Down for the Count (Dare Me) - By Christine Bell

Chapter One

Lacey Garrity—soon to be Clemson once she got down to the social security office to change it— marched up the long corridor between the reception hall and the bar, muttering to herself. It was time to throw the frigging bouquet, but her groom was MIA. After making a list of possible places he might have gone, jotted neatly on a cocktail napkin, she’d made the rounds and so far? Nada.

Pausing, she jabbed at the green call button of her cell phone and held it to her ear.

In the reception room behind her, the strains of “Twist and Shout” faded. It was only that brief absence of music that allowed her to hear the muffled, familiar melody of Marty’s ringtone coming from behind a door at the end of the hallway. Bah dum. Bah dum. Bahdum bahdum bahdum…

Relief flooded her, and she beelined toward the sound. She tugged the door open and—

“Marty?” Lacey stared down at her husband of two hours, total shock momentarily preventing her from comprehending the scene before her. The slightly muffled version of The Pink Panther theme song coming from the pants around her husband’s ankles kept time with the ring pouring from the receiver of the telephone she still had cupped to her ear.

“Lacey! I can explain,” Marty said as he frantically tried to extract himself from the woman he was screwing and yank up his pants at the same time, which was no easy feat given the restrictive confines of the filled-to-bursting storage closet. In his struggle, he knocked a mound of snowy-white linens off the shelf behind him, and they toppled onto his paramour with a thunk, shoving her torso flat into the table she was draped over.

“Shit!” she wailed, floundering until the cloths fell to the floor in a heap.

Lacey focused more intently on the woman ass up in front of Marty. Black curls arranged in an updo, a tasteful navy dress bunched around her bare thighs. Navy chiffon, to be exact. The very same chiffon she’d picked out for her bridesmaid dresses.

Shock gave way to a gut-wrenching sense of betrayal. “Becca?” Her brain thrashed around in search of a stronghold, a port in this most ludicrous of storms, and she uttered the first thing that came to mind. “But you said he had woman-hips.”

“Hi, this is Marty. Leave a message,” the oh-so-familiar voice chirped in her ear.

“Hi, Marty?” she said into the previously forgotten phone. “This is Lacey. You’re a lying piece of shit asshole.” She disconnected and hurled it against the corridor wall, where it connected with a satisfying crunch.

Marty flinched. “Honey, it’s not what it looks like.”

Why do people always say that? she wondered dully.

Becca tugged at the hem of her dress and stared at the floor, slump-shouldered and unwilling to meet Lacey’s gaze.

“What it looks like is that you’re having sex with one of my oldest friends in the linen closet of our reception hall. Unless, of course, she’s lost something in her vagina and you were gallant enough to try and fish it out for her. With your penis. If that’s the case, I suggest using a larger lure.”

A whispered “Ouch” over her shoulder clued her in to the fact that the three of them were no longer alone. Her skin prickled like she’d been dipped in rubbing alcohol, but she kept her gaze locked on Marty.

He winced, his cheeks turning a fiery shade of red. “No need to be rude, Lace.” The ensuing silence was so absolute that when he fastened his tuxedo pants, it sounded like a grizzly bear traveling down a zip line.

“Please tell me you’re not chastising me over my lack of manners right now. Because if I thought that were true, I just might get one of those stupid shrimp forks your mother insisted we have and jam it into your eye.”

He gaped at her as if he’d never seen her before and wasn’t all that thrilled with the view. Well, bully for him. She knew the feeling.

“Lacey, we were going to tell you. But things got out of hand, and then the merger…” Becca’s blue eyes pleaded with her. For what? Understanding? Forgiveness?

She was fresh out of both.

Tears pricked the backs of her lids, and she stared at two of the people she thought she could count on most. Lifting her trembling hand, she tore off her wedding and engagement rings, then set the now meaningless symbols of commitment carefully on the table.

“That’s it?” an outraged voice bellowed from over her shoulder.