Page 11 of Wicked Pickle

I hop over the bar, back to my sanctuary. My brother Merrick looks up from where he’s pulling two beers at a time. Jake, the bar back, has the sense to stay at the other end.

“Women trouble?” Merrick asks. “It usually is with you.”

Hell yeah, it was.

Now, it seems I’m going to a goddamn wedding.

CHAPTER 3

SYMPHONY

Marietta peers out of the window onto the parking lot of the Victoria House, a historic home that has become a coveted wedding venue on the north side of Miami.

“Do you think he’ll ride in on a motorcycle?” she asks.

She means Diesel.

I shrug and turn away from her like it makes no difference to me if I’m jilted on Bailey’s wedding day. Jenna and Marietta don’t have dates, either.

Bailey is having photos taken with Grammy Alma, the matriarch of Rhett’s family, who places the veil on her head. It’s lovely, the octogenarian grandmother of the groom standing in for Bailey’s mother, who died years ago.

I sniffle back a few tears. I love weddings. The dresses. The flowers. The music. The cake. I cry over vows and perk up at the toasts. I love the moment when the groom sees the bride coming up the aisle. When everyone turns to see what he’s looking at.

The cute little kids tossing petals are the best. And I’m giddy when someone dresses up the couple’s dog and walks them in.

It’s all good. All of it.

No date required.

Marietta turns from the window. “He’s got fifteen minutes to get here.”

I huff in annoyance. “It’s not like he’s walking me down the aisle. Besides, he’ll probably show up in one of those Leaky Skull T-shirts and his weird metal chain.”

Marietta plops down onto a satin ottoman in front of me, the tulle of her pale yellow dress tufting around her like a cloud. “Do you think he’ll bring some friends?”

Jenna shakes her head, like she can’t believe her friend is still mooning over her failed biker romance. “Still sad you didn’t meet Mr. Wrong?”

Marietta pushes her palm against the base of her updo. She’s paranoid it’s already falling. “You all dragged me out of there without so much as getting a ride.”

Jenna sits delicately on the satin bench next to me, a powder puff in pale blue. I’m in pink. We look like a box of macarons, but nobody complained one bit to Bailey. It’s her dream wedding in a pastel rainbow.

Grammy steps back from Bailey, and we all turn our attention to the bride.

“You look gorgeous,” Jenna says.

“Perfection,” Marietta agrees.

I pang with jealousy. Bailey is my best friend, but it’s hard not to twinge with at least a sliver of envy. We’re taking the same poli-sci classes for our master’s degree program, and she’s always the professor’s favorite.

Plus, she got the hot guy, her former boss, no less.

And she’s skinny and perfect.

I try to correct my thinking. You do not look like a cream puff in your dress. You are strong and capable and smart.

It doesn’t matter that your primary boyfriend for the last few years has come with a portable charger. Hezzzzztttssa little too fast for my taste, but it’s embarrassing to get another one. Howare you supposed to know how strong they are when you buy them? It’s not like you get to test them where it counts.

And it doesn’t matter if Diesel comes to the wedding or not. Nobody wants a blackmailed date.

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