Page 116 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
“I have no idea what that means.”
She rolls her eyes. “A concealed carry license. It’s totally legit if I carry a weapon.”
I’m dumbfounded by this information. “Why would you need a license to carry a concealed weapon?”
“You think you’re the only girl who ever got smacked around by a crazy ex?”
She says this deadpan. It’s not even a question, really, it’s just one of those rhetorical things you already know the answer to.
“No, of course not. But a gun?”
Trina’s expression hardens. For a moment I see the Venice gang girl of her youth, all razor blade eyes and rough edges. “You know the old saying, ‘Don’t show up to a gun fight with a knife’? Well, my ex loves guns. So now, so do I. Because if he decides to come after me again, I have to fight fire with fire.”
I don’t even know where to go with this conversation. “Okay, for the moment let’s forget about firepower and focus on what we need to do today. We’ll continue this some other time.” I hustle into my office and start checking all my lists.
Within a few hours, the entire staff is in, everything is loaded into the vans, and we set off for the Hotel Bel-Air.
Eric’s badge is still in my purse, burning a hole through the fabric.
At the hotel, it’s smooth sailing. The load-in is a pain in the butt because the ballroom is on the opposite side of the property from the loading dock, which means we have to take all the flowers through the guts of the hotel, winding through narrow, overcrowded back hallways, carefully avoiding in-room dining carts, ceiling-high stacks of crated glassware and banquet chairs, and all the housekeeping, restaurant, banquet, and kitchen staff who are scurrying around like oversized, uniformed rats.
Other than taking longer than necessary to load in due to the hotel setup, there’s not a hitch. The lighting crew has already set up the pin spots for the dining tables and the gobos for the walls that will give the room that gorgeous, warm glow. The stage is set for the swing band—Bad Habit is supposed to jump in and play a song or two if they’re not too drunk—and the videographers and photographers have arrived. Jennifer, the wedding coordinator, is having a meltdown in the corner of the ballroom and is screaming at the banquet captain about security, which means everything is right on schedule.
It’s not a wedding until someone has a meltdown. I’m just happy it isn’t me.
Yet.
When I’m sure all of Fleuret’s setup has been completed, I put Trina in charge and head up to Kat’s suite to get dressed.
When I knock on the door, I hear the pulse of electronica music and shrieks of laughter. Over the music someone shouts, “Come in!”
I walk inside the honeymoon suite and find myself face-to-face with a male stripper. He’s young, overly tan, and is wearing a black thong and nothing else.
He’s holding Kenji over his head.
“Best wedding present ever!” Kenji screams, throwing his arms in the air like he’s flying . . . which he sort of is because Tan Stripper Boy has started to speed walk around the room.
Grace, Kat, and three girls in black shirts and trousers, who I assume are the hair and makeup team, are across the suite. Four director’s chairs are set up in front of the open balcony doors, and in them sit Kat and Grace in white robes, sipping champagne, while the other girls fuss around with hot rollers and makeup kits.
When she sees me, Grace shouts, “Because she didn’t get a stripper for her birthday, right?” and throws back her head and laughs.
“It looks to me like he’s more for Kenji than Kat,” I reply, watching Grace’s wedding present bench press Kenji in front of a mirror by the wet bar. Every time the stripper presses up, Kenji shrieks, “Again, bitch!”
Clearly the party has started without me.
“C’mere, Lo, and give me a hug.” I cross the room and set my garment bag and purse on the sofa, then hug Kat, noting the excited sparkle in her eye, the flush in her cheeks.
“You’re looking happy, kiddo,” I say softly. “Nervous?”
“Pshaw! I’m marrying the love of my life, what’s there to be nervous about?”
A pang of pain shoots through my chest, and my smile falters.
Opera music was the love of her life.
I wonder how long it will take before not everything anyone says reminds me of A.J.
“Hey. Forget about me, are you okay?”
