THAT MAN 5 (The Wedding Story-Part 2) (4 page)

My skin prickling, I sat down facing her and crossed my legs under the table. Call it cock protection. My eyes took her in. Dressed in a strapless black dress, she looked, as usual, like a sophisticated goddess. Her wavy blond hair fanned over her broad shoulders, and she was perfectly made up. A bottle of champagne was anchored in an ice bucket beside the table. Kat was already sipping a fluteful of bubbly and had poured one for me.

“Blake, thank you for meeting me here on such short notice. I hope you don’t mind I ordered a bottle of champagne.”

She took a small sip. “Your favorite. Cristal.”

“Actually, I appreciate it. I don’t have much time. I’ve got to be somewhere at eight.” I raised my crystal flute to my lips.

“Wait, Blake. Don’t drink it until we toast to your wedding.”

Hesitantly, I clinked my glass against hers, and as the crystal tinged, another smile slithered across her face. I guzzled my champagne as if it were soda water while she took another dainty sip. She then set her glass down and licked her upper lip.

“So what are you planning for Jennifer?” I asked, wanting to get straight to business. Her body language was unnerving.

She ran a hand through her thick mane of golden hair. “Oh, Blake. First things first. I’m terribly sorry for what happened in Vegas and at Saks. I spoke to my shrink about the incidents, and he insisted I apologize face to face. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Apology accepted. Now what do you have in mind?” My words were rushed. Despite what sounded like sincerity, I wanted to get out of here as fast I as I could.

Smiling, she circled the rim of her champagne with her long manicured finger. “Well, this is what I was thinking. Why don’t we put together a video montage of you growing up to show at the wedding? I bet Jennifer would get a kick out of that.”

I thought about the idea. Not a good one. I was sure even if I scrutinized it, Kat would find a way to slip in footage of the two of us. Especially Capri. I still didn’t trust her one fucking bit.

“I don’t think so. I’d prefer if you did one starring her.”

“Blake, a wonderful idea.” Still smiling, she paused. “And Blake—”

“Yes?”

“You have my word I won’t ever tell Jennifer about our little secret. My lips are sealed.” She slid her finger across her glossed lips.

I twitched a small grateful smile. “I really appreciate that, Kat.”

Relieved, I reached into the ice bucket to refill my champagne glass. I fucking loved Cristal. A few more sips and I was out of here. Was I still going to tell Jen about the past? My thinking had grown cloudy.

As I poured the champagne into my flute, my hand shook. A sudden rush of nausea like I’d never known rose to my chest. The room began to spin. The bottle slipped out of my hand. I heard it shatter, and then everything faded to black.

Jennifer

I
got to Le Petit Café, the small intimate French restaurant where Blake had made a reservation, just a little before eight. I was the first to arrive, and the hostess showed me to our corner table. Blake knew how much I loved this restaurant with its candlelit, red-checkered-clothed tables and bistro menu; it reminded me so much of Paris where we’d filmed part of
Shades of
Pearl
. Though we’d spoken and Skyped several times a day while I was in Boise, I was so eager to see Blake. I missed him terribly. My blood was streaming through me like champagne—happy little bubbles zapping me with giddiness.

Over a glass of Bordeaux, I perused the menu and thought about my day. It felt good to get back to work and be on a set. The filming of the first episode of the delightful Vanessa Booke’s
Bound to You
had gone off without a hitch. I was so excited about this telenovela which we would be airing in the Fall. Today we had filmed the opening scenes that took place in Los Angeles. Rebecca, the spunky curvy heroine played by redhead Jessica Chastain, had said good-bye to her actor boyfriend Miles, played by Matt Bomer, after discovering he was cheating on her with his sexy co-star Scarlett—supermodel Kate Upton. The way Jessica had powerfully delivered the closing line—“I gave you everything, Miles, but you ripped it away. You chose her instead of me.”—had me close to tears. My viewers were going to swoon over this adaptation of this popular erotic romance. Next week, pre-production started up in New York City where the rest of the filming would take place after the holidays.
After I got back from my honeymoon
.

The handsome, sandy-haired waiter, who looked to be an aspiring actor, came by and asked if I wanted an appetizer. Though ravenous, I passed and told him I was waiting for someone. I glanced down at my cell phone. It was 8:15. Blake should be here soon. He must be tied up in Friday night traffic. I called him. No answer.

Taking a small sip of the velvety red wine, I decided to catch up on e-mails. Intermittently, I called and texted Blake. Still no answer. I was growing edgy, and the wine did little to take the edge away. My eyes kept darting to the front of the restaurant, in hope of seeing Blake fly in.

It was now going on nine p.m. I was worried. Worried sick. Where was Blake? I called his cell phone every five minutes, but each time it went to his voicemail. I texted him. No response. I called his office and our home phone. No answer. I called Mrs. Cho and then his best friend Jaime, but they hadn’t heard from him either and had no clue where he was. Mrs. Cho, however, did mention he’d left the office early for a meeting.
What meeting?
He hadn’t mentioned one to me, and unfortunately, Mrs. Cho didn’t know the details.
Strange.

The server came by again to take my order. “I’m still waiting for someone,” I told him glumly. With an irritated shrug, he marched off, leaving me alone. I tried all of Blake’s numbers one more time, but still no Blake. A sudden chill ran through me. My heart hammered. Maybe something had happened to him. Like he’d gotten into a bad car accident. Or mugged. Maybe, I should call the police and all the local hospitals. Oh, God, please, please, please no! And then another equally horrible thought hit me with the force of an avalanche. His secret meeting. Blake always kept Mrs. Cho abreast of his whereabouts. My blood ran cold. Was he seeing someone else? Someone new he met while I was in Boise? All my insecurities and trust issues flooded my brain, and nausea rushed to my chest.

My cell phone pinged. An e-mail. From Blake? I glanced down at the screen. It was from the last person I wanted to hear from. Kat. She was probably just e-mailing me to confirm my fitting appointment tomorrow. With reluctance, I opened it. The body of the message was all of two words:
Please review.

There were several attachments. All jpegs. Bridesmaid dresses? Seating arrangements? The latest tropical fish that would be swimming in the Bernsteins’ salt-water pool?

While I was in no mood for wedding detail, I opened the attachments, one at a time. My heart fell to my stomach. And all air left my lungs. The phone shook in my trembling hands.

“Oh my God,” I heard myself say as I viewed one photo after another of Blake and Kat bared to each other and entwined in a familiar bed. The satin-sheeted one in his fuck pad at Greystone Manor—where he’d fucked me for the first time the night of the Conquest Broadcasting Christmas party. The photos ranged from heated embraces to Kat sucking his cock. And so much more. By the fifth photo, I’d had enough. Scorching tears poured down my face. Oh my God. How could I be so blind? In so much denial? Reality hit me like a crashing meteor. Blake was still into her.

The server came by again. “Have you decided what you want to order? The kitchen will be closing down soon.”

I looked up at him with my tear-flooded eyes. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t be staying for dinner.” My voice was a mere rasp. Barely a whisper.

The server regarded me with compassion. I guess he’d seen a lot of girls stood up in his time. But none as crestfallen as me.

“No problem, madame.”

Madame.
The French word for “Mrs.” Mrs. Blake Burns was not in my stars.

“Thank you for understanding.” I dug through my bag and found my wallet. I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. The hundred-dollar bill Blake had given me when I’d stripped for him in that seedy motel; I’d kept it as emergency money. This was an emergency of the worst kind. I plunked it down on the table.

“I’ll be right back with your change,” the sweet waiter said.

“No need,” I stammered. While my glass of wine came to only twelve dollars, the hardworking server deserved the money for his time, patience, and compassion.

“Are you sure?” His eyes lit up with surprise.

“Yes, please.” I rose from my seat, my knees so weak I thought I’d fall down. The kindly waiter pulled out my chair and helped me up.

“Merci, madame. I hope you have a lovely evening.”

That wasn’t happening.

*

I don’t know how I made it back to Blake’s condo. Tears blurred my vision, and twice I almost got into a major auto accident. The ache in my heart was so great I thought I might have a coronary. First, Bradley. Now, Blake. But the pain this time was exponentially worse. Unbearable. I needed windshield wipers to wipe my tears away.

Fortunately, Blake’s condo was not far from the restaurant, and traffic along Wilshire Boulevard was light. I got there in no time. I valeted my car, skirted past the doorman, and hurried upstairs. I made a couple of calls, and then collapsed onto the couch. I could no longer share Blake’s bed. It was already ancient history. Tomorrow, I would be gone.

You chose her instead of me.

Blake

“F
uck,” I heard myself murmur.
Fuck, fuck, fuck
.

My head was spinning; my mouth felt like the Mohave Desert, and nausea consumed me. Slowly, I peeled my eyes open—well to be honest, only one. It took me several long, nauseating moments to realize where I was. I was in my Greystone fuck pad, sprawled naked on my bed. I had no fucking idea how I’d gotten here, and the shitfaced way I felt didn’t make remembering any easier. I glanced at my watch. Squinting with the one opened eye, I made out the time. It was six o’clock. Except in my windowless suite, I had no idea if it was six in the morning or the evening.

The bed was a rumpled mess with the covers half off, and I noticed my clothes were strewn on the floor. How did they get there? How did I get here? I hadn’t been back to my fuck pad since the time I’d fucked Jennifer at the office Christmas party. And that was almost a year ago.

I crawled out of bed. In my sorry state, I could barely stand up. My legs felt like Jell-O and another tidal wave of nausea descended on me. Close to passing out, I collapsed onto the floor and crawled on my hands and knees to the adjacent bathroom. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the toilet in time, but thank fucking God I did. Perched on my knees, I puked my guts out until my throat burned and my insides were torn. Believe it or not, I actually felt a little better. And despite my headache the size of Texas, a little more clear-headed. But I still couldn’t piece together how I’d gotten here or what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

I managed to get to my feet and noticed my cock was flaccid. I’d never woken up without a big boner. Poor Mr. Burns was as wasted and confused as I was. This was bad. Really bad. I quickly brushed my teeth and then staggered out of the bathroom after passing on a hot shower. I didn’t think I was steady enough. One glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed that. I looked like death warmed over. Like someone had painted me with chalk and left me in Death Valley to die. Roadkill.

Back in my fuck pad, I gathered up my suit in slo-mo. I slipped on my dress shirt first, unable to button it with my shaky hands. Then the slacks and jacket. At last minute, I threw my tie around my neck. In a moment of panic, I slipped my hand into my slacks pocket where I kept my wallet and cell phone. To my relief, both were there. I pulled out my cell phone, and immediately checked my texts, e-mails, and phone messages. There were dozens. All from one person. My Jen—wondering where I was and asking me to call her. I immediately speed-dialed her number, but there was no response. I texted her and e-mailed her. Zilch again. Maybe it was six o’clock in the morning and she was still sleeping. And then an unnerving thought punched me in the gut—I hadn’t gone home to her. What could she be thinking?

Without warning, my cell phone died on me. I stared at it blankly. What did it matter?

I didn’t have an explanation.

Jennifer

M
y sleep was tearful and restless. I don’t know why I bothered. I fumbled for my cell phone, which was tucked under my pillow, and glanced at the screen. It was going on five a.m. If it weren’t such an ungodly hour, I would have called Libby or Chaz or even my parents. I had the burning urge to talk to someone. Anyone. Blake had never called or texted me. Shutting my eyes, I tried to fall back to sleep on the couch, but it was futile. My throat was raw from crying, and the ache in my heart was palpable.