A Wedding Story

A Wedding Story

Dee Tenorio

Copyrights

eBooks are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of these works.

This book is an original publication of the author who authored the story herein contained.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

“A Wedding Story” copyright © 2008 by Darlene Tenorio.

Cover Art by Laideebug Digital

www.laideebugdigital.com

All Rights Are Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions
.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

About The Author

Excerpt: "10 Ways To Steal Your Lover"

Excerpt: "Convicted"

Other Books by Dee Tenorio

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What’s the matter, Rhubarb, too good for the kiddie table?”

Kids she could handle. Even this motley group.

It was
him
Ruth Ann Barbel is couldn’t stand. She closed her eyes, scrunched them shut for al of ten seconds, praying to every patron saint she’d ever heard of that she wasn’t in this situation. She opened her eyes.

Bobby Wichowski waved.

She decided to try again.

“St. Jude isn’t a saint anymore, but hey, whatever floats your boat.”

Ruth Anne, deciding neither the saints nor God would be very sympathetic to a person thinking in that kind of language, spun on her heel with ful intention of wringing the neck of whomever switched her table card. “This is a mistake!”

“I’m afraid it’s not,” the wedding coordinator, Madelyn Wontor said three and a half minutes later.

“Jason and Bonnie expressly stated they wanted you and his brother seated at table seven. I thought it odd—”

“Odd? It’s the kiddie table, Madelyn!”

“Please, Ruth Anne, you’re making a scene.”

Ruth Anne blew a curl that had popped loose from her overcomplicated hairstyle out of her eye.

“This isn’t remotely a scene. When Bobby pantsed me during a basebal game at a family reunion, that was a scene. When he told my mother I was pregnant with his love child at my sister’s birthday party, that was a scene. When he taped five hundred blown up condoms to my front porch, that was a scene!”

“You forgot the time you told my date I gave you crabs in the middle of a crowded restaurant.”

Bobby’s deep voice had the nerve to sound amused.

Ruth Anne felt her blood pressure rise. She didn’t bother to turn around. The jerk would probably be smiling. “It was syphilis. If you’re going to mention it, get it right.”

“Mr. Wichowski, Ruth Anne, you have to understand—”

“Why is he Mister and I’m Ruth Anne?”

“Because I’m the man, Rhubarb.” He grunted when the point of her elbow found his ribs.

Madelyn looked ready to cry.

“And there’s the happy couple!” Judging by the laughter, Madelyn’s untimely demise was put off by none other than Ruth Anne's mother...and Bobby’s.

“Don’t they look just?”

“Just what?” Ruth Anne turned to see Glynnis Barbel is and Evangeline Wichowski arm in arm, giggling like schoolgirls.

“Just miserable, sweetie. Leave Madelyn alone now, this is entirely our doing.” Glynnis, her silvery hair glistening and looking perfect despite the humid heat that had Ruth Anne’s red curls in an uproar, shushed the coordinator away.

Evangeline, a graying brunette with hair as black as her son’s, was already clucking away at Bobby, straightening his tie. Bobby was smiling down at her, his dimples flashing and his blue eyes teasing.

Glynnis pul ed her away. “We’re punishing the two of you. You want to act like children, you’l be treated like them. Quite frankly, we’re tired of having our family events ruined by your constant bickering and pranks. Especial y you, Bobby.”

Ruth Anne couldn’t help sliding him a superior look, uplifted eyebrow included without charge.

“Torturing poor Ruth Anne when you know she hasn’t had a date to protect her in years.”

Bobby fluttered his ostrich-sized lashes.

Ruth Anne considered spontaneous

combustion. “Momma!”

“The truth hurts, sweetie. Now, the two of you go back to that table, eat your food, do your toasts and, for the love of Pete, try to control yourselves. This is your siblings’ wedding. Let them have their day.”

“Don’t you think using today to punish us takes away from their day?” she asked, crossing her arms over the chest Bonnie’s chosen bridesmaid dress almost forgot to cover.

Glynnis smiled, the eternal smile of mothers worldwide. “No, it’s my wedding present to them.

Now go eat. And children?”

Nope, butter wouldn’t dare melt in that mouth.

“Play nice.”

“I hate you. You are the reason fungus exists.

You are the slime that grows in swamps that even acid can’t break down—”

“How long do you plan to keep this up, Rhubarb?”

“Why?”

“Because I was going to hail down a bottle of beer and I figured you might get thirsty having your mouth open so much.”

“Make it a white wine and I’l keep it short.”

“No, you won’t, but it might slow you down. Be right back.” How he managed to get such a lanky body out of a chair that graceful y would always be a mystery to her. The man was one length of something connected to another length. And that tux should be il egal. Or at least have some sort of warning on it.
Caution: long exposure can cause
blindness.

Or stupidity.

Ruth Anne looked to the faces across from her on the round table. Three girls, three boys.

Alternating. The girls were al trying to make eye contact in some way or another. The boys were taking gleeful pleasure in stopping them. Until Bobby left. Now al eyes were on Ruth Anne.

For the first time ever, she couldn’t wait for him to come back.

“What are you doing here?” A little blonde girl asked in a not-so-conspiratorial whisper.

“Yeah? Is that your husband?” A good sized boy asked in a loud voice.

“Are you divorcing? My parents are divorcing.

They don’t talk nice either.” The wide-eyed little redhead asked, a picture of pity. Bobby needed to hurry up.

“They’re nicer than you, though. They don’t cal each other names in front of us kids.”

Is this what guilt feels like?

“He was real y nice before you got here,” the blonde commented, placing her napkin on her starchy floral dress’s lap. “Gave us quarters, told jokes. Do you have quarters?”

“No, I make real money.”

“So, you got dol ars then?”

Ambitious little thing. “Only for quiet children.”

“I’m quiet.” The last little girl said, brown eyes huge and beseeching. Where the hel was Bobby?

“Sorry, Rhubarb, they only had white zinfandel. I figured you’d be able to handle pink—” Bobby quieted abruptly when she jumped out of her seat and directly into his path. His eyes widened when she took the glass and gulped down the contents only to practical y toss it on the table. “You okay, Rhubarb?”

“Not real y, but if you get me away from this table I promise not to cal you anything mean for three entire minutes.” So she was desperate. She could live with that. The DJ was just finishing his set up, so she grabbed Bobby’s hand and pul ed him along with her. “I hope you have money, Wichowski, because we’re going to need it.”

“When did my wal et get involved in your hysteria?”

“When you got me stuck at a table with six versions of 20 Questions.” They reached the DJ, an almost smiling man with a receding hairline trying a little too hard to be hip. “Can you get the music started now?”

“Now?” The man looked to Bobby for verification.

Bobby sighed, reached into his jacket pocket and pul ed out a bil .

“Sure? You want slow songs?”

“Anything.” Relieved, Ruth Anne started toward the dance floor, but stopped after two steps. She had to, the train of her dress wouldn’t fol ow her.

“Can you get off my dress, please?”

Bobby waited until she turned around to lift his shiny black wingtips from the pink train. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

She lifted her arms, quite a feat in the over-tailored corset-turned-bridesmaid’s-dress-from-hel .

“Does this thing look like it has pockets?”

He took a little too long with his inspection.

“Are we dancing or what?”

He blinked at her as if she woke him from something. “Who said anything about dancing?”

“Would you rather go play with the Harry Potter set?”

He looked at the table and shrugged. “I’m out of cash no matter which way I go. Might as wel take the lesser of two evils.”

She was prepared to cal him seven different names her mother would disown her for when he cupped her arm and led her onto the empty dance floor. She looked up at him, temporarily at a loss.

“Don’t sweat it, Rhu. If I let you dance al by yourself your mother would never forgive me.”

The second he took her into his arms, causing a sensation she couldn’t quite describe in English as anything other than “
mmmm
”, the music started.

Wel , at least the DJ was good. Anything by Bryan Addams was good, but the flamenco thrums of guitar that started
“Have You Ever Really, Really Ever
Loved A Woman?”
did something unusual to her heartbeat.

It wasn’t until Bobby Wichowski, of al people, dipped her about halfway through the song that Ruth Anne realized she might have been safer with the kids.

Kids didn’t touch her. Kids didn’t wink at her.

Most importantly, kids didn’t know how to make her body move and fit to theirs like a glove.

Bobby brought her up from the dip slowly, somehow or another making her neck fal back so that his face was less than an inch from her breasts.

Oh yes, this was definitely a bad, bad, bad idea.

“You sure you’re okay, Rhubarb?”

Not the voice she wanted to hear, especial y not haunting the outside of the bathroom, but Ruth Anne had final y resigned herself to spending the entire wedding al but glued to the most exasperating man she’d ever met. She’d tried to escape the intimacy of dancing with him, but Bobby’s eyes took on that gleam she knew so wel . The one that said he was hatching something. So, she’d stayed, twirling and twisting to his every whim, watching that gleam grow brighter and his smile more predatory.

She decided to discount what he did with his hips.

For two hours, they kept going, she afraid to give him time alone to make whatever arrangements that might torture her and he looking happier and happier about it. If his hands cupped her hips and something in her jumped in response, it was for the sake of self-preservation. If, during that one song when he turned her so her back was to his front, her heart stopped beating because his hand slid across her from her shoulder, down between her corseted breasts and over her opposite hip...wel , she was just horrified.

She decided to ignore that warm brandy feeling in her bel y.

But final y, the standoff ended. He won. He didn’t beat her wil , though. No, the only thing he’d outlasted was her bladder and her feet. One was ful and the others were blistered. Damn Bonnie and her insistence on stilettos that could have doubled for an S&M device. The laces crisscrossed about twenty times over the top of her foot and up her ankle. Each and every one had lacerated her.