Page 17 of The Worst Pucking Deal

“What is it?” I ask, physically flinching as he pushes the box toward me.

“Open it and find out.”

I vehemently shake my head. “No, I’m good.”

“Open it, Lucia,” he growls, making it clear I don’t have a choice.

Sighing, I remove the lid with shaky fingers, and to my horror, nested inside the box is my wedding band. “Nope!” I whisper-yell in horror. “Take it back or throw it away. I don’t want it.”

I look around the table, and at the candlesticks that are almost burned all the way down, making the room darker. I don’t know what time it is or how long I’ve been here. All I know is that I want to get as far away as possible. Even though I haven’t been excused, I stand on trembling legs, gather my things, and leave. Only slightly surprised none of the guards or Remus stop me.

“One month, Lucia,” my cousin calls after me.

Lucia

The deadline reverberates and plays on an endless loop in my head. One month… one month… one month…

Knowing that Fabian and the Senate are involved, I can’t just hire someone to be my fake husband. I need to get married for real. Since that’s what it takes to win my freedom, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. I don’t even have any scruples about condemning someone in the eyes of the Russo Mafia.

I’ve never claimed to be a good person, and I’m sure as hell not going to start lying to myself about it now. I’m selfish, entitled, and stubborn. Not exactly endearing or attractive qualities, but that’s neither here nor there right now.

As soon as I’m in my car and have put a few miles between myself and Remus, I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Gail.

Me: Soooo… tequila? I really fucking need it.

Gail: You got it, girl. @O’Jackie’s?

Me: Where else? Be there in half an hour.

Gail: *kiss emoji*

I park across the street from the Irish pub Gail found last year. I can hear the music all the way over here, and there are drunk people hanging out around the doors. A part of me envies them for their alcohol fused state of mind, and the fact that they have no inhibitions. At least the one peeing while facing the street doesn’t. He doesn’t care about the people pointing and glaring, and that’s what I want. Not to pee in the street, but to reach that level of uncaring.

Entering the pub, I’m immediately hit with the smell of beer—or pints—sweat, and perfume. The latter is so potent, I can taste it on my tongue when I spot Gail at the bar and call her name. She doesn’t hear me above the loud music, so I push through the throng of people to get to her.

“Hey buttercup,” she squeals. Spinning on the bar stool, she pulls me in for a hug. “I ordered some shots for us, but since it took you so long to get here—”

“They’re all gone,” I say, finishing her sentence with a smile. “I’ll get us more.”

I know my bestie, and the time it took me to get here isn’t why the small glasses are empty. She loves tequila and letting loose on the weekends. So even if I’d materialized one minute after texting her, there’s a good chance she still would’ve emptied them.

“I looove your dress,” she coos, dragging out the word like it has way more than two vowels. “It’s funky.”

Looking down at myself, I run a hand down the skirt. “It’s…” Not knowing how to explain it, I stop talking. To me it looks close enough to a normal dress. The seams give the effect of it being wrapped around my body rather than zipped close at the side, which is the current trend in some of the fashion houses.

“No, seriously,” Gail gushes. “It’s fucking awesome. Where the hell did you buy it? It looks like a designer dress.”

Oh… so maybe I was right in my assessment of the dress. “It’s just something my uncle gave me, so it seemed fitting to wear it today,” I say, hoping that’s enough of an explanation.

Gail doesn’t ask anymore questions, instead she puts all her attention into trying to grab the bartender’s attention. “Helloooo,” she shouts, waving her empty shot glass around in the air. When he waves her off and points at the people he’s serving, she turns around with a pout. “Well, this is going to take forever… oh wait.” She grabs my arm and points at an empty table.

“Go get it,” I laugh.

Wasting no time, Gail runs to the table, pushing two other women out of her way when they try to claim the table as theirs. This is so her; nice teacher by day, determined drunk on the weekends.

As the bartender places a line of shot glasses on the counter, I snatch the first two he fills and ask for a refill. I need the liquid courage so much I do a third one, ignoring his arched eyebrow and playful smile.

“Thirsty?” he asks, and I nod while forcing a smile I don’t feel.

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