Frankie was  listing to one side. T.J.’s strong arm propped him up, which was the biggest  fuckbomb of all time.

Stoppit, Shannon. She’d picked up their  language, their mannerisms, as if they’d been wet paint and she was rolling through them naked. Now she not only thought in swear words, she was starting to say them. They rolled off her tongue as though she’d always talked and
thought that way.

Yeah, and that was  T.J.’s fault, too.

She could see the little Cheshire Cat smile he was giving her, not that she would give him the satisfaction of knowing he was even a piece of cat litter stuck on the bottom of her shoe. Frankie was going to be all hers. She’d extricate him from his Brotherhood and give him back to them when she was good and ready. Screw the wives who told her she would always come second when it came to the Brotherhood. They didn’t know their men. She didn’t want a normal plain vanilla relationship with Frankie. He was fuckin’ addicted to her, and that was exactly
the way she liked it.

Yeah, even ladies in white wedding dresses had dirty thoughts.

She knew that was normal.

Come on, Frankie. Stand up straight. She saw the glassy eyes and knew T.J. had caused it. Her Frankie was drunker than
he had a right to be. From the unearthly glow in his blue eyes it was probably Tequila, which he couldn’t hold well at all.

Not like she could. Oh yes, there was that song about dropping your clothes for margaritas. That was her. But Frankie was having a hard enough time standing up right now, let alone being conscious for the wedding. And it wasn’t because all the blood had rushed to his groin, either. That would have been funny. She’d have been happy about that one.

She shot a quick fuck-why-did-you-do-that?-look at T.J., and his smile broadened, and she saw him move his arm when she stood about a foot away from the man she’d chosen for the rest of her life.

The moment T.J. released his hold on Frankie, the groom fell, almost toppling her as well. Her veil was ripped from her hair, her bodice pulled down—maybe too far down for a second or two—and accompanied by the screams of everyone, especially Frankie’s parents in the front pew of the church, Frankie did a face-plant onto what was luckily well-padded carpeting.

She adjusted the detachable beaded bodice to make sure she was decent first, and then had difficulty turning in Frankie’s direction, thanks to her long dress of chiffon and layers of voile. Like her feet were stuck in mud, she turned slowly. T.J. was leaning down to get Frankie, and she caught a hint of his aftershave, nearly brushing her lips across his cheekbone as he stood.

Three big SEALs helped Frankie up. His face bright red, sweat pouring down his forehead, and his shame preceded what Shannon knew would be a huge bender, perhaps one which would eclipse their wedding night. He’d messed up her wedding. He’d tried so hard not to. He’d told her every day he hoped everything came off the way she wanted. Perfect. Like she was perfect, he’d said. Did he suffer from premonitions?

So…there was her fifth swear word and unclean thought. She had another one as she grabbed his arm and hoisted him to her side, which made a few people in the audience titter. T.J. was chucking just loud enough for her to hear that, too.

This is not happening. She knew she would wake up any minute. This must be the nightmare wedding from a bad movie. This wasn’t her wedding day. The day she’d dreamt about her whole life. The one where she’d be the star of the show.

After the vows were said and the rings exchanged, the two of them walked down the aisle, both relieved to have survived the ceremony without further bloodshed.  Frankie led her straight to the bar, which she thought was a great idea.

He’d stopped to tell someone in the last row he wasn’t even drunk, which was such an obvious lie. It was a classless further slight to her not-so-perfect wedding. Like maybe God was responsible for all this.

It couldn’t have been Shannon’s fault, scaring the shit out of him and making him so drunk he passed out. It would be a cold day in Hell before she’d admit it publically, but in her heart of hearts she knew she was fully responsible. But no one would ever know.

No one. Ever.

Except the guy who stood behind her. She could smell him before he put his palm on her shoulder, matching the other palm on Frankie’s shoulder while they stood waiting to get poison into their systems quick. The bartender had dropped the first glass he’d filled with ice for her Tom Collins, so the jitters were spreading. But not to T.J. He was rock-solid, and she hated every muscle and sinew of his body. Every
drop of his blood. Every cell. She hated all of him for being so calm and light-hearted about her disaster of a wedding.

Not that he’d ever know. She did her best to give him a triumphant, gushing smile. And then she took Frankie’s double Scotch and downed it before he could get his hands on it. With the liquor on her lips and a glow spreading down her chest, she didn’t care how they looked at her. She was a bride on a mission. Her day. Her time, and they better fucking play her game or she’d take them both on.

T.J. gave her an appreciative return glance. Frankie was still trying to figure out what had happened as he told the confused bartender to give him the Scotch he didn’t get the first time.

“Okay. I’m good. Good now. Time to face my audience,” she said and wafted off like she was wearing a dress of white potato chips. She’d deal with Frankie after he found his courage to look at her. Until then, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him, or his fuckin’ devil of a best friend.

Okay, so that was number six.