Page 13 of Sip
Heaven or hell.
I’m a lying motherfucker to myself as well as everyone else. I veer to the left and pause in front of the guest room where she gets ready. Where her sister and my sister and the expensive wedding planner help her fix her hair and put on make-up and don the white dress to marry my brother.
Fuck him.
Fuck her.
Fuck me.
Grace’s sweet laughter peals through the thick door. More nervous than joyful. Understandable I guess with the circumstances. I have no reason to be here. No purpose for talking to her. No excuse to knock. Yet my fingertips brush the cool metal knob.
Loyalty. Tradition. Power.
All of my life those are the only things I’ve been taught. The only things that matter. The only things that make us the men we are.
Now here I am considering jeopardizing them. Endangering our reputation. Risking our position in the world because I feel emotions I never knew existed.
Glass shatters behind the wood and several shrill shrieks follow. Instinct overtakes me, and I slam my shoulder into the door, breaking through the lock. More screams echo in the air from the explosion that I create from my weapon in my hand. I scan past the women blocking my view of Grace. No men. No guns. No danger. “What’s wrong? What the fuck happened?”
“I b-broke a glass.”
Grace’s quivering voice shatters the deafening silence. Her sister Faith twists around, revealing the bride standing behind her, trembling as blood drips from her finger. Four red drops scream from the pure white fabric covering her body. All the protection in the fucking world and the enemy comes from within.
My sister Josephine gasps, catching sight of the ravished dress. Hysterics ensue with her gingerly lifting the stem of Grace’s champagne flute out of her fingers while Faith grabs a tissue and drops to her knees, attempting to dab away the stains.
The wedding planner rushes forward. “Stop! Stop! Stop! You’ll ruin it! You’ll ruin it!”
Grace meets my eyes. Too late. It’s already ruined. Everything is already fucking ruined.
The women scurry around in panic. Shards sprayed across the black hardwood crunch under their heels while Grace remains silent and still as a statue except for her shivering.
“Salt! We need salt.”
“Come on. I’ll show you where. We need to get a bowl, cold water, maybe even ice cubes so…”
“Don’t move. Stay right there!”
Their voices fade as they race out of the room and down the hallway. I yank the handkerchief from my breast pocket and wrap the purple material around her palm. “What happened?”
A shuddering breath answers me at first. Her gaze remains on my fingers pressing against her injury to stem the flow. To hold her for as long as I can. “Grace?”
Slowly her head lifts, fear burns in her big blue eyes. “I can’t seem to stop shaking.”
A tear slips free, and I catch the rivulet with my thumb rather than my tongue like I really want. “I’ve tried to be strong, to be positive, to do what my family needs, but I don’t think Shane likes me. I’m afraid…I’m a-afraid he’ll grow to hate me.”
The sob unleashes the beast inside me, needing to protect her above all else. Guilt stabs my chest even worse than I imagined possible. I want to agree, to let her know he will never love her because she’s not Maeve. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to crush her. I can’t break her now when it’s too late to end this. Is this what love is? Lying to protect her? Hurting myself to avoid hurting her?
Son of a fucking bitch. All I can manage is telling her what I believe is true. “No one who really knows you could ever hate you. There’s nothing to hate.”
She sniffs and waves her hand in front of her face creating a slight breeze. I’m not sure how that stops her from crying but the maneuver seems to work along with a deep breath, so I keep going. “You’re smart, generous, passionate, gorgeous. He’s going to be proud to have you as his wife. Any man would fucking love to be married to you.”
“Really?”
I give her a decisive nod as she starts to relax. Her little body softens, and her lip stops wobbling. “Yeah, really.” I release my makeshift bandage and curl her fingers over the material to hold the silk in place. She watches me intently as I grab the whiskey bottle I dropped from the floor and a glass from the bathroom. I pour her three fingers. “Just enough to calm your nerves.”
Her head bobs with surprisingly easy agreement and a little curl slips loose from under her glittering tiara. She really does make a perfect mafia princess. I hand her the drink and fuck me if she doesn’t throw back every last drop and swallows hard. Her eyes water, and she sputters a bit. “Jesus baby girl! Are you okay?”
I caress her bare back— her soft skin freezing under my fingers— while she coughs again, made worse by her laughing. “Sorry! I thought we were doing shots.”
