Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (31)
With a final, satisfied look at the golden block, I turn up the heaters and fans to help cure the epoxy, pick up my flowers, and leave.
My dog rises from his favorite spot on the floor of the craft room and follows in my wake as I walk down the corridor, heading to the main floor of what was once a textile factory. I pass the old steel elevator that still works but freaks me the fuck out and head toward the metal staircase on the far wall instead, taking the steps by twos until I reach my apartment, with exposed brick, tall windows, and eclectic decorations—photos and sculptures and wall hangings and posters—mostly things I’ve collected from the times I’ve spent performing on the road. There might even be a few souvenirs of sparkly justice, and though they’re mostly hidden from view, their presence still makes this space feel like home.
I thought my furniture project downstairs would make me feel better about what’s to come, and though it helped, the effect is more temporary than I expected. The nerves creep back in with every second that passes, like an infectious melody that takes over my thoughts note by note until it’s all I can hear. I turn up the volume on my music in the hope it will drown the anxiety. I dance as I roll my hair in curlers and sing as I do my makeup. I even pick up my guitar and play along with a few songs before I get dressed in an ivory satin pantsuit with a strapless lace corset. When I’m finished and every detail is in place, I take a moment to twist side to side in the floor-length mirror in my bedroom. It probably comes as no surprise to say I always thought I’d have a big white wedding. A princess dress and a flowing veil. Five hundred guests and fireworks and a fairy tale.
But that’s not my reality and I’m not upset about it. Am I still nervous? Sure. But I also feel fierce. Destined to defy expectations.
By the time Sloane texts that she’s arrived, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
And I know the instant I slip into her car that I’m doing the right thing.
“What the fuck is going on?” Sloane asks, worry etched in her features, the green hues of her hazel eyes more vibrant against the bloodshot evidence of the worried tears she must have shed during her drive here. “I thought you hated Lachlan. You can’t be serious about marrying him.”
“What gave you the impression I hate him?”
“You saying, ‘Lachlan is a dickhead, I really hate that guy,’ might be one reason.”
I let out an unsteady laugh as I try not to fidget with the bouquet clutched in my iron grip. “Well, he can kind of be a dickhead, sure, but hate might be a bit strong.”
Sloane turns toward me, the car still idling in park. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, Lark. You’re my best friend. You’re the most impetuous person I know, but this? A random-as-fuck wedding to Lachlan Kane when you’ve spoken to each other what, like, five times? And all those times have been some kind of miserable? There has to be a reason for this sudden one-eighty.” She shakes her head as fresh tears well at her lash line. Her voice is barely more than a strained squeak when she says, “The math. It ain’t mathin’.”
I grab Sloane’s hand across the center console and stare into her eyes. It takes more force than it should to remain steadfast, to not cave to the temptation of saying to hell with this insane plan before I run away to fuck-knows-where. “I promise you, sweetie, everything will be okay.”
“But—”
“I love you,” I whisper as I lay a hand to the side of Sloane’s face. There’s no measure of relief in her expression when I give her a reassuring smile, one that feels discordant with the sting in my nose and the vise that grips my heart. “You don’t need to look after me this time, Sloane. I really just need you to trust me, no questions asked. I’ve got this.”
It takes a long moment, but Sloane finally reins in her tears. “Okay,” she says. “But if he hurts you, I swear to God I will take his fucking eyes.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Slowly. With a rusty spoon. Like, a full-on gouging. Rough edges. Amateur-looking shit. Really shoddy work.”
“Okay. Well, you could leave me one eye.”
“I’m serious, Lark.”
“Yeah, me too. I think I’d probably enjoy having you teach me your tricks,” I say with a grin.
After a final, scrutinous look, Sloane shifts into drive and we pull away, headed for downtown Boston.
I connect my playlist to Sloane’s car on our ride to the courthouse for this auspicious day. “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. “Marry You” by Bruno Mars. It’s got a fun vibe that I’m hoping will buoy my mood. “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, because obviously. Though I sing and have a smile ready whenever she glances my way, Sloane is having none of it.
“What about your mom and Damian?” she asks, turning the music down as we crawl closer to Boston City Hall through the midday traffic.
My heart squeezes. “What about them?”
“Won’t they be upset?”
“Maybe,” I reply, picking at the hem of my white satin jacket. My gaze shifts out the window and I squint at the passing buildings. “I think they’ve got plenty to worry about with Ethel though.”
“Not doing so well?” Sloane asks, and I shake my head. When I don’t look her way, she pulls my hand from my lap and holds it on the center console. “I’m sorry, Lark.”