“Okay, all you single bitches—oops, sorry, Mom. All you single ladies… keep your horny asses on the dance floor!”

Katie’s sister had strut onstage and taken over the mic, just as Wet Blanket was heading off. They’d wrapped up their set with a hot and heavy cover of The Kinks’ “You Really Got Me,” and a whole lot of blissfully drunken wedding guests were now screaming their appreciation of the night’s entertainment—at the same time, screaming their lament of Zane and his band leaving the stage. Myself included.

Although after last night, I was pacing myself on the booze; I was currently rocking a mild but pleasant champagne buzz.

“If you’re not already on the dance floor,” Becca added, “you’ve disappointed me and Zane, but you’ve still got time to redeem yourselves.”

As he departed the stage, Zane tossed a bunch of flowers stolen from the table arrangements into the crowd, laughing, and shouted, “Don’t worry, kids, the party’s just getting started!” As I was jostled about in the crowd, I could feel the effect Zane’s stage presence, in particular, had on the women around me, and I had to grin to myself. It was still kind of strange to reckon that shirtless sex symbol in low-slung jeans and leather vest, all washboard abs and piercings, with that cute but annoying boy I grew up with.

But a sex symbol he definitely was, and the other members of Wet Blanket weren’t exactly guys you’d kick out of bed. A supergroup put together by Zane and several of his rock star friends from other bands, they’d get together now and then, usually in L.A., and put on a random show, playing cover songs for those friends and family lucky enough to get an invite—pretty much for shits and giggles and their shared love of music. The fact that they were here was pretty epic, and a testament to their affection for my brother.

Even better, I’d just learned that Paulie, one of their shit-hot guitarists, was joining Dirty as their new, permanent rhythm guitarist. Officially, no one was supposed to know yet; Dirty was planning to make the announcement at a special show in Vancouver next week—also a secret—but Elle had spilled both tidbits to me.

“You’re Dirty,” she’d told me with a dismissive shrug. “Jesse or whoever will tell you anyway.”

And I was glad she’d told me.

Hearing those words—You’re Dirty—went a long way to reminding me that I belonged here, and not only because it was my brother’s wedding. I had more family here, after all, than just Jesse. And that reminder helped to counteract the incredibly opposite vibe I’d been getting from Brody all day.

After the cutting of the wedding cake—which, good for me, I did not put my ass in—I’d spent most of the night chatting and dancing with Elle. Maybe I figured she and I had some kind of special kinship now—like we’d made it into some crappy club. Elle had wanted my brother, but in the end she’d lost him, and now here she was at his wedding to Katie. And here I was, gazing longingly across the room at Brody, all smoldering in his dark suit, like some mute, adolescent dork.

Of course, Elle had no idea about my… issues… with Brody.

No one really did.

But aside from those issues, I was having fun. I was covered in a sheen of sweat, my hair and my bridesmaid dress clinging to me, my toes starting to throb in my shoes, but I didn’t care. I was ready to dance all fucking night if it would save me from throwing a self-pity party.

Sure, Brody had grabbed me last night and yanked me up against him and held me, his fingers digging into me—sending all kinds of wicked signals between my legs. And he’d done it to save me from plummeting off a walkway into the dark, but that was a reflex; he probably would’ve done it for anyone.

Since then, he’d kept his hands the hell away from me. Like as far as he could get them without leaving the room.

“Crank the music!” Roni called out, jiggling up and down next to me, as eager as I was to keep dancing. But something was holding things up. I stumbled in my high heels as more ladies squeezed onto the dance floor; some of the guys were herding us together into a needlessly tight pack.

“Yeah!” I shouted, cupping my hands around my mouth so Becca could hear me over the crowd. “I want to dance!”

Then Katie walked onstage, twirling her bouquet in front of the cluster of women… as No Doubt’s “Just A Girl” started pumping through the room—and it dawned on me what was happening.

Ah, Jesus. The bouquet toss.

All around me women shrieked in excitement, and Roni was one of them. Not that Roni cared to get married; she’d just take her fifteen minutes of fame any way she could get them.

“No one trample Grandma Dolly, okay?” Becca called out, as Dolly was led to the edge of the throng, all smiles. “That’s a standing order. Jude and his guys are on hand if you bitch—I mean ladies get outta line.”

A few ladies shouted some unladylike things—letting Jude and his guys know they could go ahead and bring on their hands. Me, I used the general whirlwind of hormones and excitement to snake my way out of the herd, locking eyes with Elle as I went, and together, we made a beeline for the doors. We’d almost made it there when we were impeded by a big-ass wall of shoulder-to-shoulder Jude and Piper… and corralled back into the fray.

I gave Jude my best I really, really hate you glare, the one he’d never seemed fazed by, just as he didn’t now. Then I glanced at his big brother, Piper. Piper had shown up to my brother’s wedding wearing his patched leather vest, the one that advertised his membership in the notoriously criminal West Coast Kings motorcycle club—which meant he was essentially wearing gang colors and didn’t give one fuck what anyone thought about it. So the odds he’d give a fuck that I wanted out of this bouquet toss situation were not good.

He crossed his arms over his chest, both brothers smiling down at me with their identical evil dimples.

“Fine,” I grumbled, giving in and heading back to the dance floor.

Stupid, sexy, badass men.

“That guy keeps taking pictures of you,” Roni informed me as I edged up beside her in the crowd. I looked around in vain for Elle’s platinum-blonde hair and wondered if she’d managed to escape. Lucky bitch.

“Huh? What guy?”

“Photographer with the sweaty little beard.” Roni indicated one of the wedding photographers, who was currently angling to photograph the swarm of drunken single ladies jockeying for position to catch Katie’s bouquet. “I’m telling you. Every time I see him. The bride’s over there, you’re over here, and he’s shooting you. I’m pretty sure he’s taken more pictures of you than her.”

“Ignore him,” I told her, distracted, as Amanda bounced into the crowd nearby. “I’ll mention it to Maggie.” I had more important things to worry about than some horny dude with a camera—for example, that this entire event was almost over and Brody still wasn’t acknowledging the fact that I was alive, much less present.

At least I hadn’t had to watch him dance with Amanda all night.

Well, Brody didn’t dance. At least, he never had, back then. Though taking a woman in his arms and making her feel like the only woman in the world as he held her close and swayed to the rhythm of a song… that, he could do. He’d done it with me, once, on a night I’d never forget, for reasons both good and bad.

Strangely enough, he didn’t do it with Amanda. While I’d spent every slow song tonight in the arms of the nearest available man, determined not to end up a sad wallflower, Brody didn’t dance once, with anyone.

Maybe he wasn’t in the mood.

Every time I caught a glimpse of him while I was dancing, he did look kind of… surly.

I didn’t see him now, but then again, I wasn’t looking. A bunch of the guys were crowded around, laughing and probably taking bets on who was about to get a black eye or a bloody nose, but I was too busy keeping an eye on Katie and her bouquet.

“Better get ready to jump, Maggs,” Zane called out as Maggie was shoved in next to me, looking pretty surly herself.

I put an arm around my petite friend and told her, “We’ll duck together.” Because in my experience, there were two groups of single women at a wedding. Group A, who wanted to catch the bouquet, and group B, who totally didn’t.

I just hoped we could get the hell out of the way in time.

Then Katie let fly—and the ladies of group A surged forth with the collective focus of a bunch of drunk and therefore slightly off-balance women in high heels, bent on a common goal. I tried to drop back, but instead got tossed forward in the wave, losing hold of Maggie. Then my feet went out from under me. I started to fall.

And I took Amanda—of all people—down with me.

Which I would’ve found suspicious myself, except that I knew I’d tripped. I tried to stop it, but in all the excitement I was definitely going down, right on top of Brody’s date. My hands went up to shield my face from flying arms and elbows—and I caught the fucking bouquet.

Most of it, anyway. A few unfortunate flowers had popped off in the other girls’ hands.

But, yeah. The bouquet was mine. I supposed that was one of the benefits—curses—of being tall.

Everyone cheered and yanked me up, shoving me forward for my moment of glory, as a sweaty-bearded photographer took my picture and I faked my very best Yay! I can’t wait to get married next! smile… and a rather disgruntled-looking Amanda was peeled off the floor. Maybe she really wanted the bouquet.

Oh well.

Then Katie was dragged into the middle of the dance floor and deposited in a chair. Everyone gathered around to watch as my brother, to the wicked, bluesy groove of CCR’s “I Put A Spell On You,” took his sweet-ass time foraging under her dress, finally removing her garter… with his tongue. Which took some skill.

Even I had to applaud.

I stepped aside with Roni, who was still laughing her ass off—at my expense—as all the single guys gathered around, some strutting into place like peacocks, others shoved in or dragged in by friends. I couldn’t help laughing myself; watching the garter toss at a wedding was always entertaining. Like the bouquet toss, it tended to bring out a certain side of some people you didn’t expect.

For example, Zane, of all people, was right up front, cracking his neck and flexing his hands, like he was preparing to catch the winning kick at the Super Bowl. At least, that’s how it looked to me. I knew shit all about football.

Still. Highly entertaining.

At least, it was until Brody caught the garter… and Zane and Jude tackled me, hauled me into the middle of the dance floor, put my ass in the chair… and the entire crowd started whistling, cheering, chanting, and from what I could discern basically ordering Brody to put the garter on me.

Fuck me.

Were we really doing this?

People still did this at weddings?

Yeah. Apparently they did.

The pervy photographer was on his knees in front of me taking pictures of us—me with the bride’s mangled bouquet, Brody with the garter—as everyone and their dog gathered around. Then Brody was shoved in front of me and the song changed.

James Brown started belting out “It’s A Man’s Man’s Man’s World.”

Brody, still wearing his suit pants, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off his neck tattoo, that sexy dip at the base of his throat and enough collarbone to seriously distract a girl, threw me a dark glance—like this was somehow my fault, when he caught the stupid garter!—and got down on his knees in front of me.

And all the breath went out of my lungs.

Oh. My. God.

This was happening.

While everyone watched.

Brody reached down, lifted my foot, and slipped off my shoe to a round of cheers, whistles and ooh-la-la’s… and the feel of his hand, his fingers warm and strong and sure on my bare ankle, made me quiver.

I quivered.

I’d never quivered at a man’s touch before.

Other than Brody’s.

Heat rose through me as my body went liquidy, all resistance melting away as I permitted him to do this incredibly intimate thing which had now become a group activity, a spectator sport, for the amusement of our friends.

As James Brown belted out the naked truth, that this world, a man’s world, would be nothing—nothing—without the female of the species, Brody rested my foot on his lap and held my leg in his hand like it was precious, exotic, and utterly beautiful.

My nipples hardened and my toes involuntarily curled.

I held my breath as my heart rammed in my chest. A bead of sweat rolled down between my braless breasts.

It wasn’t like I’d never had a man slide a piece of lingerie onto my body before. At photo shoots and fashion shows, I’d had all sorts of people, men and women, dress me in all kinds of things. But this… this was different.

This was Brody.

Sliding a delicate, frilly garter over my toes and up my leg… slowly. While everyone watched, whistled, and took pictures.

At least now he was acknowledging my existence. Didn’t mean he was looking me in the eye.

“Higher!”

“HIGHER!”

It was just past midnight, most everyone was at least half on their way to shit-faced, and as Brody slid the garter up over my knee and stopped, the crowd, as one, urged him to slide it higher up my leg.

So he did.

He slipped it right on up my thigh, taking the hem of my dress with it… sending tingles all the way up to my clit.

I bit my lip.

More whistles.

More pictures.

Brody’s warm fingers grazed my thigh… and I stirred restlessly as my pussy clenched. Oh, damn. He had the sexiest hands, ever. Manly and strong but not overly-large, a little rough from just the right amount of time spent doing manly things. All I could think about was that hand continuing up, up… and touching me between my legs… and my girl parts throbbed with longing.

I almost wanted him to do it. Right here, right now. With everyone watching. I didn’t care.

But maybe that was the champagne.

Finally, his blue eyes lifted to mine. And I heard Roni’s voice in my head.

Hey Brody, did you know my pussy’s bare beneath this dress?

That was exactly what she’d said, in her best imitation of me, as she’d convinced me to go commando. I saw her now in the crowd, grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat, eating up every second of this torture… as Brody’s hand and that frilly garter slid higher still…

Shit.

I tensed, leaned into his ear, and whispered, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

His hand froze on my thigh.

Like he gives one flying fuck what I do with my pussy.

That’s what I’d said to Roni in response to her teasing. At the time, I’d believed it.

Except now that he was giving some sweaty-bearded photographer an eyeful of it, apparently, he did care. I knew this because he suddenly lunged, punched the guy straight in the face, seized the camera, took out the memory card and handed it to a stunned Katie.

Yeah, he cared. A lot.

Enough to draw blood, which was now dribbling down the photographer’s face from his probably-broken nose.

Then a blur of giant men descended on the scene, including Jude and his brother Piper, the big-ass biker, and I got the hell out of the way.

Someone grabbed my hand and pulled me from the fray. “What the hell was that about?” Maggie asked as she drew me across the room.

“Um… I’m going commando?”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Also… you, uh, might need to fire one of your photographers. Before Brody kills him.”

“You don’t say.” She released me and started back toward the fracas, but I grabbed her arm.

“I swear,” I told her, “I am not trying to make a scene at my brother’s wedding!”

Jesus, though. First my ass in the cake, now this?

“Word of advice, gorgeous,” Maggie said sternly, but she was grinning at me. “Next time, wear panties.”