The Worst Best Man Read online

  “Why?” Margeaux asked, wrinkling her nose. “Was there a mix up?”

  In Margeaux’s beautiful, pristine, gold-dipped world, that was the only plausible reason why Aiden Kilbourn would offer a ride to someone so lowly. Riled now, Frankie gave a lazy one-shoulder shrug as she plucked at the ties of her top. “Nope. He was waiting for me when I got off the plane.”

  “He canceled the car I had scheduled to pick her up,” Pru added.

  Taffany picked up the tequila again but handed it to Frankie. “Way to go, Francine.”

  “Frankie.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I don’t understand,” Margeaux announced. She took her sunglasses off and arranged herself on her side, a model taking directions from an invisible photographer. “Why would Aiden go out of his way for you?”

  “Hey, why don’t we leave the cat claws at home, Margeaux?” Pru warned the woman.

  “Do not listen to this angry woman,” Cressida said, pointing in Margeaux’s direction. “She has bet she can fuck Aiden this weekend.”

  “Fuck you, Cressida,” Margeaux spat out.

  “That was not the bet,” Cressida insisted, frowning. Frankie couldn’t tell if she was purposely poking at Margeaux or if the language barrier made for accidental insults.

  “Ladies,” Pru sighed. She rubbed absently at her forehead.

  No drama, Frankie reminded herself. She was here to make sure Pru had her perfect day. She took a drink straight from the bottle. “Not to worry, Margie. Your odds are still excellent for luring him into your Venus Fly Trap vag. He was just being nice. There’s no interest on either side,” Frankie promised.

  “Aiden isn’t nice,” Margeaux argued, ignoring the slam on her vagina.

  “Then why do you want to bang him?” Frankie asked in frustration.

  Taffany launched into a fit of giggles and hiccups. She reached for the bottle. “Hello. He’s gorg and rich. What else is there? A prenup from him would set a girl up at least into her fifties.”

  “I have heard that he is quite excellent in bed,” Cressida added. “His children would be prime specimens.”

  These women were from a different planet. Planet Crazy Bitch.

  Frankie’s parents got married because they fell in love in high school and got pregnant on prom night. They fought about toilet paper and which one of them was supposed to call the accountant. That was normal. That was love.

  This? This was what happened with too much inbreeding amongst Manhattan’s wealthy.

  “Don’t you want to meet a guy and fall in love?” Frankie asked the group in general.

  The blondes shared a baffled look and broke out into a delightful cultured laughter—plus hiccups from Taffany.

  “That is so poor people,” Taffany announced. “Poor people have to look for love because they can’t have money.”

  “So, money is better than love?” Frankie reiterated the point.

  “Duh. And what’s better than money?” Taffany chirped, taking the tequila back.

  “More money,” Margeaux and Cressida chimed in.

  “To trophy wives,” Taffany said, holding the bottle aloft. Margeaux and Cressida raised their glasses and Pru, looking slightly embarrassed, raised hers.

  “To trophy wives,” they echoed.

  “Well, I’ve been doing this all wrong then,” Frankie announced cheerfully. “Teach me your ways.”

  Margeaux slid her sunglasses back on. “Sweetie, no amount of education can make this,” she circled the palm of her hand in Frankie’s direction, “trophy. You’re more participation medal. Anyone can have one.”

  Fucking asshole. Frankie hoped Margeaux would get backed over by her own limo.

  Frankie smiled sweetly. “When you marry husband number two, does the prenup state that you have to have that giant stick removed from your ass, or does that get to stay?”

  Taffany choked and sprayed Margeaux with a fine cloud of tequila.

  “You fucking idiot!” Margeaux sprang to her feet. She grabbed the bottle out of Taffany’s hand and tossed it into the pool.

  “Hey!” Taffany reacted as if Margeaux had thrown her teacup Chihuahua off an overpass. She lowered her shoulder and charged, sending them both into the water.

  Cressida said something that sounded like a derisive four-letter word in German and stalked off.

  “How do you know these clowns again?” Frankie asked as Margeaux grabbed a handful of Taffany’s hair.

  “Don’t fuck with my extensions!” Taffany screamed.

  “Oh. Shit. Here we go again,” Pru muttered. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. The sand volleyball game came to a screeching halt as Chip called a timeout.

  “Babe?” he called from the beach.

  “They’re fighting in the pool again,” Pru called back and pointed.

  The groomsmen, ever the gentlemen, sprang into action echoing gleeful shouts of “cat fight.”

  Davenport, tall and skinny, took up position on a lounger and pulled out his phone. “Okay, I’m recording!” Digby, the shorter blond with eight-pack abs that he was constantly showing off dove into the water like an Olympian with Ford—Bradford on his birth certificate—hot on his heels. Ford let out a war whoop and cannonballed into the fray.

  Aiden surveyed the scene from the safety of the beach.

  In moments, Digby and Ford had wrestled the girls apart. “I hate all of you,” Margeaux shouted, slapping the water in disgust.

  “I hope your herpes flares,” Taffany screeched, trying to claw her way over Ford’s shoulder.

  “Jesus, if my dad catches wind of this, I’ll never hear the end of it,” Pru lamented. Chip pulled her into his arms.

  “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll just get them drunk and make them sleep it off in their rooms.”

  “My hero,” Pru sighed, turning to kiss her groom.

  Frankie watched the groomsmen drag the girls and the bottle out of the pool. “Let’s do shots,” Digby decided.

  “Shots!” Taffany made a mad dash toward the bar.

  “Hey there, maid of honor,” Ford said, flashing Frankie a wink and a grin. He was ridiculously good-looking. They all were. But Ford had a boyish charm that was hard to resist and was constantly falling in love. It never lasted longer than a week or two. But every time, he insisted that “this girl is the one.” He’d tried to convince Frankie to go out with him for going on three years now and vowed that he wouldn’t rest until they were married with eleven grandchildren and a house in the Hamptons.

  “Don’t talk to her!” Margeaux hissed, sliding her arm around his wet waist. “Pay attention to me.”

  Frankie wiggled her fingers in greeting and watched Ford wrangle the angry blonde away.

  “God, I hope he doesn’t fuck her again,” Chip murmured as they watched the sloppy foursome make a spectacle at the bar.

  “That would be unfortunate,” Pru agreed. “Davenport, you remember you signed a non-disclosure agreement, correct?” She looked pointedly at the man reviewing video on his phone.

  “Come on, Pru. This is like debutantes gone wild.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t make me delete it. This is ideal blackmail material if Margeaux ends up landing a senator or something.”

  Pruitt’s lips quirked. “Fine. Keep it, but don’t post it. This is a low-key, private wedding.”

  Frankie shook her head. She would never understand the upper class. You could be ostracized for carrying last season’s bag, but wrestle a rich bimbo into a pool over a bottle of vodka and that was fine. “I need a drink,” she announced. “And not from that bar. Also, food.”

  “I would be honored if the lady would accompany me to dine upon whatever this humble establishment can supply, though it will surely dim in comparison to the delectable nature of one as lovely as she.”

  Frankie blinked at Davenport. “Oh Jesus. Are you reading Chaucer again, Dav?”

  “Ladies lov
e a man with a romantic turn of phrase. Plus, Digs bet me I couldn’t pick up a chick spouting off classic literature.”

  “Well, it worked on me. Feed me, and tell me I’m pretty, and I’m all yours,” Frankie joked.

  Davenport offered her his arm. “Dost the lady care for seafood or pizza?”

  “Definitely pizza. And a beer.”

  Pruitt moaned. “Carbs. I want.”

  “Come with us,” Frankie told her.

  “I can’t. I’m vegan until the reception. Otherwise they’ll have to sew me into my dress.”

  Pruitt had dropped twenty-one large on her custom, one-of-a-kind dresscavaganza. She’d been off carbs—except for the allotted alcohol—for sixty-four days. All of the bridesmaids had done the same to ensure that their size zero designer gowns would fit perfectly. Frankie was happy with her eight and the Spanx she’d packed in her suitcase.

  Life was too short to not eat pizza.

  “You’ll be beautiful,” Frankie promised her. “Chip here will get you a salad and a yummy green juice, and you won’t even miss the pizza.”

  Lies. Dirty, dirty lies.

  “Anything you want, babe,” Chip promised.

  Pru sighed. “Will you eat with me?” Chip, whose metabolism had remained the same since he was twelve, looked crestfallen for just a moment before his resolve kicked in. “I’d be honored.”

  “Maybe you should ask your best man to join you,” Frankie suggested, jutting her chin down to the sand where the shirtless Aiden was glaring at his phone. “Come on, my dear Davenport. Mama needs food.”

  Chapter Seven

  Oistins Fish Fry was the kind of human meat market that should have bothered Aiden. It was a press of bodies on all sides. Tents flapping wildly in the constant breeze. Neon lights, dancers with glow sticks, and open grills everywhere. But it wasn’t the wild crowds lining up for a spot at picnic tables where they’d be served freshly grilled fish and cold beer that concerned him.

  It was the fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by the fact that the bride and bridesmaids were half an hour late and no one was answering their phones.

  Why Chip and Pru needed yet another bachelor and bachelorette party was beyond him. He’d attended the one in the city. A steak and scotch dinner followed by one of the more tasteful strip clubs that the groomsmen had done their best to debauch.

  Today, they’d hit three rum shops and a distillery for a private tour. No strippers this time, not with the wedding less than twenty-four hours away. But the girls had been cagey about their plans, and now they were MIA. Aiden was not happy.

  The band struck up another energetic song, and Aiden brushed off a few invitations to dance. Chip and the rest of them were happy to be swallowed up by the crowd, making a mockery of the dance.

  “Shake your ass, Kilbourn,” Digby shouted from the middle of a dozen ladies. They encircled him, moving as one, and Aiden pondered punching Digby in the face. But that would upset Pru, and Digby was drunk enough he might not notice the blow.

  “Best bachelor party ever,” Chip announced at the top of his lungs. The crowd around him cheered. He’d said the same thing at the steak dinner and again after a particularly creative lap dance. Chip was an effusive kind of guy. He loved everything, and it was hard not to love him back.

  Aiden waded through the crowd to his side. “Where are the girls?” he demanded.

  Chip closed one eye and tried to focus. Aiden, for once in recent memory, was the only sober member of the party. “Girls? They’re everywhere, man.” He waved a hand in a wide circle.

  “Not those girls. Our girls. Your bride, Pru? Frankie? The bridesmaids?”

  “Ohhh, those girls! They’re awesome, aren’t they?” Chip said, leaning hard on Aiden. “Well, Pru and Frankie are. The other three are kind of scary. But totally in an al-shome way.”

  “Yeah. Totally al-shome. Aren’t they supposed to be meeting us here?”

  “Oh, yeah! I forgot.” He fumbled through his pocket for a phone. “Let me call my beautiful bride. I’m getting married tomorrow. Did you know?”

  Aiden bit back a sigh. “I’m aware. Dial.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Chip stabbed at the screen.

  “Baaaaaaaaby!” Pru, drunk as a skunk, answered the video call. She was listing to the right on one of the blonde bridesmaids.

  “Babe! I’m so drunk!” Chip shouted cheerfully.

  “Oh, my God! Me too! Taffany threw up twice so far!”

  The girls whooped in the background. “Puking rally,” Taffany crowed.

  “Jesus. Where’s Frankie?” Aiden demanded.

  “She’s right here,” Pru sang. “Isn’t she beautiful?” The camera switched to an extreme close up of a very sober, very annoyed Frankie.

  “Yeah, I’m gorgeous. We’re all aware. Pru, drink your water.” Frankie took the phone from her friend.

  “For the love of god, Aide. Tell me someone there is sober. I need to get food into these girls before they turn to drunken cannibalism.”

  “Cannonball,” Taffany shouted, leaning over Frankie’s shoulder and planting a wet kiss on her face.

  Frankie rolled her eyes.

  “Where are you?” Aiden demanded.

  “How the fuck should I know? It’s dark, and there’s potholes so we could be anywhere on the island.”

  Aiden sighed. “Ask the driver where you are and how long it’ll be before you’re here.”

  From his angle, Aiden watched as Frankie climbed her way over a seat around a blonde and stuck her head between the driver and passenger seats. Her breasts were exploding out of the low neckline of her dress.

  “Don’t put his eye out,” Aiden said mildly.

  Frankie looked down, looked up, and flicked him off. “Deal with the view for two seconds, ass. Excuse me, Walter. Do you know how long it’ll be before we get to Oistins?”

  Aiden couldn’t hear the driver’s reply. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the noise around him, the drunken hysteria of the women on Frankie’s end, or the hypnotic view of her breasts.

  “Five minutes,” she repeated. “Thank God. We need food.” Her eyes went wide.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Which one of you just bit me in the ass?” Frankie demanded.

  “Cannonball,” Taffany squealed.

  Pru popped up on the screen again just over Frankie’s shoulder. “What are we doing? Are you two making out on my phone?” she asked.

  “We’re not making out,” Frankie told her.

  “You guys totally should. I bet it would be SO. HOT. Cause you both are SO. HOT.”

  Frankie stared into the camera. “Christ, can’t you wealthy folk buy constitutions? Learn to hold your liquor, people!”

  “I’ll glue Chip to a table and meet you on the street. We can revisit the making out suggestion when you get here,” Aiden offered.

  “Ha.” She disconnected the call, and Aiden dragged Chip and Ford out of the crowd. A flash of cash gave them an entire turquoise picnic table at Uncle George’s Fish Net.

  “Stay here,” he ordered and waded back into the crowd. By the time he found the sidewalk, he could hear them and felt a wave of relief wash over him. If this were his wedding, his bride would not be roaming the island. If this were his wedding, it would be him and his bride. No one else to distract or dramatize.

  “It’s her bachelorette party!” one of them shouted, pointing at Pruitt who was wearing an upside down I’m The Bride sash and a tiara in case anyone had any doubt.

  “Please tell me you have food for us in the next seven seconds,” Frankie called, pushing through the crowd to get to him, dragging Pruitt with her. She was wearing a short black dress with a deep scoop in the front. More of her was covered than the rest of the bridesmaids combined. He could see Taffany’s flesh colored underwear… or bare labia. He wasn’t sure.

  Aiden clamped a hand on Frankie’s free wrist. “Follow me
.”

  “Hello to you, too,” she grumbled.

  He surged into the crowd, nearly a head above everyone else. Uncle George’s white tents were ahead. He felt Frankie stumble behind him and paused. “Why did you insist on wearing those?” he asked, surly for no reason other than he’d been worried. She wore four-inch heeled sandals that wrapped up her calves.

  “Ask the bridesmonsters,” Frankie grumbled. “Coordination.”

  “Aiiiiiiden!” An animated Margeaux threw herself into his chest hard enough that he had to catch her. “I missed you!” He saw it coming, was powerless to stop those two over-inflated raspberry lips as they came at him.

  She laid a kiss on him that was sixty steps beyond friendly. She pulled back and looked up at him, squinting with one eye. “You and me are gonna have sex.” She poked him in the chest with a talon-like fingernail. “S-E-X.”

  “Can we please get something to eat before you two decide to fuck?”

  “I know what I’m hungry for,” Margeaux said, saucily. She slid her hand from Aiden’s chest to his crotch and squeezed. Aiden’s first reflex was to swing at her. The best offense was a good defense. But before he could decide whether to hit his first woman ever or just cower in fear, Frankie swooped in.

  She slipped an arm around Margeaux’s swan-like neck and tightened her grip. “Get your hands off his junk or he’ll sue you for sexual harassment, Marge.”

  Margeaux stumbled under the weight and pressure Frankie was applying. “’s not sexy harassment if I’m a lady. And I’m a fucking lady!”

  “My lawyer and I would disagree,” Aiden said coldly.

  “Oh, hell. Get, Pru,” Frankie ordered, pointing behind him. “I’ll contain Slutzilla here.”

  Pruitt had decided to take a rest and was sitting on the sidewalk holding her shoes in her hand. Aiden was too tired to fight the shoes back on her feet, so he tossed the bride over his shoulder and hoped the scrap of white dress kept everything important covered.

  She was singing “Here Comes the Bride” when he dumped her in Chip’s lap. The drunken couple was ecstatic to see each other. Frankie was ecstatic to see plates of fish and rice piled on the table. She slapped the beer out of Pru’s hand and waved over the server. “Is there any way we can get a ton of water?” she asked, laying a hand on his arm. The guy grinned at her as if she were asking if she could give him free blow jobs for life.