Page 20 of Wicked Pickle

It’s time to find the other bridesmaids and, if possible, figure out what Bailey knew.

Maybe getting Diesel here wasn’t about my dateless status at all. That would make sense since neither Marietta nor Jenna brought anyone, either.

Maybe Bailey had a bigger plan in mind.

And dang it, I almost got kissed by a rogue.

CHAPTER 6

DIESEL

Grammy clearly has no intention of letting me escape again. Her grip on me is tighter than a boozehound on the last bottle of tequila.

I should have left while the leaving was good when I broke away after the ceremony.

But I went looking for Symphony to get some answers.

Now, I’m stuck.

The photographer lines us up around the couple. I pass Bailey and raise an eyebrow.

She simply gives me a big smile in return.

This was her doing. I just know it.

Grammy delivers me to my parents. “Hang on to this one. He’s trying to desert us again.”

Jesus Christ.

Mom holds onto my arm twice as tightly as Grammy did. “So, are you going to tell us how you ended up here?”

Anything I say will incriminate me, so I leave her question hanging. They know Merrick and I are in Florida, but not where. They’d be showing up at the Leaky Skull otherwise, and the last thing I need is Uncle Sherman bringing his business toadies intomy biker bar and telling me how to “maximize profits” or “shore up my brand.”

He’d probably list it on his damn Pickle Media page, where he shows off all his delis, corporations, and other nepotism-drenched establishments.

I’m not a goddamn Pickle, and I never will be.

Dad steps in front of me to fix my tie. “You should answer your mother.”

Thankfully, the photographer gets our attention. “Right here, everybody! Say, ‘Happy Wedding!’”

I scowl in the general direction of the camera, wishing I’d worn leather rather than a suit. I only own the damn thing because I had to go before a county permit board to make changes to the bar.

Not that I’ve been able to actually start. Every contractor for a hundred miles requires permits, and the board is holding them hostage, probably in hopes we’ll go under before they have to acknowledge we’re legit.

“Okay,” the photographer chirps. “That’s the big group. Most of you are excused to the reception. Parents of the bride and groom, please stay for a few more.”

I’m ready to hightail it out of there, but Mom keeps her vice grip on my arm. “Diesel, sit with us.”

At least I have an excuse for that one. “Can’t. I’m escorting one of the bridesmaids.”

That gets them. Mom’s mouth is anOof surprise. “Really? Which one?”

I’m tempted to say,The hot one. The one I plan to ravage before this reception is over.

But Grammy is back and answers for me. “The lovely one in pink. I think her name was Symphony? What a beautiful name.”

Mom frowns that Grammy knows something she doesn’t. She glances over at the bride and groom. “I guess she’s one of Bailey’s friends, then?”

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