My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding (2 page)

She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.

"Bring your necessities back to my place, and we'll get the rest later," he barked.

A violent shudder raged through her body at his blatant lies and master/dog attitude. She desperately tried to regain her composure, but her instincts shoved her more toward screaming out every awful, nasty name she could think of. Unable to breathe, let alone speak, she clenched her fist tightly around her phone, desperately wishing it was his neck, and threw it across the room. It bounced against the kitchen wall, hit the floor, and splintered into several pieces. Tears trailed down her face, uncontrollable sobs echoing through her apartment.

That was it. She was done.

"Jemma, open up." Dalton's thunderous voice, along with the harsh pounding on the door, woke Jemma from a brief reprieve of heartache.

Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to see she'd been asleep for two hours. More importantly, he'd obviously sat at his house during that time, expecting her to snap to his whim. Grinding her sore, swollen eyes with her fists, she stood staring at the vibrating door, pondering what his next round of lies would be once she opened it. Flipping the lock and turning the handle took all of her strength, both physically and mentally. She stood tall, hand gripping the doorknob for several seconds, before she was finally able to pull it open.

Dalton glared across the threshold. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he spat, hard and uncaring—a side of him she'd never seen. "I told you there was nothing between Stacy and me. I told you to come home." His hand shot out, finger shoved millimeters from her nose. "What part of those words didn't you understand?"

Jemma stared into his cold, empty eyes. The sneer and overly arched brow matched the sarcastic scolding of his words. Dalton always got his way. Handsome and athletic, all he had to do was show his dimples for most women to do his bidding. Until the day from hell started, Jemma had counted herself as the luckiest woman in the world to have the tall, blond, blue-eyed god for her very own. He'd treated her with respect, challenged her intellect, and encouraged her to follow her passion in life, photography. He had seemed like the total package, and she'd been swept off her feet.

This was her wake up call. And a hearty slap in the face to remove any doubt she was lost in a nightmare.

"Answer me, damn it! I'm losing my patience with you—
fast
."

"I followed you to Stacy's house today." Her bottom lip quivered as she spoke, her tone barely above a whisper. Anger, betrayal, hurt, and loss swirled in her gut.

"I
told
you she called in sick. I took lunch to her. You're really a disappointment. This whole jealousy thing doesn't work for me." He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. "Get your things. Now!" He yelled.

Anger steeled her spine, pushing her shoulders back. Visions of Stacy on her knees popped into her mind, fueling the burning rage. "So, getting a blow job was just payback for lunch?" she screamed, matching his tone.

"What?" Dalton's eyes widened, his guilty gaze shifting to the floor.

"I followed you to her house." Jemma fed on the fury consuming her sadness. A sarcastic giggle escaped her lips. It was her turn to point the finger, poking it into his chest a time or two. "I felt bad when I stopped, even thought about knocking on the door and seeing how Stacy was feeling. But, I saw you both through the window first. Good thing, too. I would've hated to interrupt such a touching moment."

He stammered, "You, you must have been there when she was…she was crawling around looking for a lost earring. Jem, I love you."

"Hmm, unless she lost it in your pants and tried to retrieve it with her mouth, I'm pretty sure I saw exactly what happened." She grew louder with each precisely annunciated syllable, paying no regard to what her neighbors might think.

Dalton released a huge sigh of resignation, his shoulders sagging. "Can I come in so we can talk this over without the whole world knowing I screwed up?"

"No, we've said all that needs saying. I have my things from your place, so there's no reason to ever cross paths again. This should make it a little easier on both of us." Tears spilled past the blaze of anger again, ache twisting in her chest where the remnants of her battered heart quivered.

"Please, give me another chance. It won't happen again." He reached out and brushed a tear from Jemma's cheek with his thumb. His handsome features morphed back into the compassionate man she'd known and loved.

Mikey's voice pierced the darkness of the hallway as his hand appeared, grabbing the collar of Dalton's coat. "You heard my sister. Leave now, and I'll let you walk away all by yourself."

 Jemma glowered at the shadowed figure behind Dalton, sputtering, "Dad promised to let me handle this."

"Dad promised
he
wouldn't interfere. Besides, I'm merely escorting this
gentleman
to his car. That's all."

Dalton's face puckered back into a hateful scowl, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. "Well, I guess I don't have much of a choice now, do I? Your dad is probably standing on the street, waiting for some signal from your Neanderthal of a brother." Turning to face Mikey, Dalton smacked away his grip and stormed down the darkened steps.

Jemma glared at her brother as he stepped into the light. "Why? I'm not your
little
kid sister anymore. I'm a grown, mature woman."

Mikey snorted. "Twenty-three years does not constitute maturity."

"Okay. And twenty-five does?"

"When you're a guy? Yes." He pushed his way past her and slumped onto the couch.

Jemma closed the door and sank into the beanbag chair next to him, sort of glad to have his company, though she'd never admit it to him. "I would have gotten rid of him eventually, you know."

Mikey forced a pained smile as he picked up the box of snack crackers from her coffee table, stuffing a handful of them  into his mouth. "Yeah, okay." Crumbs spewed with his words. "I know you, and I also know he would've weaseled himself back into your life somehow. I let you handle it until I heard you crying. After the tears came, I knew it was only a matter of time until you suckered under. He's been lying to you for a while."

His words splashed over her like ice water. She wiggled to a sitting position. "Excuse me? What?"

He slumped down in the chair, while swallowing the food in his mouth. His lips contorted into a pity smirk. "Yeah, sorry. I saw him with her a few weeks back, but Dad wouldn't let me tell you. He says I didn't see him do anything wrong." Mikey sat up straight and scooted to the edge of his seat, his eyes widening. "But, I say it was all kinds of wrong. They were walking arm-in-arm, and she was hanging all over him. I thought that was bad enough. It still doesn't compare to what you caught them doing, though." He shoved another heaping handful of crackers into his mouth, a few not even able to fit in all the way. Pieces slid down his shirt, landing on the floor at his feet.

She loved her big brother but knew he was lucky to have their father's looks, or he'd never date with those kinds of manners.

Jemma took a few crackers from the box, her stomach churning intermittently between hunger and anger, and munched on the carb-filled goodness as her thoughts finally came together. "Well, part of me wishes you'd told me. What I walked into might not have been such a shocker. The other part knows I wouldn't have listened to you, though."

Mikey tossed his hands in the air then slapped them on his thighs. "Only a woman can admit they have two different people bottled up inside. You're psychotic, you know that? Men don't stand a chance."

"Be very careful with your words. My selves haven't decided whether to hug you or punch you just yet. Count your blessings; the nice side is winning at the moment."

Mikey snorted, choking on remnants. When he finally stopped coughing, his face fell somber. "Are you going to be okay? I could sleep on the couch tonight if you want company."

Memories of her snoring, slobbering, gaseous brother sprawled on her couch in nothing but his boxers sprang to mind, and she stifled a groan. "That's very sweet of you, but I'll be fine."

He stared directly into her eyes, undoubtedly reading her like a book, just as he'd done all his life. "If you change your mind, call me." Mikey sprang to his feet and walked to the door. "I'd better head back to Duke's and call off the Cavalry. I don't think you want four drunken middle-aged men showing up here looking for a fight."

"Nope, point them in the other direction. I'm going to go to bed for about three days." Jemma followed Mikey to the door, flashing him as much of a smile as she could muster, and added, "Give Daddy a kiss for me, will ya?" Knowing full well he would, she pictured her father's red face and shocked expression from times past.

"Will do." He grabbed her by the shoulders. "I love you, little sis. Promise me you'll take care of yourself?"

"I will, big bro. I love you, too." She folded herself within the confines of his awaiting embrace, and a brief reprieve of peace enveloped her. She found herself doubting her decision to not have him stay the night. The large belch he expelled directly in her ear kept her from changing her mind. Shoving him away, she muttered, "You're such a pig."

"Yes, I am." With a wink over his shoulder, he slid down the banister and into the dark.

Shaking her head, Jemma closed the door and locked it behind her.

Leaning against the sturdy wooden frame, she glanced around at all of the boxes in her small apartment. She realized at that moment she'd missed the simplicity of it, the convenience of everything being all together. She walked toward the bamboo partition that hid her bed, sliding her hand along the stainless steel counter of the kitchenette. Briefly, she considered turning on the television for background noise, but decided she needed the quiet. She thought back to Dalton's expansive, elaborate house, resembling more of a museum with all of the display cases and locked cabinets filled with antique and collectible guns, knives and tools. Never once had Jemma felt like she could relax there. She knew he clung to money and all of his stuff, flaunted his household staff like they were trophies, and tossed money around whenever he could as a diversion to keep people from knowing he'd grown up in filth with an alcoholic mother.

She pushed the two-timing jerk from her mind, and dropped into a sitting position on her bed. As she let out a pent up breath, Jemma was glad to be herself again. While her heart still ached for Dalton's arms to hold her, a part of her reveled in the freedom surging through her as she stared back toward the door, at the much beloved beanbag chair he hadn't allowed at his house.

Six months into her life as a devout single woman, Jemma had funneled all of her extra time into photography, making quite a name for herself in the wedding circuit.  She'd even cut her hours at the bank to part-time with very little monetary help from her parents. She kept receipts, though, knowing she'd pay them back.

Eventually.

Her cell phone, which had been replaced after that fateful slam against her kitchen wall, had been ringing almost nonstop with brides wanting her to capture the special moments of their big day.

Always the Photographer, Never the Bride
. The name, though born out of hurt and frustration, was catchy, funny, and memorable, helping to keep her in business; well, the name and her photos.
She prided herself on always getting the perfect shot, freezing the special
candid
moments, and setting up some pretty unique poses.

Jemma squinted into the brilliant sun as she left Holloway's Photo Shop, after lusting over equipment on her dream list. If only she had a sugar daddy to pay for a new camera and printer. She could charge for prints and be set with the extra income she needed. She briefly pondered wealthy men in the area, jokingly of course.

Sort of.

Her phone whistled, alerting her to a missed call. She must have slipped into a shopping trance while ogling the new camera.

She pulled it from the side pocket of her purse and checked the display, snorting in disgust at the sight of Dalton's work number. Though he'd stopped with the guilt trips and mind games several months before, her stomach lurched at the thought of a revival. Her finger wavered over the delete button. But morbid curiosity won out yet again, and she pressed play.

"Hi, my name is Herbert McCallister, and I'm calling on behalf of my daughter, Kate. She's getting married on June third at seven o'clock. I know this is the eleventh-hour, but I do hope you have an opening. Kate gave me your business card, and her husband-to-be, Dalton Blackwell, recommends you highly. I am willing to pay you handsomely for the last minute inconvenience. Please call me back at 555-2627. I look forward to hearing from you."

"Why?" She barked at her phone, as though it were Dalton's voice on the message. "Why would you recommend me?" Without thought, she typed in his cell number.

He answered on the first ring. "I thought I'd be hearing from you."

"Seriously, you'd recommend me to your future father-in-law? He's your boss even! To take pictures at
your wedding
?" The last two words came out a little harshly. He deserved much worse. The betrayal from months ago stirred anew in her heart and gut.

"Well, you are the best photographer in the area."

She snorted in response, but pride hitched her chin a notch.

"Besides," he continued, "I knew you'd
never
do it, since you're still in love with me. Obviously, I've moved on, and you need to realize it."

"I need to realize it? I'm pretty sure that happened the moment I saw you doing your secretary. How is she these days? Did she ever get that bad taste out of her mouth? You know, from me catching you with her." Sarcasm oozed from her words. She paced along the walk outside the photo shop, anger bubbling through every cell in her body.

"I made a mistake, one mistake, and you'll never let me live it down. I can hear the hurt in your voice. Don't torture yourself even more by watching me marry the love of my life."