I walk in the door, home from work, and have to stop and do a double-take… yeah, I'm in the right house. Which means, my little minx is still mad I sicced Whitley on her and a sinister scheme is afoot.
Can't wait… I love winning all the games my baby tries to play.
Except actual games — like Pictionary or Cranium — during which the girl literally sprouts horns.
I smell food, I see candles burning and there's baby-makin’ music playing softly. ELO’s “Strange Magic” to be precise; a favorite for both of us, to which we’ve made love countless times. I’m more than willing to add to that tally, and ordinarily, I'd be leaving a trail of my shed clothing as I go hunt her down, but knowing she's mad at me… I'm looking for a rusty, Tetanus-inducing metal, claw-tooth trap with each step I take.
“Laney? I'm home.” I throw caution to the wind, announcing my arrival, and what with her keen sense of, well, me, also my approximate location within said home. I brace for the consequences of my mistake, but she doesn’t pop out and pounce. No surprise attack with fists of fury flying. Hmmm.
“In the kitchen,” she calls out, seemingly sane, even somewhat jovial.
Uh huh — knew it… she's luring me in close to bear the full brunt of her planned fireworks. Well let the show begin baby, because I'm the Goddamn Fire Marshall.
She's at the stove cooking, or pretending to, with her back to me… wearing nothing but an apron. As in, I'm currently staring at her very fine, naked ass as it sways to the music. All feisty and feeling clever, under the illusion that since she told me I was “cut off,” I'm just gonna listen and comply to her completely unacceptable terms. Isn't she adorable.
“How was your day, dear?” she asks as she glances over her bare shoulder with a cunning grin, knowing damn good and well I'm standing here, hard as steel and gawking.
“Good, getting better by the second. Yours?” I play along, speaking calmly as I remove my suit jacket and tie, laying them both over the back of a chair.
“Mine was all right. Couple unexpected surprises, but you already knew that. Turned out great through. By the way,” she now spins to face me… the apron is sheer white, providing the perfect blend of teasing allure and provoking outline of what lies beneath. “Are you free September fourth?”
“If you need me to be I am. Why?” I arch a single brow, my tone darkening with lust as I undo my belt.
“I don't know what it is you think you're doing there,” she says mockingly, motioning to where I'm pulling the belt through my pant loops, “unless you’re planning to jack-off before dinner. In which case, wash your hands after. But I do need you free that day. It’s when we're getting married.”
Shoes and socks — gone. Shirt — off. Pants — unbuttoned. I'll stop there for now. I stalk toward her but she halts my advance by slapping the spatula she's wielding against my chest. “Hold it right there, buster. I wasn't kidding, you aren't getting any dessert tonight. You were amply warned. Deal with it.” She smugly tosses my own verbiage back in my face. “So, the date, you free?”
“I'm free.” She fails to hide the tiny shudder my deep, gravelly answer elicits, or perhaps it’s due to the penetrating stare I'm no doubt giving her.
“Good,” she says too breathily, spinning back around quickly in an attempt to stay true to her ruse. “You need to ask whoever you want as your Best Man and four groomsmen.”
“Done.” I reach beside her and flip the knobs on the stove to “off,” pressing my body against hers. “They've all been on standby for months.”
“Great. Could you please back up? I'm trying to cook, and I'd appreciate some room to do so.” Precious — her “serious” voice, betrayed by the flush of her skin and knowing, preparing, rigidity in her posture.
I nuzzle my face in her neck and wrap my arms around her waist, tugging her against my erection. “You 'bout done?” I murmur.
“With dinner? No. And it'll be done a lot sooner if you leave the stove turned on,” she tries for snippy, instead delivering sensuous defiance.
In one perfectly orchestrated move, I have her on the island countertop, flat on her back with me hovering over that delectable, barely-hidden body. Blonde hair fanned out, big brown eyes glazed with desire and a heated blush on her cheeks — fucking mesmerizing.
“Dane,” she can't decide whether to whimper, whine or gripe, “dammit! You always do this. Piss me off, then use seduction instead of apology.”
“That's not true.” I reach under her and untie the apron, peeling it off her. “I apologize if, and when, I'm sorry.” I slide two greedy hands up her flat, toned stomach and fondle her breasts. “I'm not sorry this time, baby. After all the waiting,” my hands trek back down, pushing her knees up and out, spreading her open for me. “I now know the exact day you will become my wife. No way in Hell I'm apologizing for that. But, I know today was probably stressful, not your thing, so I will be happy to take the edge off for you.” I wink and boast my cocky grin before burying my face between her legs.
Soaked. She can keep the Monopoly trophies. This game… I win every fucking time.
She instantly forgets any protest, pelvis arching up for more as she writhes under my ministrations. I replace my tongue with two fingers, slow and steady, unlike my voice. “Eyes open, Laney, let me see you.” Her droopy lids battle, but she wins, gazing up at me with a sexy, sated smile. “We good now, baby?”
“I am,” she purrs. “Almost.”
“That so?” I work her throbbing clit with my thumb, plunging two fingers inside her roughly. Just as she starts to clench around them and her begging sounds become actual pleas, I stop. Everything. “It's too bad you're still mad at me, despite the fact that anything I ever do is because I love you. My only motive, ever; my love for you.” I click my tongue and shake my head, adjusting my tone to a deceptively calm octave. “I can see how badly you need to relax; come on my face, take my dick, then maybe a nice, long bubble bath. And I want to take care of you, always. But I understand, you're upset.”
“Oh, for God's sake! There's nobody here to hand you a damn Oscar, you ass! You win, we're good. Now get your mouth back on me!” she pants, with a touch of lethal hiss.
“And then?” I cock one victorious brow.
“And then, fuck me, Dane.”
“There's my baby,” I growl and dip my head. After all, her wish is my command.
Everything's coming together, I assume. Whitley calls me at least three times a day to authorize, then send a payment to, someone or somewhere for something. And my guys are ready to go: my brother Tate’s of course my Best Man, then Evan, Sawyer, Zach and Andy as groomsmen. Sawyer was ass-hurt Evan was before him in line, and even after I drew him a diagram, no shit, to show him that Evan would be walking with Whitley and he with Emmett… the dumbass still moped around like the pussbag I've repeatedly told everyone he's always been — which is the only reason I insanely agreed he could be in charge of the bachelor party.
Fucker perked right up then. Whadda know.
But, as we all sit around my dinner table tonight, he's started to lose some of his “pep” … 'cause the women are talking wedding, including the ground rules. And Tate, Evan, Zach and myself aren't helping Saw out one bit, because none of us wanna lose our women… or spend a night in jail.
“How the fuck am I supposed to throw a bachelor party without strippers?” Sawyer yells, banging a fist on the table.
“Easy, don't call any!” Laney throws a dinner roll at his head.
“Zach, you want strippers there too, right?” Saw begs the only single man for help.
“Excuse me, Zach.” Emmett smiles at him to apologize for stealing his turn I doubt he wanted, then flings daggers at Sawyer. “Too? What does that mean, sweetie?” She did not mean “sweetie.” Do not answer her, Beckett.
He answers her. Every woman leans in for a bird's eye view, every guy dropping our heads in pity for the poor, dumb bastard. “Ah, Emmy, I wouldn't touch any of 'em. You know that. But it's a bachelor party. You gotta have tits and ass there. Maybe a few peeks of pussy, depending on budget, of course.”
“Sure, yeah, of course.” She nods her head and concurs with a sarcasm so dry my eyes start to itch. “Ladies, I say in the spirit of pre-wedding traditions, we go check out this male review in Atlanta that I’ve heard about.”
“Um.” Whitley's face scrunches. “Em, that's a lot of traveling for some of the people attending. With only a few weekends to spare, and Hayden having the triplets, we probably need to keep all events close together — time and distant wise.”
Bennett quickly leans over and whispers in her ear while all the guys but Sawyer cover our grins. Whitley's blue eyes widen and she squares her shoulders, determined to pull this off. “Never mind, I was, uh, thinking of some other wedding. That sounds like a great idea, Emmett.”
Laney rolls her eyes and palms her forehead. Bennett gives Whit a “good try” pat on the back and Evan laughs out, “you're so precious, pretty girl.”
But even with all that… Beckett, in his own world as usual, misses the plot and jumps out of his chair. “Like hell you will! And just where in the fuck did you hear about a male review, Shorty?” He roars.
“Seriously, should we maybe help him?” Tate murmurs lowly.
“Absolutely not,” I say right out loud… ’cause Sawyer's not listening anyway.
“Emmy, quit fucking around, babe. You're not going, and who are these jezebels filling your sweet lil' head with such shit?”
“Enough!” Uh oh, Disney's out of her chair now too.
“Should we stop her?” Tate again mumbles.
“Hell no.” I fold my hands behind my head and lean back, getting comfortable for the show. Love to watch my baby go to work — sassy, spunky and sexy as fuck.
“Sawyer Landon Beckett, you cannot possibly be that dense! I love you, I'd give you an internal organ if you needed one, but I'm about to come across this table and smack the stupid outta ya! Emmett was making it up, to prove a point that obviously missed its mark. There is no male review. Well, I'm sure there is somewhere, but not one that any of us know about. Why the hell would I need to look at a male stripper? Have you seen my man?”
“Thank you, baby,” I reach over and swat her ass.
“You're welcome, now hush. Sawyer, Emmett knew you wouldn't like her watching strippers, so she said that so you'd realize it's not fair for you to watch them either! You with me now, big guy?”
“So, no strippers?” He asks Em, sincerely needing confirmation.
“No, sweetie. No strippers.” She smiles sweetly, never-ending patience in her eyes.
“And you have no jezebel influences?” Everyone wants to sigh, or laugh, but Crew rule: we accept him “as is” and let him get there himself.
“Also a no.” She can't tame the curl at the corners of her mouth. “How about you? No strippers?”
“Yes, but only one. You.” He reaches across the table and hoists her up and over it, sitting back down with her now in his lap. “Will you braid your hair and do the lil’ skipping thing for me tonight?”
“I'll see what I can do,” she snickers and kisses him.
“Just to recap.” Whitley raises her hand and waves it to get everyone's attention. “And don’t worry, I've sent an agenda to all your emails. The wedding is at one p.m., on September fourth, at Weaver Gardens. We arrive on the second, bachelor and bachelorette parties, minus any dancers or naked people, are to be held that night, and the rehearsal dinner’s on the evening of the third. Daney, oops,” she giggles, “I mean Dane and Laney, will be in the Lodge and Spa Presidential Suite and the rest of us in the Mountain Villas, both on the venue premises. I’ll bring everyone's dresses and tuxes. Any questions?”
We all wait for Beckett to ask his questions, but none come… he's too busy trying to smother himself in Emmett's neck.
“I'd like to propose a toast.” I stand and lift my glass. “First, to Laney of course, for making me the luckiest bastard alive and finally agreeing to marry me. To the best damn Crew a guy could ask for, thank you all for clearing your schedules and supporting us on our big day. It wouldn’t be the same without you there. And last, but nowhere near least, to Whitley; the most helpful, generous person we know and one helluva wedding planner.”
A round of “cheers” and clinking glasses ensues, we finish our meal and eventually, everyone heads home.
And Laney, holds on tight as I throw her over my shoulder and beeline for our bed
Time is a curious thing; an entity of endless variables—definite but undefined, speeding by one as it drags past another, infinite for all…and yet, for no one.
When I need or want time to pass slowly, moments are gone in a flash. Like now, for example. It feels as though Dane only just asked me to marry him, but here we are… the day of our wedding upon us.
During the pre-commotion; showers, fittings, tastings, the bachelorette party and everything else Whitley dragged me to, none of it seemed real.
Not really for me. Not really because I, was in fact, getting married. And definitely not really going by so fast.
Until now.
This feels… surreal.
As I stand in my gown, staring in the full-length mirror, I scarcely recognize the person gazing back at me. That blonde is no ball-playing, scared, eighteen-year-old tomboy, still unsure of who she is, or will be.
No. The reflection I see is that of a full-grown woman; confident in herself, her goals, friends and future. A future that will undoubtedly, always include the once-in-a-lifetime kind of love she has with the amazing man awaiting her hand today. A bond so intense and unbreakable, she knows it will last far beyond this life.
“You're beautiful, angel girl.” My mom comes to stand behind me, both hands on my shoulders as she speaks to the woman in the glass — the fully emerged Laney Jo Walker. Very soon to be Kendrick.
“Thank you, Mama.” I smile, blinking back happy tears. “I'm so glad you're here. You know, I imagined us sharing a moment exactly like this too many times to count. Another absolutely wonderful blessing in my life, totally worth waiting for.”
“I'm just grateful I could be here, and having a good day, so I'll remember it. And on days I don’t, promise me, you’ll tell me the story?”
“As many times as you want,” my voice thick with a held sob.
“Good. Now, before we both start crying, your father and I have something for you. Jefferson?”
“It time?” My dad stands and walks over — yes, he should be in with the guys, but since, because of Dane's heroic efforts, we've gotten my mom's condition under control and her lucidity is present more often than not — she and my dad are now best friends. And accordingly, he never strays too far from her. Plus, I'm glad he's in here with me. “Whitley?” He looks around the suite nervously for her, and upon hearing her name, out she pops!
“Sir?”
“What'd I tell ya about that fancy crap?” He grouches at her playfully. “You call me 'Jeff,' or don't call me at all.”
“Yes, si-, I mean Jeff. What can I help you with?”
“Trish and I are ready to give Slugger our thing.”
“Oh, okay.” Whit's eyes flare with panic, my dad no doubt throwing her “off schedule.” But she's a true sweetheart, never disrespectful, and goes with it. “Give me just a minute to gather everyone and we'll go ahead and do them all now. Is that all right?”
“Be fine.” Dad nods.
“Go for Sawyer. I repeat, if he's still insisting on his part, go for Sawyer,” Whitley dictates into her earpiece/cord/mic doohickey that she loves. Trust me, she may buy everyone in the Crew one and try to convince us to communicate that way from here on out. Doubt it’ll catch on though, considering the fact that her man can barely make it through a group text without going insane. “Ladies!” Whit claps her hands sharply, quieting the chatter. “We're about to do 'the somethings,' as soon as Sawyer gets here.”
The somethings? What the hell does that mean?
Before I can ask, Sawyer comes busting through the door. “I'm ready!” His eyes find Emmett. “Or maybe not. Damn, Shorty, nice dress. Can I, uh, speak to you in private?”
“Thank you, handsome,” Em giggles, moving toward him, but is promptly thwarted by a stiff-arm interception from Whitley.
“You're both kidding me, right? Laney's parents are in the room, and,” her volume hits fever pitch, “we have a wedding, not yours, happening! At a scheduled time!”
“Never mind now,” Sawyer gripes. “You and that damn voice, I've gone and lost that lovin' feeling anyway. Thanks for that, Whit.”
“Ahem.” My dad clears his throat. “We'll go first. Trish, you do the honors.” He hands her a small box.
“Um, Mr. Walker,” Whitley speaks with hushed respect, “can you two please go second, so we stay in traditional order?”
“I suppose.”
“Thank you.” She sighs loudly in huge relief, as if she just somehow stopped the world from ending. “All right, Bennett, I believe you're up?”
Ben walks over and spins me to face her, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Should've known not to take it off, you never do. And rightly so, because it's going right back on. Laney,” she gulps, taking a second to refuse herself any crying, “as your Maid of Honor, I am presenting you with your 'something old.' Your Disney 'D' necklace, a symbol of where it all started and what you mean to your soon-to-be husband.”
She fastens the necklace, that I only removed to appease Whitley and her jewelry/gown ensemble she put together for me, around my neck and I reach up to touch it in reverent thought. Bennett’s right; no matter what, fashion be damned — it belongs right here — always. After a long, tight hug, Ben scoots back and with Whitley's silent motion, my parents step forward.
With an iron-grip on his sheen of unfallen tears, Dad puts an arm around my mom's shoulders as she opens the box… to display a beautiful pair of diamond earrings that I know neither of them can easily afford. “Our darling daughter,” Mom chokes out in a weak whisper, “your father and I have always agreed, that despite ourselves, we did one thing absolutely right. Create you. Today, we agree again, that entrusting you and your happiness to Dane Kendrick is more than right. It’s destiny. Jefferson?”
“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “what she said, Slugger. Dane's a good man. Maybe even good enough for you. As close as any man could ever come, I figure. Just, well, don't forget to stop by and toss a ball with your old man every once in a while.”
“I will, Daddy. Promise.”
“All right, I guess you can go on and get married then.”
“Laney, these earrings are your 'something new.' We love you, very much,” my mom finishes and gives me a kiss on the cheek for both of them… because Dad's already walked away, pretending to look out the window (while he cries).
“I have your 'something borrowed,'” Whitley speaks softly. “From one blonde to another, I get more compliments anytime I wear this, and I knew it’d look beautiful on you. May I?” I nod and she rises up on her tiptoes to slide a diamond hairpin in my loosely-curled locks. “Perfect,” she whispers. “I'd say everyone ended up exactly where they should be, with their person, wouldn't you?”
“I sure would,” I sniffle and wrap her in a hug. “Love you, Whit.”
“Enough unicorns and puppies shit. Step aside.” Sawyer nudges his way to front and center. “Hey, Gidget.”
“Hey, Sawyer.” I shake with silent laughter.
“You look gorgeous, girl. And you already know I love the hell outta ya, right?”
“Yes,” I now snicker aloud. “I love you too, Saw. What is it you have for me?”
“Your 'something blue.' Worked real hard on it too.” He hands me a piece of paper and I… I die laughing. Whitley gasps and has to sit down lest she faint. Everyone else just shakes their head in unshocked silence.
“Is this-”
“A picture of my blue balls? Yes, yes it is,” he answers and shoots his wife a quick frown. “Emmy's ovulating and Daddy’s Princess P has spoiled, only-child written all over her, so my boys have been put on hiatus. They're blue. That's them.” He points to the picture, indeed a pair of very large balls hanging off a stick figure.
“Where is my little princess?” I ask.
“Evan's mom put her down for a nap,” Emmett answers, through her hands, shielding her embarrassed face.
“And where'd you get a crayon?” I ask Sawyer, 'cause the disproportionate balls are blue.
“They got a nursery at this place. Not that my daughter’s getting left in it, but I did scope it out… and stole one.” He boasts proudly.
“I'm gonna need you to return it.”
“The crayon?”
“Yes, Sawyer, the crayon. What else would I possibly mean?”
“Can't.” He shrugs. “Pressed too hard, broke it.”
“And that's why we can't have nice things,” I tsk.
“Can't come inside my wife for the rest of the week either, Gidge. Whose got bigger problems?”
“Dear God,” Emmett mumbles her mortification.
“Son.” My dad stomps over and not-so-lightly taps Sawyer on the shoulder. “My Slugger loves ya, exactly the way you are, so I'm not angry, but it's time for you to mosey on back with the boys. There’s just certain phrases a man doesn't need to hear on the day his only daughter's getting married. Now get going!”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.” Sawyer tucks his tail and heads out. No sooner than he shuts the door behind him, we all hear the commotion. “You can't go in there, jackass. It's like a fucking rule or somethin’! Look, Whitley even put a sign on the door, 'do not come in here, Dane.' That is your name, Dane, right?”
Whitley sprints to lock the door, and even props a chair under the knob — she knows my man.
“Laney!” Dane yells.
“Is it bad luck to talk to him?” I ask Whit quietly, not wanting to break any of her rules.
“No, talking is fine. Thank you for asking.” She beams.
“What is it, Caveman?” I holler back, with permission.
“What's taking so long, baby? I'm ready. Preacher's ready. I'm ready. 'Bout to lose it, love. Let's get married!”
“Dane?” My dad barks through the door.
“Jeff?” Dane counters.
“Who the hell else would it be, boy? Yes, it's Jeff. Take your ass to the spot where you're supposed to stand and I'll bring my daughter to you when she's damn good and ready. You hear me?”
“I'm gonna need an ETA before I can agree to that.” My man backs down to no one when it comes to me… and I love it.
My father casts wide eyes my way, a glint of humor in them. “Slugger, you sure about this one? Awful impatient, and bossy. I got the car runnin' in the parking lot. We can say 'forget it' and climb through the window, be outta here before he even knows we're gone. Just say the word, honey.”
I giggle, sniffle and feel my heart swell all at the same time. The greatest day ever. Surrounded by the greatest people ever. “I adore him, Daddy. I’m not going anywhere. Tell him it’ll be less than twenty minutes. Whitley,” I turn to her, “let's do this. My native’s gettin' restless.”
“Da-”
“I heard, sir. I'm heading to my spot, see you in less than twenty minutes. Time starts now. And, I would’ve caught ya halfway out the window, just for future reference. Come to me, Disney. I'll be waiting.”