The Worst Best Man Read online

  Frankie would have done the same if she could stomach the thought of food. Every time Pru picked up her phone, Frankie cringed inwardly.

  She volunteered to go first for hair and submitted to the violent hair stylist who seemed intent on embedding pins into her skull.

  “I don’t see why we all have to change our styles just because Pruitt did,” Margeaux whined, slapping away the stylist as the man tried to sweep her thick curtain of honey blonde hair off her neck. “And wax my eyebrows while you’re at it.”

  “Christ, Marge! Can you just shut your mouth for one day and do something for someone else? It’s not your fucking day. You’ll probably have eight or nine wedding days by the time a husband holds a pillow over your face and puts the rest of us out of our misery. So put your damn hair up and shut your damn mouth!”

  It was exactly the wrong approach to take with a sociopathic asshole.

  “Do you even know who I am, you piece of shit from Brooklyn?”

  Margeaux spat out the word Brooklyn as if it were sulfur flavored.

  “Do you even know what a black hole of a human you are?” Frankie shot back.

  Her stylist, unfazed by the exchange, spun her around to show her the results of eight thousand hairpins and six cans of hair spray. She’d tamed the dark curls into submission, wrangling them into a rock-hard bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Looks amazing,” Frankie said, jumping out of the chair and throwing cash at her before she could reach for more hair pins.

  “You’re just jealous because you’re nothing. You’re literally the help. Pathetic with your hand out for tips so you can pay your dry-cleaning bill.”

  “You better watch how you talk around people, Marge. A lot of us are help, and without us, you’d have a dirty toilet, bikini burn, and no food at your stupid parties.”

  “Someone like Aiden Kilbourn would never give you a second glance. Unless it was out of pity or to wonder how you managed to shove your Kardashian-sized ass into your dress. You’re going to look like a whale in the pictures next to the rest of us.” She laughed an unhinged, diabolical Dr. Evil kind of laugh.

  The stylist working on Margeaux reached for the hot wax and slathered it over the entire brow. He gave Frankie a commiserating look and slapped the waxing strip on top of the wax.

  “I might not be the only one people are staring at tonight,” Frankie predicted. She turned and marched out of the room to the music of Margeaux screaming.

  “What did you do to my eyebrow you fucking idiot?”

  In the hallway, she pulled her phone out of her robe pocket and fired off a text to Aiden.

  Frankie: Status update. Where are you with Operation Free the Groom? The bride is getting nervous.

  His response was terse.

  Aiden: I have it handled.

  She’d like to handle him… out of a ten-story window and into a dumpster full of broken glass.

  She dialed him as she walked. If he didn’t tell her he was breaching the door to Room 314 right now she was going to get Chip herself.

  “What?” he answered brusquely.

  “Where are you?” she hissed. She marched down the sun dappled hallway that connected the spa to the main building.

  He sighed. “Franchesca, I’m in the middle of something, and every time I have to check in with you, I have to stop working.”

  “Will Chip be back here before the wedding?” she asked.

  “I’m working on it,” Aiden answered tersely.

  “Have you even heard from the kidnapper today?”

  “Yes. We have a meeting scheduled.”

  “A meeting?” Frankie stormed past the doors to the resort’s library bar and stopped in her tracks. She backed up two steps and glared through the glass doors. It was a spacious room with tall bookcases and ladders straight out of Beauty and the Beast except for the large L-shaped bar with the spectacular ocean view. The bar that played host to one Aiden “Dead Man Walking” Kilbourn.

  Disgusted, Frankie ended the call and flicked off the unseeing Aiden through the glass. Under a full head of steam, she approached the front desk. “Excuse me,” she said to the concierge. “My dress is in for an emergency cleaning.”

  “Yes, Ms. Baranski. We’re working on the damage right now.”

  “I’ll need it ready in time for the ceremony. Because nothing is going to ruin this wedding. Not a missing groom, or an asshole best man, or a stained dress.” She was pointing her finger in the air like a movie heroine making a proclamation.

  “Of course, Ms. Baranski.” The concierge gave Frankie the “you’re a crazy person and I have to be nice to you” smile.

  “Um. Thank you,” Frankie said. “I’m going to go away now.”

  The concierge smiled pleasantly again, and Frankie backed away from the desk. She jogged to the bank of elevators. Once in her room, she shucked the robe and dragged on a sundress. Antonio’s business card fell out of her clutch when she dug out her money.

  Maybe she didn’t have to do this entirely on her own.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Where’s your uncle’s van?” Frankie asked, eyeing the doorless dune buggy-like vehicle.

  “He’s driving it,” Antonio announced sliding out from behind the wheel. “Your chariot awaits, madam.” He was wearing a prep school uniform of navy blue shorts and a white short-sleeve button down. His tie was a clip-on.

  “Did you steal this? And I feel like I have to repeat my question from last night. Are you even old enough to drive?”

  “You wanna stand here and ask questions, or do you want to go to Rockley?” Antonio asked.

  “Oh, my God. Just drive.” Frankie climbed in next to him and fastened the safety harness.

  “Yee haw!” Antonio gunned the engine, jumped the curb, and tore down the winding drive to the road.

  “Do not kill us!” Frankie shouted over the rumble of the engine.

  Antonio approached the highway like a villain in a car chase. Frankie covered her eyes with her hands and said her prayers. She heard horns and braced for death. But the impact and death never came. She peeked through her fingers to see they were tooling down the highway weaving in and out of traffic.

  “Okay. We’re not dead. This is a good start.”

  “So, what’s the plan, lady? You find your friend last night?”

  “The plan is you’re driving me to Rockley, I’m rescuing my friend, and you are driving us back to the resort in time for the wedding.”

  “Good plan,” Antonio nodded. “Where’s Money Bags?”

  “Aiden?” Frankie glared out the windshield. “He had business to take care of.”

  “So, you’re going to rescue your friend by yourself?”

  “If you want something done right…”

  Antonio nodded sagely.

  “Speaking of Money Bags,” Frankie began. “My pockets aren’t as deep as his.”

  “That’s okay. You can pay me by flashing your boobs again.”

  Frankie cuffed him on the back of the head. “Hey!”

  He grinned.

  Frankie’s phone rang. “Oh, hell.” It was Pruitt.

  “Hey, bride!” Frankie answered. She sounded like a complete phony.

  “Where are you? We’re ready for bridesmaid pictures.”

  Frankie slapped herself on the forehead. Shit.

  “I’m not there actually. I’m, uh, heading to the… dock?”

  “The dock?”

  Frankie could hear the note of panic in Pru’s voice.

  “Yeah, I wanted to get down here and check in on Chip for you. Just so, you know… you’d know,” she finished lamely.

  “You’re the best friend a girl could have,” Pru sniffed. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m just tied up in knots. I just need to hear his voice and know that everything is still good.”

  “Everything is going to be better than good,” Frankie promised. “I’m going to have him c
all you as soon as I see him. He probably just dropped his phone overboard or something. You know how he is with those things.”

  “Yeah,” Pru sniffled. “I do. I just… come back soon, okay? I can’t wait for you to see Margeaux’s eyebrow. They had to draw it back on.”

  Frankie rubbed her temples. “I’ll be back before you know it,” she promised.

  She hung up and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, my god. If I can’t pull this off I’ve ruined not only her wedding day but our friendship.”

  “It’ll work out,” Antonio said cheerfully.

  “Is that a school uniform?” Frankie asked, eyeing the loafers working the gas pedal.

  “Yep. You got me out of a geography test.”

  “You’re skipping school to drive me around?”

  “Sure! I do it sometimes. It beats sitting behind a desk and listening to teachers blah blah blah all day.”

  Frankie tried not to think about all the laws they were probably breaking at this exact moment. Her phone rang again, and she picked it up without thinking.

  “Franchesca! You’re alive! I’ve been so worried.”

  “Mom?”

  “Oh, thank god you remember me,” May said, laying on the sarcasm. “I thought you went paragliding and hit your head and got amnesia.”

  “Ma. Now’s not a good time.”

  “What could possibly be more important than reassuring your mother that you’re alive and well?” May insisted.

  “Ma, it’s Pru’s wedding day, and I’m running an errand for her. I really have to focus, okay?”

  “Pruitt’s parents must be over-the-moon excited.” Reality didn’t exist in May Baranski’s world. She’d met R.L. and Addison Stockton on dozens of occasions. The Stocktons weren’t an overly excitable bunch. “You know, I’d love if my daughter had a wedding day someday,” May sighed.

  “Yeah, yeah. Poor you. No grandbabies except for the one on the way from Marco and Rachel. I’ll get knocked up next time I go out with a guy on Tinder. I promise.”

  “Franchesca Marie, you wouldn’t dare—”

  “I gotta go, Ma. I’ll call you.”

  “When? You’ve been gone for so long already!”

  “Soon.” Probably. “I gotta go. Bye!”

  She hung up before her mother could deliver yet another guilt trip with the precision of a surgeon.

  Antonio snickered. “Your mom sounds like fun.”

  “Shut up, underage felon, and drive.”

  She had Antonio get as close to the gate as possible. She couldn’t waste time crawling through jungle this time. After three embarrassing attempts, she finally made it over the wall scraping the shins of both legs on the sharp stone of the wall.

  She grunted and groaned her way out of the flowering bush with the sound effects of an elderly person. At least her hair helmet hadn’t moved.

  Now, to stealthily—shit!

  Three maids were catching a smoke break at the back of the building closest to her. They were all watching her warily.

  Frankie brushed the dirt and leaves off her of dress and strolled toward them casual as can be.

  “Good afternoon,” she greeted them smiling like a normal person. “So, here’s the thing…”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Frankie tied the apron around her waist. “Thank you again for this, Flor,” she said to the woman she’d swapped clothes with. The bust was a little tight and the shoes were a little big, but other than that, Frankie was confident she could pass for a resort maid. At least temporarily.

  “Is no problem,” Flor said, straightening Frankie’s collar. “That man is an ass. I’m happy to help.”

  “Do you know if there’s anyone else staying in the room with him?” Frankie asked as her new friends hustled her down a back hallway.

  “He’s got an assistant who hovers around. Big man,” Bianca told her. “But he stays in a different room.”

  Okay, so hopefully only one potential hired gun to get around. Frankie pressed a hand to her stomach as Wilma punched the call button for the elevator. She was either going to die today or pull off the greatest wedding day miracle of all time. And she was really hoping she wasn’t about to die. Not without slapping the shit out of Aiden Kilbourn first.

  They got off the elevator in the basement. Flor played lookout while the other two stocked a room service cart with liquor.

  “Just tell Mr. Hasselhoff you’re there to restock the bar,” Bianca instructed.

  Hasselhoff. At least the kidnapper had a sense of humor.

  “And don’t make eye contact with him. He hates that,” Wilma suggested.

  They returned to the elevator with a white sheeted cart and half a dozen bottles of liquor.

  “Keep your head down to avoid the cameras,” Flor said, ushering them back into the elevator car. “And if you need help hiding the body, call 101 from the room phone and say you’d like to order room service.”

  “Cameras. Body. Room service. Got it,” Frankie said. Her heart was thudding in her ears like the bass in her high school boyfriend’s Chevy Cavalier.

  Was she doing the right thing? Should she have trusted Aiden to handle it? Would she at least see Chip before she was gunned down in the prime of her life?

  It was the longest elevator ride of her life, and that was counting the one with the guy who was breaking up with his girlfriend on speakerphone. The longest elevator ride was followed by the longest, creepiest walk down a hotel hallway. 302, 304, 306. As the room numbers counted up, Frankie’s heart started pulsing in her head. She should have written up a will before this trip.

  What if her brothers fought over her NHL memorabilia collection? She could see Gio and Marco coming to blows over her signed Kreider jockstrap. She hoped whoever took her apartment would be a good neighbor to the Chus across the hall. Mr. Chu was constantly losing his glasses, and Mrs. Chu thanked Frankie for finding them with gift cards to their Korean restaurant around the block. She’d never again get to taste their bulgogi.

  Tears swam in her eyes as 314 loomed in front of her. She took a deep breath. She was doing this for Pru. Her best friend deserved her happily ever after. And she’d totally get over the death of her best friend.

  She was lousy at pep talks. Frankie raised her knuckles to knock and hesitated for a second. “You can do this,” she whispered to herself. “You can go in there and show him that nobody kidnaps your friends and gets away with it.”

  Her pep talk was interrupted by the questioning glances of a hungover couple dressed to the elevens. The nines were so last year.

  “She looks a little like that reality star that threw Kennedy in the koi pond last night,” the woman said in a stage whisper.

  Frankie put her head down and, eyes clenched shut, knocked.

  The door wrenched open. “Can you read the ‘Do Not Disturb’? Or are you all illiterate and stupid?”

  All rich assholes tended to look the same. And this guy was no exception. He was medium build, medium height, spray tanned complexion with medium brown, carefully coiffed hair.

  “I am here to restock dee barrr.” God, her fake accent sounded more pirate than Bajan. Only an idiot would fall for it.

  “It’s about damn time. I called hours ago,” the idiot said.

  He ushered her inside, making annoying flapping motions like a chicken trying to take flight. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”

  The suite was dark, heavy curtains closing out the tropical sunshine outside. It looked as though he was trying to make the room resemble a bad guy’s lair. But there was too much mess—room service trays, empty liquor bottles—marring the luxury. It looked like a crew of trust fund babies had gotten together on daddy’s dime to trash a hotel suite, not execute an abduction.

  Kidnapping Asshole didn’t look much better than the room itself. His hair was messed up like he’d been shoving nervous hands through it. His tie was loosened. Who the hell wore a tie to lounge arou
nd a hotel room in Barbados, anyway?

  She headed into the main living space of the suite and did her best to guess where the bar was hidden. She guessed wrong, finding the TV sequestered in a cabinet. Wealthy people didn’t like to stare at blank screens.

  Kidnapping Asshole snapped his fingers. “The bar is over there. What, are you new here?”

  She was saved from having to bite back a response by the man’s phone ringing.

  “Christ. What’s taking so long? Just get back here. He’s going to be here any minute, and I’m not doing this without backup.” He stormed out of the living room and into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door behind him.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god,” Frankie chanted. She surveyed the room and ran for the next closed door. It was a bathroom. The next one was a freaking walk-in closet. Finally, she spotted another closed door on the far side of the room. When she jiggled the handle she found it locked.

  She yanked out the keyring Flor had loaned her and fumbled with the lock. She got it on the fifth try and ducked into the room. It was dark in here too, and it smelled like old eggs.

  Frankie quietly closed the door behind her. “Chip?” she whispered. “Are you here?”

  She tripped over him before she saw him. He was laying on his back on the floor beside the bed.

  “Oh, my god, Chip,” she hissed. Was he dead? Had that sonofabitch killed Chip?

  She reached a tentative hand toward him knowing that if she touched cold skin, she was going to throw up and then go commit a murder so heinous she’d go down in Barbados history. “Please don’t be dead,” she whispered.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Frankie prodded Chip hard with two fingers. It wasn’t the cold flesh of a corpse that greeted her but a still-warm warm armpit and a snore.

  “Chip!” She shook him again.

  “Huh? What?” he struggled to wake up.

  She breathed a sigh of relief so big it almost brought her breakfast back up. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from Pru.