Blame it on the Champagne (Blame it on the Alcohol #1) - Fiona Cole Page 0,66
off and continued. “Is it really a bachelorette party if it’s not a real marriage?”
“Why isn’t it a real marriage? It’s legal. You live together. You’re sharing assets,” Raelynn ticked off each argument.
“Because it’s not. It’s an arrangement. Like a business contract.”
“Was that not what it was between you and Camden? Isn’t that what your parents planned the whole time?”
I shuddered at the mention of Camden. “This is different.”
“How?” Nova asked.
“It just is.” My brain struggled to form a coherent argument with all the liquor.
“Would you have fucked Camden?” Raelynn asked.
I fake-gagged.
“That’s a yes.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m choosing this and not anyone else. I figured if I chose my husband, it would be for love.”
“Love-shmove.” She waved the word away like a fly. “You’ve just upgraded your arranged marriage package deal. I call it a win.”
“Camden was pretty bad,” Nova added.
“It just all feels fake,” I said, waving my hands around to encompass the room.
“Does the sash not make you feel like a real bride to be?” Raelynn asked with mock seriousness, her hand on my shoulder.
I looked down, stroking the cheap satin and rough, patchy glitter, declaring my status. The stark white material stood out against my black top and black leather pants, making it impossible to miss. Which was why we were so drunk. People loved to buy drinks for a bachelorette party.
“If that doesn’t, then the tiara and bouquet of flowers should,” Nova said.
“Too much?” Raelynn asked, her face scrunched up with fake concern.
“No,” I said.
“A bit,” Nova said at the same time.
Raelynn shrugged, striking a pose like a supermodel, showing off her dark yellow silk top and black leather mini-skirt. “Tough shit. I’m too much, and you bitches love it.”
And just like that, we moved on from the edge of my deeper concerns. That was the joy of being drunk. Honesty came pouring out, just to be washed away by a random joke—shoved back down where it needed to stay buried.
“We love you.” I wobbled the two steps and wrapped my arms around her.
I opened an arm for Nova to join, and she came in, slapping a kiss against both our cheeks. Her focus shifted behind us, and her lips parted, only to snap closed just as quick, before smiling at Raelynn.
“I love you so much that I want to take you home before you hate yourself.”
A chorus of boos from both of us met her declaration.
“Come on. Where’s Naughty Nova?” Raelynn asked, searching Nova’s face like she’d find Nova’s inner party girl hiding in her eyes.
Nova was the stable one. The one that gave in last to Raelynn’s antics. But when she did, she gave in full force.
“We fed her tequila. Why won’t she come out to play?” Raelynn asked, looking to me with a pout.
“Maybe she wants to dance. We haven’t danced enough,” I added.
“Naughty Nova does love to dance.”
We closed in, and she half-heartedly tried to shove us back, laughing as we danced around her. I turned and leaned my back to her chest, rubbing my hands down my body all the way to my feet. With my legs still straight, I did my best ass-shake to Raelynn’s catcalls. A firm slap to my ass had me pulling upright and glaring at Raelynn.
“You liked it.”
I flashed back to Nico carrying me into the bedroom against my will and slapping my ass. I remembered the heat that bloomed, and I remembered how much I had liked it. The same heat came back with a force, not because of Raelynn, but because every time I thought of him, my body softened like it was preparing to give in.
“Come on, Nova. We have to get this bride-to-be so liquored up she stops being a stubborn bitch and finally bounces on her fiancé like a pogo stick.”
I shoved Raelynn and stumbled back in my spiky heels. “Stop it.”
“Many more drinks, and she won’t be able to stand,” Nova laughed, holding me steady.
“You don’t need to stand to fuck.”
Nova blushed; the dark club unable to hide the heat flooding her freckled cheeks.
“Okay, okay. Serious-time.” Raelynn turned to me and held two fingers to her eyes before pointing at me. “Just one question. Please.”
“Fine,” I said, already knowing I’d regret it.
“The fucking? Was it good? Great? Epic? Bad? What? Hit me with a number? One-to-ten.”
I sighed. Part in defeat, part in dreamy remembrance. “The. Fucking. Best. Like a twenty.”
“Damn,” she breathed. “And you didn’t even get undressed. Okay, how big?”