A Very Dirty Wedding (69 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ADDY

I'm going to actually pass out.  Or have a heart attack.  Or a stroke.  People have strokes or heart attacks or faint in situations like this.  It's the kind of thing you read about in the tabloids, the stories of weird one-in-a-million deaths.  Leave it to me to be the one in a million.

I might even die of humiliation.  That has to be possible.  I will die right here, right now, and the news article is going to read,
Wholesome Country Music Star Dropped Dead With Her Stepbrother's Face Between Her Legs.

"Hendrix!" my mother shrieks.  "For Christ's sake, Colonel, lock the fucking door.  Apparently that never occurred to you two geniuses."

I smack Hendrix on the back of the head.  Why is he still there, frozen under my fucking dress?  His fingers are still lodged in my pussy, with our parents staring at us.  He finally moves, coming out from under my dress, and it falls back down to the floor.  He stands up and wipes his mouth, really playing it up for the parents, and now I'm really going to die.

"What the hell is wrong with the two of you?" the Colonel bellows, lunging for Hendrix.  His face is red, contorted with anger, and I see a look come over Hendrix that I've seen before.  Hendrix puts up his arm and catches the Colonel before he can hit him.

"You tell me what's wrong with us,
sir
," Hendrix says through gritted teeth.

"Hendrix, don't," I say, my heart in my throat.  I'm afraid if he hits his father, he won't stop.

"This is…disgusting," my mother says, her lip curled up in a snarl.  "What's wrong with you?  He's your brother!"

"Stepbrother," I correct.  "It's none of your business who I date, mother."

Beside me, the Colonel berates Hendrix.  "I gave you a goddamned job, after you couldn't hack it in the real world.  After you couldn't bring your squad back alive."

It's like the Colonel's words are suddenly amplified in the room, and whatever my mother is saying seems to fade into the background, as if someone turned down the volume in her voice.  She's talking about my contract or my deal or what people will think or some other bullshit, and all I can hear is what the Colonel says, echoing in my head. 
You couldn't bring your squad back alive.

It's like it's all happening in slow motion.  Hendrix draws his fist back and punches the Colonel across the face.  My mother spins to the side in her evening gown and screams.  And I call after Hendrix, call his name as he walks out the door.

My mother turns toward me.  "You see what you've done?"

"What I've done?" I ask.  I'm barely paying attention to her, more focused on going after Hendrix.  "You're fired, Mother."

"You spoiled, ungrateful little bitch," she says.  For a second I think about pulling a Hendrix and socking her across the face too, but I don't.

Then it's complete chaos.  The door opens and one of the stage managers looks at us, blinking.  "Ms. Stone," he says.  "Is everything okay?  It's almost time for you."

"Change in plan," I say, stepping past my mother on the way out the door, my gown trailing on the ground behind me but I don't care.

My mother has her hand on my stepfather's face.  "Get him some ice," she yells at the stage manager.  "Addison Stone, I'm contacting the attorney."

"Ditto," I say, on my way out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

HENDRIX

"Hendrix!" Addy calls.  She's walking toward me, her dress billowing behind her, the stage manager assigned to her taking short brisk steps to keep up while simultaneously talking rapidly into a headset and texting on his phone, his clipboard tucked under his arm.  "Wait, please."

When she catches up to me, she takes my arm, and I shake her away, even though part of me wants to take her in my arms and kiss her right there.  I want to press my lips against hers, inhale her scent.  More than that, I want to forget the shit my father just said, the thing that has me practically crawling out of my skin, wanting to get the fuck out of here.  "Addy, go out there," I say.  "I'll see you when you get done."

"Wait, Hendrix," she says, her cheeks flushed.  "What your father said about your squad – "

I swallow hard.  "Leave it alone, Addy-girl," I say.  "Are you okay?"

Addy smiles, her cheeks flushed.  "Yeah," she says.  "I think I am."

"Where are they?" I start.

"They're leaving," she says.  "They'll be escorted out.  They were my guests, and they're no longer welcome."

"Security is probably going to come pick me up too, you know," I say, looking behind her.  I expect men in suits to show up to escort me out at any moment.

Addy shakes her head.  "I don't think the Colonel will say anything," she says.  "He's too arrogant to let anyone know you hit him and not the other way around."

The stage manager interrupts.  "This is really quite unprecedented, Ms. Stone."

"What's unprecedented?"

"We're on the move," the stage manager says, taking Addy's arm.

"I'll be back in a few," Addy calls.  "Wait here for me?  And watch the show!"

She disappears, and I'm left standing there backstage, surrounded by people I don't know but that I recognize from magazines, in their tuxedos and evening gowns, milling about like it's a cocktail party.  I'm left standing there thinking about what my father said. 
You couldn't bring your squad back alive.

The words play over and over in my head on a loop, and I'm not sure I can stand here watching an awards show when I'm so agitated that I just want to go run until I can't think anymore.  I breathe in, trying to focus on now, instead of the images that begin to flash in my head, the images I can't erase.

And then I hear Addy's voice on one of the many televisions scattered about the walls backstage, and I walk closer to it, ignoring the inane chatter and stupid conversations of the people around me, talking about their designer dresses and after parties later.  Everything fades away into the background, the voices blending together and becoming a dull roar as I look at her.

"I'm going off-script," she says, looking into the camera.  "I was supposed to sing something from my most upcoming album, but I'm not going to do that.  I'm going to sing something I wrote.  It's not flashy, and the band isn't prepared for this, so it's just going to be me and a guitar.  I hope you like it.  And Hendrix, if you're watching, it's all for you.  It always has been."

My heart in my throat, I watch while Addy picks up the guitar and puts the strap around her neck.  A few people standing behind me titter, and I turn around and shut them up with a look.  Addy standing there in her shimmery white evening gown with a guitar around her neck is going to be one of those shots plastered all over every magazine and gossip website around.

I stand there, holding my breath, while she plays the first few chords of a song I've never heard, her eyes closed.  And then she starts to sing, and it's hypnotic, watching her.  She sings about heartbreak and loss.  And love.

I'd forgotten how to breathe

I'd forgotten how to live

I'd forgotten how to love...until you.

And, just like that, the night makes a hundred eighty degree turn.  Just like that, it's Addy's image in my mind, instead of the horror from the past.  I know it doesn't replace it permanently, but it does now.  And that's enough.

When Addy comes backstage, she's practically accosted by people – other celebrities, a few reporters – but the bodies part, and she stands there, a few feet away, looking at me.  "And?" she asks.

"Oh, did you perform already?" I ask.  "I was taking a leak, so I think I missed it."

Addy grins, walking up to me and putting her hand on my chest.  I'm aware of eyes on us, the fact that this moment, what's happening between us, is the center of attention in this room, but I don't care.  "Don't be a dick," she says.

"You sure about this?" I ask, reminding her of all of the potential consequences for her, the possibility of her losing her contract.  Being sued by the label.

Addy shrugs.  "Fuck it."

"You know I love you," I tell her.  I realize I've thought it a thousand times, and it feels so much like I've already said it.  The words leave my mouth, sounding so familiar when I speak them to her, but I haven’t said it.  Not yet.  Not until now.

"Oh, do I?" she asks.  Her head is tilted up toward me, her lips parted, and I want to kiss her, but I wait, because there are things that need to be said.

"I love you," I say.  "Absolutely and completely.  I've loved you since day one, Addy-girl.  For seven years I've loved you."

"Okay," she says.

"Okay?" I ask.  "That's it?  I tell you I love you and you say okay?"

A broad grin spreads across her face.  "I love you, too, but you already heard me say that on stage," she says.  "Now, stop giving me grief and kiss me already.  You know the tabloids are going to need a good image to go with their scandal.  So let's give them one."

So I kiss her – one of those slow-motion, hands-in-the-hair, straight-out-of-the-movies kisses where everything in the world stops.

And then I bend down, and pick her up in my arms, and I carry her the fuck out of there, grinning like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet, because I am.  Right in front of the reporters and everything.

CHAPTER THIRTY

ADDY

My phone buzzes over and over, until I finally shut it off.  That doesn't seem good enough, though, so I take out the SIM card and break it in half before turning to Hendrix, who looks at me with amusement.  "I don't want to talk to anyone right now," I explain.  "And there's going to be too much talking to do."

We're in the limo, driving back to my place, until Hendrix taps on the tinted glass and asks the driver to detour, driving around for a while to lose any paparazzi, until he finally ends up a small apartment complex.  "It's nothing fancy," he explains, leading me through the front door.  "Okay, it's kind of a dump, so brace yourself.  I just want to show you something."

The apartment isn't a dump as much as it is bare of anything resembling Hendrix's personality.  It's stark, empty except for a few pieces of furniture, some clothes, and a few boxes.  "Did you live here?" I ask.

"It worked," Hendrix says simply.

He takes my hand and sits down on a bed, and opens a box.  "I want you to know who I am, the years when I was gone.  And what my father said…"

"Hendrix," I say, holding my hand up.  "You don't need to explain."  But I close my mouth when he starts talking, words that seem to pour out of him, a floodgate that doesn't want to close.  He tells me about the guys he was with, the rest of his squad that was killed in an IED blast in the mountains in Afghanistan.  He tells me about the guilt he has for surviving, how he runs for miles at night instead of sleeping, how he couldn't think about the future because he couldn't see one for himself.  He talks and talks and talks, almost without taking a breath, and I hold his hand, not saying anything until he's finished.  Then he looks up at me, and says, "I've been a coward.  It's the reason I never said I loved you before."

My heart feels like it's bursting, and I'm not sure if it's more because it's broken for him, or because I finally know I love him.  Then he reaches into the box and hands me a stack of letters.  "This is the other reason I've been a coward, Addy-girl," he says.

"What are…"  I open the one on top, my eyes scanning over the first few lines, and if I thought my heart were going to burst with love for this man before…

Addy-girl,

Twenty-two days.  I have twenty-two days left in this shithole.  Two hundred and eighteen days of this deployment down and I'm alive.  My squad's alive.  Twenty-two days and we're going home, and I swear that I'm going to say the things I've wanted to say to you since I left.  I'm sure you've written me off by now.  But if I get home, I'll tell you that there hasn't been a day since I left that I've not thought about you, that you haven't been at the forefront of my mind.

I look at the other letters in my hand, all addressed to me.  The full impact of what I'm holding hits me and I start to cry.

Hendrix reaches up and wipes a tear from my cheek.  "I couldn't say what I wanted to say.  And then after…what happened with my squad…I stopped."

"And then you came home," I say.

Hendrix slides his arms around me.  "And then I came home."  He pauses.  "It's kind of lame, I know, writing you."

I laugh, and he pulls back and looks at me.  "Are you laughing at me?"

"I'll show you later," I say.  "I have a notebook full of songs, Hendrix.  They're all about you.  You wrote letters, I wrote songs."

"I guess we're both lame," he says.

"I guess we are."

Hendrix kisses me then, and I know that regardless of what happens, the fallout from the awards show, that everything will be okay.