibly animated since
she’s an actress. “Oh my God. Is that Armstrong?” Her words are
no more than a whisper, but they sound very much like a scream. Oh
no, wait, that’s just Armstrong on the verge of an orgasm. But
these sounds are nothing like the ones he makes when he’s in the
throes of passion with me.
I
clutch Ruby’s hand. The next sound that comes from him is a hybrid
between a hyena laugh and a wolf baying at the moon. And every guest
at our wedding is hearing the same thing I am. Our
wedding.
Someone other than me is blowing my husband at my own wedding. My
mortification knows no end.
I
grab the closest bottle of wine and dump the contents into my glass.
Some of it sloshes over the edge and onto the crisp white tablecloth.
It doesn’t matter. There’s plenty more where it came from. I chug
the glass, then grab Ruby’s.
People
lean in and whisper to each other, eyes lift to the speakers. A few
people, the ones who are probably just here for the
social-ladder-climbing potential, question who it is.
“Is
the deejay watching porn?” That comment comes from a table full of
mostly drunk singles in their early twenties.
Several
eyes shift my way as I carelessly down Ruby’s wine and someone asks
where the groom has disappeared to.
The
grunts and groans grow terrifyingly louder. This is nothing
like what I’m used to in bed with Armstrong. The dirty words aren’t
something he ever uses with me, mostly it’s just noises and
sometimes a “Right there” or “I’m close,” but that’s
about it. He’s never talked to me like he is to the woman currently
providing oral pleasure. And I’m very adept at oral. Although with
Armstrong it’s very polite, neat oral, with no sounds other than
the occasional hum. Slurping is uncivilized and a definite no-no.
I
reach past Ruby for the bottle of red since I don’t really give a
flying fuck about purple teeth right now. As I sink low in my seat I
pour another glass of wine, surveying the people in the ballroom from
behind the cover of the centerpiece. The centerpieces are huge and
excessive and I don’t like them at all, but at least provides a
protective barrier between the guests and my disgust, which I’m
certain they must share. He sounds like a wild animal rutting. It is
entirely unsexy. I have no idea who he’s getting intimate with, but
I’m suddenly very glad it’s not me.
And
doesn’t that tell me more about our relationship than it should.
It’s
only been about thirty seconds—the most humiliating thirty seconds
of my life—before Armstrong comes. How do I know this? Because he
says, very clearly, “Keep sucking, baby, I’m coming.”
And
“baby,” whoever she is, makes these horrific gurgling noises. It
sounds like some form of alien communication. It’s way over the
top, and apparently Armstrong is loving it, based on the string of
vile profanity that spews from his asshole mouth.
“Holy
crap. Is this for real? That was really fast,” Ruby mutters.
I
guzzle my glass of wine. Then decide the glass is unnecessary and
take a long swig from the bottle before Ruby snatches it away. Wine
dribbles down my chin and onto my chest, staining the white satin
purple. My dress is ruined. I should be freaking out. But I really
don’t care.
“Come
on,” Ruby tugs on my hand. “We need to get you out of here while
people are still distracted.”
My
older brother Pierce and the emcee are standing in the middle of the
hall, gesturing wildly to the speakers above us. My other brother,
Lawson, is on his way toward the podium in an attempt to do
something. I don’t think there’s anything he can do to stop this
train wreck from there.
Ruby
tugs again, but I’m frozen, still trying to figure out what exactly
just happened. Well, I know what’s happened. I just can’t believe
it.
The
sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothes follows. “Thanks for
that, now I’ll be able to last later tonight,” Armstrong says.
“What
about me?” A female asks. Her voice is nasally and whiny.
“What
about you?”
“Well
I helped you, aren’t you going to help me?”
“Didn’t
you come with a date?”
“Well,
yes, but—” God her voice is familiar. I just can’t figure out
where I know it from.
“My
cousin, right? He loves my sloppy seconds. Speeches are starting. I
gotta get back to my ball and chain.”
Gasps
of horror ripple through the room, followed by a few giggles. These
people really are assholes.
I
think I’m going to throw up. I can’t believe he’s going to come
out here and pretend nothing just happened. Like some other woman
didn’t just have her lips around his cock. His distinctly average
cock. Maybe even slightly below average in length, if I’m being one
hundred percent honest.
A
door opens and closes.
Lawson
turns on the mic behind the podium and taps it, sending screeching
feedback through the room, making people cringe. Too bad no one did
that a minute ago.
Murmuring
grows louder and glances flicker to the head table and then away as
Brittany Thorton, a seriously skanky debutante, comes strutting
through the doors, using a compact to check her lipstick. She’s
made it her mission to attempt to get into the pants of half the
eligible men in this room. She’s followed, not five seconds later,
by a very smug-looking Armstrong.
“I’m
going to kill him.” I grab the closest steak knife, but it appears
my hasty, and possibly felonious, plan is unnecessary. My brothers
leave their respective posts and stalk toward him. Across the room my
mother is gripping my father’s arm, whispering furiously in his
ear. Great. Just what I need, additional family drama.
“Oh
shit,” Ruby gasps.
I
follow her gaze to find Bane converging on Armstrong with my
brothers. Bancroft is a tank and he used to play professional rugby.
I’ve seen him with his shirt off, he’s built like a superhero and
he’ll probably crush Armstrong, or at least break something.
Possibly multiple somethings.
For
a second I consider that Ruby should probably stop Bane from
destroying Armstrong’s pretty, regal face, but then I realize I
don’t actually care. In fact, the possibility that he might break
Armstrong’s perfectly straight nose fills me with glee. Armstrong’s
wellbeing is no longer my concern, it’s more about Bane ending up
in prison for murder.
“I
hope Armstrong has a good plastic surgeon, he’s going to need it
once Bane is done with him.” Ruby echoes my internal hopes and her
chair tips as she jumps up. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
She nods to the right.
I
notice my mother and father engaged in a heated discussion with
Armstrong’s parents. I really don’t need this right now. Not the
drama. Not the humiliation. All I wanted was a nice wedding. Instead
I end up with a husband who gets a blow job during our reception—and
it’s broadcast to everyone attending.
Ruby
urges me into action. “Don’t worry about them. Get your stuff and
we’ll get you the hell out of here. I’ll have the limo meet you
by the entrance near your bridal suite as soon as I can.”
I
nod and stumble unsteadily to my feet, thanks to having consumed the
better part of a bottle of wine in the last minute and a half. It’s
amazing how ninety seconds can change a person’s entire life.
All
hell breaks loose as more men jump in to either pummel or extract
Armstrong from the pummeling. I grab my clutch and phone from the
table, gather up my stupid, too puffy gown, and head for the bridal
suite, where I had prepared for what was supposed to be the most
amazing day of my life. And now it’s likely the worst, at least I
hope the mortification level I’m experiencing can’t exceed this.
I feel like the foulest version of Cinderella ever.
I
rush down the empty hall and grab the doorknob as I fumble around in
my clutch for the key. I’m surprised when it turns. I thought I’d
locked it before we left for the ceremony. Regardless, I need to get
away from everyone before I either lose it or commit a felony. Maybe
both. Murder in the first. Armstrong will be my victim. And maybe
that horrible skank, Brittany.
I
thrust the door open and slam it closed behind me, locking it from
the inside. Tears threaten to spill over and ruin my makeup. Not that
it matters since there’s no way I’m going out there again. I
can’t believe my forever lasted less than twelve hours. I can’t
believe the man I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life loving
couldn’t be faithful to me for even one day. What the hell is wrong
with me? With him? I’m as devastated as I am angry and embarrassed.
Once I annul this farce of a marriage I’ll become a spinster. I
should probably go ahead and adopt six or seven cats tonight.
“I
need to get out of this dress,” I say to myself. I reach behind me
and pull the bow at the base of my spine. Instead of unfurling, it
knots and I only succeed in pulling it tighter. Of course my dress
has to be difficult. I growl my annoyance and rush over to my
dressing table where my makeup and perfume are scattered from earlier
today. Half a mimosa sits unconsumed beside the vase of red roses
Armstrong had delivered.
The
card read: I
can’t wait to spend forever loving you.
What
a load of bullshit. I drain the contents of the champagne flute, not
caring that the drink is warm and flat. Then I throw the glass,
because it feels good and the sound of shattering crystal is
satisfying. Next I heave the vase of roses, which explodes
impressively against the wall, splattering water and shards of glass
across the floor.
I
yank out a couple of the drawers and find a pair of scissors. They
actually look more like gardening shears and seem rather out of
place, but I don’t question it. Instead I reach behind me with my
back to the mirror and awkwardly try to cut myself free. It’s not
easy with the way I have to crane my neck.
“Goddammit!
I need to get out of this stupid dress!” I yell at my reflection. I
think I might actually be losing it just a touch now. I stop messing
around with the laces in the back and shove the scissors down the
front. I nearly nick myself with the blade—they’re a lot sharper
than I realized—but that doesn’t slow me down. I start hacking my
way through the bodice; layers of satin, lace, and intricate beading
sliced apart with every vicious snip.
I
just want out of this nightmare.
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