The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(82)
"Descended from the Jurassic age, this one." Finn nods in Rick’s direction.
"That sounds like something she would say," I murmur, then stiffen when I hear my own words. Silence falls between us, then Finn reaches over and grabs the bottle from Rick. He takes a swig, coughs, then thumps his chest.
Rick snorts, "Too strong for you, knobhead?"
Finn wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "There once was a man from Leeds, who swallowed a packet of seeds…"
"Within half an hour, his dick was a flower…" I add.
"And his balls were all covered with weeds." Rick laughs, then snatches up the bottle of vodka Finn tosses across. He takes a swig, then says in a droll voice. "You may think these limericks are crass and throw me a comment to sass."
"But I will agree, to some degree," I counter.
"And I’ll show you the crack of my ass." Finn jumps off the barstool and does a mock bow. "Thank you. Thank you. Don’t all of you applaud at once."
Rick scoffs. I take the bottle of vodka from him, take a long drink from it, and another, and another. By the time I plant the bottle on the countertop, my entire body is numb. Everything except my heart, that is. The fucker’s been in a state since I slipped a ring onto her finger, then signed the paperwork at Town Hall, before turning away without a kiss.
Y-e-p, not only did I not kiss her, but I also haven’t spoken a word with her since the event. Not when our friends crowded around us and congratulated us. Not when Abby glared at me and hissed that she’d kill me if I didn’t treat her friend the way she deserved. Not when Cade gave me a funny look, or when Phillipe and JJ paused their conversation long enough to glare at me at lunch. Not when Sinclair pulled me aside and told me I’d better not fuck this up. Not when I went to the gents, and Michael hauled me forward before I finished pissing and threatened me with a fate worse than death if I didn’t get my shit together. I zipped myself up, pulled away, and walked out of there. I didn’t return to the lunch organized in honor of our wedding. I headed to the 7A Club and wasn't surprised when Rick and Finn showed up shortly after. They told me the only reason the other men hadn’t come was because they’d managed to persuade them that the two of them would be enough to knock some sense into me.
Ha. Little do they know, that ship has sailed—since they tortured and killed my teammates, then abused me and left me to die, buried under six feet of mud and snow in the Tundra. If it hadn’t been for Adam, I’d never have made it out alive.
If it hadn’t been for Adam, I wouldn’t have married her, either.
Fucking Adam, who said he couldn’t attend the wedding of his best mate because he was too busy helping another veteran deal with the aftermath of a mission gone wrong. Fucking do-gooder, couldn’t put a step wrong if he tried. And now, when I need him most, where the fuck is he? I slide off the bar stool and sway.
"Whoa, ol’ chap." Rick grips my shoulder.
I shake him off. "I’m good." The words come out sounding like Ihhhmm goose.
"And I’m the gander." Finn grabs my arm.
I try to push him away, but motherfucker is one strong son of a bitch. He hooks his shoulder under my armpit, then nods in Rick’s direction. "Got him?"
48
Penny
"Good thing we got him before he got completely sozzled," Rick murmurs. He has an apologetic look on his face as he and Finn half-carry half-drag my husband—my very drunk, barely conscious husband, who mutters under his breath as they heave him up the steps and toward his bedroom. Yes, it’s his bedroom because the wankhole fucked off halfway through our lunch and left me alone with the expressions of concern on his sister’s and my friends’ faces. Not to mention, the angry looks his mates sported as they’d conferred with each other before Finn and Rick headed off in his wake.
To the credit of those left behind, they banded around me with Abby apologizing on Sir’s behalf—and why am I calling him Sir?—he’s not my Sir anymore. If he were, he wouldn’t have left me on my own, a scant half an hour after our wedding. He didn't looked at me as we exchanged vows. Not when he slid the band on my finger next to my engagement ring. Not when he sat next to me at lunch. He didn’t kiss me, didn’t touch me. It was as if I were an object—a possession he lost interest in the moment he had me.
He had more affection for Tiny, who’d been our ring-bearer. Something I’d trained him for in the last week—the canine was so much smarter than his temporary master. And honestly, it’s good that Knight is only dog-sitting because Tiny deserves better. I deserve better. The only time Knight seemed to show any emotions was when Tiny made a dash for the champagne. At which point, he pulled on the leash and snapped at Tiny to ‘sit.' The dog obeyed—reluctantly.
And I, who was standing, planted my butt in the seat—much to my mortification. I glanced about, but no one seemed to notice. Thank god. Although, of course, they’d have attributed my flushed features to the excitement from the wedding. I wish I could tell Mira the entire ceremony was make-believe, but given she can be as filterless as me, I’m not sure that's wise.
And so what, if this entire sham of a wedding was fake? I’ve seen whores in movies treated better than the way my husband behaved toward me. I was so pissed off with him, enough to want to throw my champagne in his face instead of drink it—which would have been a pity. They were good bubbles. So instead, after the staff at the restaurant where the reception lunch was held had poured it, and after Rick and Mira each made their speeches, when it came time for the groom to say a few words, and after my husband declined to do so, I brought the flute to my lips and began to drink, when he stopped me.