Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener Read Free Book Online Page A

water.
    Charlie pushes back from the table and points at Sam. “Be right back. Don’t abscond with Piper while I’m gone.”
    Sam mock-salutes him, but as soon as Charlie’s out of earshot, he scoots his stool closer to me and nudges me with his elbow. “He’s a sexy bastard, isn’t he?”
    A blush spreads across my cheeks. I clutch my glass. “I dunno. I mean, I just met him.”
    Sam looks at me. His smirk—which seems to perpetually wait in the wings to launch into a full-blown smile—is absent. Angry Achilles plays in my head, the bass line thumping in my eardrums. “He’s a good guy,” Sam says, more to the space between us than to me. “Bit of a sucker, though. His ex was a—well, she was— How shall I put this delicately? Something of a horned, two-toed psychobitch.”
    â€œWhat exactly happened between them?” I ask.
    Sam sighs. “What didn’t happen between them? It was an emotional black hole of doom.” He studies me, fingering an invisible goatee. “So you like Rocket Bar, eh?”
    I nod. “I love it. It’s the perfect blend of juvenile and adult fun. I think I’ll have to hit up the Skee-Ball before too long.”
    Sam nods as if my answer’s confirmed a life-and-death question. “I’m pleased as flipping punch to see him hanging out with someone who’ll take him to Rocket Bar. It’s his favorite place, but his ex never wanted to do the things that made him happy, you know? What with her delicate sensibilities and psychotic tendencies.”
    â€œErm, that sounds—intense?”
    Sam nods gravely. “You treat him right, y’hear?”
    Before I can answer, Charlie settles back on his stool and gives us an appraising look. Sam straightens up and moves out of my personal space, pulling his phone out of his pocket and examining it. “Well, I hate to bug out early, but the booty called, and I must answer.”
    Charlie rolls his eyes. “Who is it this time?”
    Sam slips the phone back into his pocket and polishes off his drink. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, brother.” He aims a pointer finger at each of us. “You kids have fun. Charlie, I’ll text you to schedule a wicked night of bromance post-wedding.”
    Charlie mock-salutes him. “You’re on.”
    And then we’re alone again.

Five

    W e smile at each other for a few seconds, and it feels like all the words in the universe have been evacuated from my mind and are practicing a water landing in my glass below. A leap of electricity seems to pass between us as if we’re Tesla coils.
    â€œHere’s the thing,” Charlie says, “I’m not ready for the night to be over yet.” He nods at the Skee-Ball machines. “Here’s my proposition. We duel at Skee-Ball, and the winner gets to decide where we go next.”
    I flush horrendously at the word “proposition,” then collect myself. “You’re on!”
    He rustles in his pocket for a couple of quarters, and we square off as the wooden balls roll down the chute. Two men with out-of-control beards loiter nearby, watching us with mild interest.
    Charlie approaches one of the beards and hands him a bill, nodding at the jukebox. A few moments later “Shut ’Em Down” is playing over the speakers.
    â€œYou’re going down,” I say, settling into my Skee-Ball power pose.
    Charlie knocks two balls together as the machines play their tinny jingle—a prelude to our battle. “Ready—set—go!”
    We begin furiously rolling balls down the chute. Despite alcohol and nerves, I’m an indisputable Skee-Ball master. It’s pretty much one of my superpowers. I’m not a man-eater or a social climber or even a middle manager, but I’ve got Skee-Ball. My talent comes through for me as I hit two 50s in a row.
    I finish first and watch as he