A Very Dirty Wedding (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Caulter

This whole fucking day sucks.  I mean, the wedding itself is enough to make me want to vomit.  I figured Ella would have been over the Senator by now, but I guess the prospect of eventually being First Lady is good enough for her.  Sell-out.  Of course, I can’t blame her too much for that part, considering with the fact that I agreed to play along with all of this to make sure nothing happens with my trust fund.

The minister is talking, and I’m looking at Kate the entire time.  Earlier, she told me she had to stop by her mother’s grave before the ceremony, and that she wanted me to go with her.  I thought I couldn't possibly feel more protective of her than that night at the party, but it took everything I had not to go out there and hold her hand as she stood at the grave.

But I didn't want to intrude if she needed to do it alone.  When she got back in the limo, there was a heaviness that seemed to weigh on her, and she was silent during the ride here, looking out the window the entire time.

It's impossible to take my eyes off her, where she stands across from me, sandwiched between the other bridesmaids.  The other women are Ella’s vapid Hollywood friends; those girls have nothing on her.  Kate makes them look like hags.

Even with the smile plastered on her face that does nothing to hide the sadness behind her eyes, she’s fucking gorgeous.  Her hair is pulled up, these little pieces falling down around her face, and the strapless dress she wears exposes her collarbone and makes her look regal.  Bridesmaid dresses are supposed to be ugly, aren’t they?  Not on Kate.

The minister drones on and on, and my mind is stuck on what Kate said yesterday about how the two of us have to stop doing what we've been doing.  It was hard to take her seriously when she followed that statement up by screwing my brains out in every position imaginable the rest of the day, but still.

The fact that she said it is bugging me.  I’ve never been so hung up on a chick that I wanted to
keep
sleeping with her.  And now, I can’t imagine
not
having Kate around.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Katherine

“Are people looking at us?”  I lean over and whisper to Caulter, who sits beside me at the wedding party table.  “I feel like people are looking at us.”

“Of course they are,” he says.  “We’re at the wedding table in front of everyone.  
Everyone
is fucking staring at us, or our parents.”

“I’m not being crazy,” I insist.  I feel like people can see right through us.  
Like they know.

On the other side of me, one of the groomsmen leans over to talk to me.  “So, Harvard in the fall, eh?”

I want to tell him to fuck off.  I want to tell Caulter to fuck off, too.  I am so incredibly on edge and irritable, but I swear that this is not in my head.  People are looking at their cell phones a little too much.  Laughing a little too much.  “I’m not sure,” I say absently.

“Not sure?” he asks.  “You're unsure about Harvard?  Your father says you’re going pre-law.”

“Yes.  Yes, of course I am.”  I shake my head, completely fixated on the woman at a table toward the front who is checking her phone and showing the girl next to her.  They both look over their shoulders in our direction and giggle, covering their mouths with their hands.  Okay, I am not crazy here.  I reach down to my bag on the floor beside the chair and open the clasp, pulling out my phone onto my lap.

Caulter glances over at me.  “So rude,” he scolds.

“I’m not delusional here,” I hiss.  “People are staring at us.”  And it’s not just a few people, either.  It’s multiple people, looking at their phones in the middle of the reception dinner.  It’s like some kind of disease spreading through the crowd.

“They're probably just staring at your tits,” he whispers.

“That's funny, asshole.”  I check a few of the news websites, glancing up every so often to respond to some lame question the groomsman beside me asks.  There is nothing --no major terrorist event, no war that’s broken out since we started the reception.

“Why are there phones here anyway?” I ask.  “Don’t celebrities hate that?”

Caulter leans over.  “Your father and my mother aren’t exactly trying to avoid media attention.”

I ignore him, clearing out my internet search engine.

“And?” Caulter whispers.  "What did you find?"

Then I check one of the gossip sites.  And there it is, the headline emblazoned across the screen in bright red letters, just in case anyone might miss it.  My heart sinks.  I think I’m going to be sick.

SIBLING LOVE: HAS CAULTER STERLING MADE KATE HARRISON THE NEWEST NOTCH ON HIS BEDPOST?

It’s just a tabloid,
I think.  My head is swimming.  It's just a stupid online tabloid with no evidence of anything.  It’s
nothing
.  Just a rumor.  There were bound to be rumors.

I scroll down.  There’s a photo of us, from yesterday, in the car where we’d parked, Caulter’s hand on my shoulder.  Okay, at least it's not a photo of what came right after that.  It's not entirely incriminating.

Damn it, I told him to not be so fucking stupid and careless.  I knew
I
shouldn’t have been so careless.

I feel dizzy.  I continue reading, my emotions vacillating between horror and utter humiliation.  And then I hit the thing that makes everything else, even the photo, look like
nothing
.

It's a photo of a card with girls’ names on it, the words "Brighton Bingo" running across the top.  All of the names are blurred out, except for mine.  Mine's right in the middle of the whole damn thing, with a star around it.

Katherine Harrison.

BJ- 50 points.

Sex - 100 points.

Anal - 200 points.

Bareback - 500 points.

No fucking way. 
I think I'm going to vomit, but I can't help but read on.

“A source close to Caulter Sterling says that the celebrity, notorious for bedding many young Hollywood stars and New York socialites, invented the game,
Brighton Bingo
, as a way of tracking his conquests at the prestigious private boarding school.  Katherine Harrison is clearly his ultimate prize.”

I look at Caulter, my hands shaking.  “What?” he asks.

I think about stabbing him with my steak knife.  “Brighton Bingo?” I hiss.  I can’t say anything else.  I push my chair away from the table, too overwhelmed to think.

I have to get out of here.  My father is standing up and I think it's almost time for the father-daughter dance.  The thought of getting up in front of all these people and dancing with my father here makes me want to cry.

Someone asks if I’m okay and I don’t answer.  I stumble past the people at their tables, guests I know had to have read the article and are watching me for a reaction.

I’m not going to cry.  I’m not going to cry.

I’m crying before I even get out of the room.  I can feel the tears overflow, landing on my cheeks.  Outside of the reception area, Caulter grabs my hand and I whirl around.

“Shit, Kate,” he says.  “What the fuck -- holy shit, are you crying?”

I yank my hand away from him, aware that we’re not even alone out here.  From the corner of my eye, I see an older couple walk past us and back into the reception hall.  I slap Caulter across the face, and he grabs my wrist, pulling it up.

“What the ever-loving fuck is your problem?” he asks.

“
Brighton Bingo
,” I say.  My voice is too loud.  I tell myself to be quiet.  I shouldn’t be having this conversation here.  We need to go someplace else.  All of those rational thoughts run through my head, spinning around and around in circles and being completely overwritten by the fact that Caulter sees me as some kind of prize in a fuck game.

And everyone knows.

His face goes white, and that’s all the answer I need.  “That is not me, Kate,” he says.

“Not you?” I say, my voice louder.  “Fucking me bareback is five hundred points, Caulter.  No wonder you were so quick to throw yourself on that grenade, huh?  Has this all been a game the whole time?”

“Yeah, Kate, it’s all been a game.  My goal the entire time has been to bang my step-sister without a condom,” he says, his hand still on my wrist.  I try to jerk away, but he pulls me closer, his face contorted in anger.  “You've figured me out.  That’s my fucking kink.  Are you crazy?”

“You’re disgusting.”  With my free hand, I slap him across the face.  I just don't believe him.  “Let go of my arm before I kick you in the nuts.”

“I’m being sarcastic,” he says.  But he lets go of me and I step back.  “Jesus Christ, get a grip on yourself.

“I fucking hate you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice louder.  “Well, I fucking love you.”

The words reverberate through the space between us, and it’s like everything stands still.  I stand there while he looks at me, his hands at his side, palms outstretched.

It takes someone’s hand on my shoulder to jolt me out of my haze, and I whirl around.  Someone has opened the door to the reception hall, and people are staring at us.  I look at them, their faces turning away as they pretend not to notice the spectacle.

And then I turn back to see Caulter still standing there, frozen in position.  He looks the same way I must right now-- like someone punched me in the stomach.

Everything is over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Caulter

ONE YEAR LATER

“Soda?”  The flight attendant lays a cocktail napkin on the tray in front of me.  “Peanuts?”

I nod, and then lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, drowning out the hum of voices around me.

It’s time to rejoin the real world.

Those were the words my mother had used in her email to me a month ago.  I checked it at the internet cafe in Luang Prabang in Laos.  I’d been there for the past month, the end of a year spent in southeast Asia -- Vietnam, Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia, Nepal, India, and Cambodia.

Some people might see it as fucked up, the way I just up and left.  They wouldn't understand why I did what I did.

The wedding reception changed everything.

Even on the other side of the world, I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened.  For the next few months, when I closed my eyes at night, it replayed in my head, the same scene stuck on a loop.  Katherine standing in front of me, tears running down her cheeks as she told me she hated me for what she thought I’d done.

I told her I loved her.  I meant it.  It was the only time I’d ever spoken the words to anyone.

She didn't say it back.

I left because I was running, but this year ended up being exactly what I needed.  I would say I've been finding myself, but it sounds like such hokey bullshit.  That's the best way I can describe it, though.

I tried to talk to her after the reception, but she wouldn't even look at me.

“I don’t give a shit about anything else, Kate,” I’d said.  “I don’t care who knows, and I don’t care what they think.  And you know that Brighton Bingo thing was Chase, not me.  He’s the asshole who leaked that to the press.”

“It doesn’t matter, Caulter.”

I tried to convince her to just leave everything and run away with me, but she didn't want to hear anything I had to say.

Ella and I had the blow-up to end all blow-ups -- her screaming at me, calling me the most irresponsible fuck-up that ever existed, me telling her I didn’t give a shit about the trust fund anymore.  She could keep everything.

I left the same day.  I headed to the airport and got the first flight I could find out to Boston.  The next day, I had a ticket to Bangkok by way of Tokyo, where I planned to spend the next month drinking through my bank account and hitting on Thai waitresses.  I had no plans for what I was going to do after that.

The first night I was in the city, I got good and shitfaced and passed out in my fancy hotel in the business district.  And I woke up and nothing was different.  I was the same immature, irresponsible dick I’d always been.

So I decided I didn't want to be a dick anymore.  I wanted a change.  I sold everything -- my designer watch, my electronics, all of the things that tied me to my other life, the one where I was the son of one of the biggest movie stars on the planet.

And I did something that I’d never done before.

I worked.

Odd jobs, here and there.  I scraped by, and I traveled, the way I’d never done before -- in a crowded bus in India, on a train in China.  I made friends with people who didn’t give a shit whose kid I was.

I wasn’t like all Zen and shit, totally detached from everything back in the States.  I kept tabs on everything, reading about it from the other side of the world.

It took a month for the Senator and Ella to split up, in the fallout from what happened with Kate and I.  It wasn't entirely me and Kate's fault, of course; the relationship was doomed from the start, what with the Senator's political obsession and Ella's love 'em and leave 'em tendencies.  Ella notified me with an email.  She was busy redecorating the place in Malibu, prepping it for a fresh start.  The scandal didn’t tank the Senator’s re-election campaign, which was pretty much uncontested anyway.

And Kate…

The media coverage of the incident was sweeping in the couple of weeks after it happened, but then they were on to some other more scandalous story.  Kate refused to give any interviews.  But she did go to UCLA, not Harvard.

I smiled when I read that.  She was studying art.

She
is
studying art.

Sometimes I think about her in the past tense, like she’s a part of my prior life.  And then I see someone who looks like her when I glance out of the corner of my eye, or a girl tucks her hair behind her ear the way Kate did...and she’s very much a part of my present again.

Six months ago, my mother emailed me, offering to give my trust fund back to me.  I agreed, but on my terms.  The first handful of investments I made were in the arts, to places I knew Kate would like.  I vetted them, the same way I plan to do with the other business I want to help, start-up companies and people with good ideas who are struggling but don't have the capital to fund their projects.  I didn't think any of the places I'd invested in had any connection to Kate.

Until a week ago.

It wasn’t luck that I stumbled on the tiny mention of the exhibit online.  I had online alerts set up on the businesses I’d invested in...
and on Kate
.  I guess I was never in any danger of getting her out of my head, even on the other side of the world.

When I saw the announcement about the art show, the name was what immediately caught my eye.  But it was the picture of the artist’s work that made me go to the nearest travel agent and buy a one-way ticket back to California.