She glances at my very stiff cock. “I told you to get dressed… We don’t have time…”
“We could make time.”
“Do not tempt me! I refuse to be late. Not today.” She turns toward the bed and throws my suit at me. “Get your dick under control and dress like a good gargoyle.”
“And if I don’t?”
She scrunches her face. “Then you’ll receive no present from me later.”
I laugh. “Then I better obey.”
Later that morning, I escort Summer back to the museum. We receive countless looks from the pedestrians on the street, those who oggle her and others who squint at me. It is uncomfortable to be beyond Elmstitch where there are now more stares. Fortunately, one growl from me sends onlookers running.
Summer grins, shaking her head.
By the time we reach the museum a small crowd already gathers—friends, family, and attendants—conversing and preparing for the big event. Unlike the evening before, there are red and white roses everywhere, making the severe interior flush and sensual. Vibrant in her emerald dress, Summer looks at home amongst the flowers, tiles, and columns.
It makes me wonder what a wedding between her and I would be like. I picture silk, lace, and black satin offset by dark blue and purple. It would be small gathering lit by candlelight and far from an industrialized city.
The bats and Genevive would want to attend.
This wedding, though rich, is nothing like ours would be.
Summer squeezes my hand. “I have to go. Just find a spot to sit until the ceremony.”
I grunt, showing only toughness.
Though she senses my true vibe. “You don’t have to make small talk unless you want. Love you.”
She dashes from my side before I can stop her, disappearing with another bridesmaid around a corner. With a sigh, I find a seat in the back.
The morning comes and goes, the ceremony with it. Despite my intentions to pay close attention and learn how this marriage rite may progress, the moment Summer once again walks down the aisle with the strange male’s arm curled with hers, I forget the rest. My eyes never stray from her.
Through it all, the one thing I hear is the vows. The brides promise many beautiful things to one another—the vow of loyalty,until death do us part, stuns me most of all. Summer glances at me then, holding my gaze and blinking back tears.
She’s busy all afternoon taking pictures with the wedding party, and while I play the part of a lingering shadow, we have little time together. We share snippets of conversation and brief hugs, but most of our time together is spent small talking with her friends.
With every moment, I battle my need to steal her away, claiming her as mine, ensuring my loyalties are abundantly clear—this is not what she has asked of me. So I’m polite, mostly quiet, helping her make the most of this limited time. I may be overstimulated, but I am not alone.
In time it becomes not so hard to do this. Everywhere I look there are smiles, laughter. Everyone is happy. I have never seen so much happiness. It makes my chest constrict and my heart warm.
There is good in the world. Even if I am not aware of it, there is good.
That evening at the reception Summer is finally freed to me as sunset nears. We sit at a large round table with the wedding party and their partners. They drink champagne and eat food. When they glance at me they avert their eyes and lower their voices.
It has become a very long day, and while my body feels no fatigue, I have grown tired of this event.
Stuffing filet mignon in my mouth, I chew with frustration.
Under the table, Summer squeezes my thigh, and leans into me. “Don’t worry, they’re just curious about you. They’ve never seen me with a guy before, and well, I can’t imagine they ever saw me with a six-foot-five metalhead.”
I swallow my meat. “Is there something wrong with metalheads?”
I apparently dress like one, often wearing the faded large tee-shirts of old groups that I’ve found at Elmstitch’s thrift store. They are the only ones that fit and are usually black. After enough questions about it from others, I took on the persona. It came as a natural way to blend in. I’m not wearing one of my shirts right now. The suit makes me a blank slate amongst all the other males with suits.
“Stop being so nervous,” she says. “And there’s nothing wrong with metalheads.”
“I’m not nervous.”
