Page 21 of Grift

Whatever that chemistry is between people, we have it.

If I said anything else, I’d be full of shit.

I might not be here entirely of my own free will, and I might not want to marry this woman. She seems like she deserves far better.

And yet, it’s there, that primal pull between a man and a woman and I’m powerless to look away.

But there’s a cutting note of the violin, and a swell of music behind it. My sister Bridget, a bridesmaid, catches my eye as she peers around the door and gives me a wide, hopeful smile.

I grin back, because the last thing Birdie needs is to be worried about me. She’s a good person, and one of the reasons I make choices like this is because I want to protect her. Give her more choices about what happens in her life, despite being a Carney.

Then I see Jessica and all thoughts of my family, the church, and the institution of marriage melt away.

Time stands still. I’ve heard people say it does that, but it’s never happened to me before.

Senator Kensington steps forward, cutting a sporty figure in his severely tailored tuxedo. Jessica steps up beside him, with a massive bouquet of flowers clutched in her hands. It’s like a waterfall of white flowers from a cluster held close to her center.

I can see from here that her knuckles are white, a fact that hits me like a kick to the nuts. I wish there was another way. But there’s not and we’re here, and I’m a man that deals in concrete realities.

The best I can do is try to make today – and the days that follow – easier for her.

It’s not that difficult to contemplate. She’s a fucking angelic vision.

I’m a visual man and Jessica Kensington is a feast for the eyes.

Radiance against the minimalist church. Light against the darkness that had settled over me.

Her dress is ornate, like something out of another time and yet expertly molded to show every delicious curve to perfect effect in the bright afternoon winter light. Long lace sleeves hug her arms, a white silk bodice flowing down into a wide skirt skims the maple floors. Her tiny waist, the swell of her breasts: It’s all shown for maximum impact and I’m taking the hit. She’s got one of those long cathedral trains my sister Catriona was going on about, and a veil that flows almost as long. Her dark chestnut hair is partially up, and her makeup is done with a light hand. Diamonds sparkle at her ears, and that’s it.

She’s dressed like a woman going to meet her fate.

Me.

I’m her fucking fate.

It feels all wrong, and yet there’s something undeniable as our eyes connect across the long aisle. In a way, her eyes seek me like I’m a life preserver as she’s slipping into dark waters. She gives me an encouraging smile, however slight, even though she’s clearly scared as shit.

She deserves better. I want to save her. Yet I want to corrupt her, too, to bask in that purity, destroy it and remake it, and soak up her light until I’m redeemed. And I want to slide her out of that dress that probably costs more than my Range Rover. It’s a twisted and confused buffet of thoughts and emotions.

It’s even stranger that I’m having them at all. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt much of anything. Now’s not the time to tease that apart.

I keep my eyes on hers and give her a smile, a real smile, to encourage her on her way down the long aisle to me.

They’re walking down the aisle, first Birdie who looks beatific and two other women I don’t recognize. Friends of Jessica, I think.

The light catches on her veil, pinned to her glossy hair with diamonds and the light dapples over the lines of her white dress as the trees shake their snow-covered leaves in a breeze outside the window. I’ve never felt so alive, so fully present in a moment.

Somewhere, at the edge of my awareness, Callan’s gaze burns into me as he gives a quiet “Huh.”

She gracefully reaches the front of the church, and when the Senator’s steel eyes meet mine, they are glacial. Who can blame him? I’m the instrument that’s decimated his family on more than one front this month, willing or not. The handshake is perfunctory, and I can’t resist squeezing until his eyes narrow, his skin going red around the collar of his pale shirt. He might wield one kind of power, but I wield another. He’d best not forget it, at least where his daughter is concerned. He kisses his daughter, puts her hand in mine, and goes to sit by his wife.

It’s just us. Her pale gray eyes are wide, and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks seems at odds with the ultra-polished, understated society New England bride. She’s so nervous she’s shaking as Birdie takes her bouquet and we turn to face each other.

Something in my chest tightens. It’s not supposed to be like this. She’s deserves a wedding day that’s filled with real joy and real celebration. But this is what she’s got. And even the idea of her walking down the aisle to another man has an irrational fissure of heat starting in my gut.

I lower my head, so my mouth is close to her ear. She smells like lilacs, and a shiver runs down my spine, tempting the desires I’m trying to keep at bay.

“You look beautiful,” I rumble. If I knew her well enough to say something more personal, more meaningful, it would be better. But it’s the truth and will have to do.

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