I'm staring at her. "You really are nuts, aren't you?"
"I'm spirited. There's a difference." She grabs my hand and shoves me, twists me, and positions me into place beside a tall man with slicked-back black hair, a douchey mustache, and a pussy-tickler under his bottom lip.
Across from Mustache Man is a pretty woman with blonde hair and a tight, slender body. Terra pivots and steps back into place across from me. To the detriment of my intent to not be attracted to this crazy bitch, she pinches the fabric of her dress and tugs it down, wiggling her hips. The hem goes down, yes, but so does the neckline…which means her massive tits nearly pop free of the whatever-it-is holding them in. I see a glimpse of dark tan areolae, in fact.
Fuck me, those tits are incredible. Talk about melons, Jesus. Pale as ivory, with those sexy-as-fuck little purple veins all through them, plump and round and juicy…
"Yo, Saxon," Terra says, snapping her fingers side to side in front of my face, "stare at my tits later, yeah? This is about my girl Emily marrying the one decent dude on the whole Eastern fuckin' seaboard."
Mustache Man frowns. "Hey! I resemble that remark."
Terra doesn't even look at him. "You're a dog, Yates. You were hitting on the bartender not five fuckin' minutes ago."
His name is Yates? Fuck me.
Yates just shrugs. "I was just flirtin', Jesus. Quit bustin' my balls, Tare."
The blonde rolls her eyes. "You'd flirt with a statue of Mother Mary if it had a decent set of tits."
"Sure, but flirtin's harmless. I didn’t do nothin'."
"COULD YOU ALL KINDLY SHUT THE FUCK UP SO I CAN GET MARRIED?" Tommy shouts.
Meanwhile, a priest stands watching this whole exchange with an expression suggesting he bit into a lemon.
My Boston Catholic upbringing peeks out momentarily. "Sorry, Father. I don't know any of them."
"Unfortunately, I do, my son, but thank you for the intent." He turns his gaze from person to person, landing finally on Tommy. "Are we quite ready to begin?"
Tommy digs his cell phone out of his suit trouser pocket, swipes and taps, and then an Irish folk version of the wedding march plays from a Bluetooth speaker on a nearby table.
The side door slams open noisily, revealing the bride. She's the middle ground between Terra's short and curvy build and the other bridesmaid's tall and slender: the bride—Emily, I think her name is—is fairly tall but an inch or two shorter than the tall bridesmaid, with a decent amount of curve on her. She looks like a real-life Barbie, to be honest: blonde, beautiful, and maybe a little too perfect-looking, if you ask me. I'd be afraid of smudging her makeup or messing up the perfect coifs and coils of her hair.
Where’s the fun?
She walks down the aisle by herself, her pace a little too fast for a traditional wedding, which this clearly is not. Her bouquet is a burst of red roses and white daisies wrapped with baby blue satin ribbon. Her dress is straight out of the 1920s, complete with a rakish hemline, generous fringe, and elaborate pearl beadwork.
Honestly, it's a beautiful dress, and whoever made it is talented as hell; I don't know shit about dresses or fashion or any of that shit, but I do know quality when I see it.
She makes it to where the priest and Tommy are waiting, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
Ahhh shit, here we go—women and crying at fuckin' weddings.
"Terra, Yates, Kaleigh, and…" The priest glances at me expectantly.
"Saxon," I supply.
"And Saxon. We are gathered here today to witness the union of Emily and Tom in holy matrimony. And, I must say, it's about time you made an honest woman out of her, Thomas…”
* * *
I tune the priest’s droning speech out as t
