Page 9 of Powerless
“Willa is a nosy little eavesdropper,” Summer says. “That’s what’s wrong.”
“Shut up, Sum. It’s not eavesdropping when you can hear a person yelling from the other side of a closed door.”
“I think that might still technically be called eavesdropping,” Cade says as he pulls Willa toward him.
My brain is stuck back on one word. “Sorry. Who is yelling?”
Summer’s lips roll together, dark eyes wide and concerned. “It would seem the bride and groom are having a disagreement. And the groom has no volume control.”
“He’s a slimy little prick,” Willa adds simply. “I can tell just by looking at him,”.
Before anyone says more, I’m in motion through the heavy door, checking left and right to get my bearings, and picking a hallway that appears to have several doorways leading off of it. I take long strides in that direction until I can hear the raised voice.
Violet is standing outside the door, doing an excellent imitation of a deer in the headlights, while her massive husband, Cole, towers behind her like he’s ready to murder someone. He always looks like that though.
“You’ll embarrass yourself more than me,” Sterling’s scolding tone assaults my ears from the other side of the door.
I peek at Violet and her husband. His lips are flat, and he cants his head at me as if to say,Are you going in there or am I?
I’d happily let him put Sterling in his place. But I’d be even happier to do it myself.
“Are you kidding me?” Disbelief resonates in Sloane’s voice. “You fuck a stripper nights before our wedding andI’mthe embarrassing one?”
Other people in the church appear to be staring—listening—which is why I open the door into whatever maelstrom is taking place. Sloane needs backup. And she needs to know everyone is privy to their dirty laundry right now.
At least I tell myself that’s why I’m marching into this room unannounced. It has nothing to do with the fact that Sterling has me seeing red.
“It was my stag party! A last hurrah!” I catch sight of Sterling’s back, his arms held out wide as Sloane sits on a dainty antique stool, looking impossibly small, while he stands over her, yelling at her.
Protectiveness courses through me.
“Get out and shut up!” I bark, slamming the door behind me. “Everyone out there can hear you.”
Sterling spins on me, eyes narrowing, venom spewing. “Fuck off, Gervais. I don’t need a dumb jock’s advice. This is between my wife and me.”
I cross my arms and stand my ground. I’m officially done being nice to Sterling Woodcock. “She’s not your wife. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s not as tall as I am, and the only reason he rivals me in weight is because he’s a little thick around the middle. Soft, like he sits at his desk all day long and drinks too much at night.
“Excuse me?” He’s completely turned to me now and taking aggressive steps in my direction. His soft, shaved cheeks are all puffed up and red, contrasting against the white and black of his tuxedo.
“I said I’m not leaving. But you need to.”
From beyond him, Sloane stares at me wide-eyed. I expected to find her crying, but there isn’t a single tear on her immaculately made-up face.
Sterling rushes me, arms outstretched and ready to shove. Like a fucking kid having a temper tantrum. But I press my palm into his damp forehead and straight-arm him before he can lay a finger on me. He lands a few lame blows on my arms, but he’s too fucking soft to know what he’s doing. Too short. Too weak.
“Raise your voice at that woman one more time and I will drop you like a stone, Woodcock.”
“Fuck you! I’d like to see you try.” He’s really losing his cool now, but I grab him by his silky, little bowtie and march him toward the door, wishing—not for the first time—I could give him one swift smack with my blocker. But I tamed this temper long ago and won’t let someone as insignificant asSterling Woodcockbe the one to bring it back out.
With my left hand, I yank the door open, and with all my strength, I shove him out of the room, waiting a beat to watch him stumble backward before succumbing to gravity and hitting the burgundy rug in the hallway. He lands in an unceremonious pile of limbs, and I commit the image to memory because it’s just too damn good to forget.
I close the door and lock it.
Within moments I hear banging and cussing and totally empty death threats, but I ignore them because my attention is on Sloane, who has her elbows propped on her knees, face tipped down into her hands, shoulders shaking.
I take sure steps across the room toward the vanity where she’s seated, ready to comfort her when I hear her gasp.
