Epilogue
FLYNN
‘I reckon her IQ must’ve dipped since she’s been hanging around with you.’
I turn my head to my brother, Rafferty, and scratch the centre of my nose... with my middle finger, my eyebrows raised like a taunt.
‘She’s a stunning woman,’ he continues, ignoring the insult, ‘but I don’t know what she’s doing with a drop-kick like you. Just look at you.’Look-at-cha.‘You’ve got a face like a dropped fucking pie. A woman like her should be with someone who’s got their life together. Someone who takes care of himself.’ As though to make a point, he turns to the window, straightening his tie in his reflection.
‘Mate, if there was ever any chance of you stealing Chastity away, today was not that day.’
‘You reckon?’ he asks with a quirk of his brow. ‘She might not have cold feet yet, but you never know when she might need pair of warm strong arms to fall into.’
‘She seemed pretty hot for me this morning. And pretty happy when I married her an hour ago.’
His gaze snaps to mine and I realise what I’ve said. ‘Fuck, my bad.’ Still, I can’t help but chuckle at his expression. I thought Camilla was the only attending maiden aunt.
‘Fucking hell...’ He blows out the curse on a long breath. ‘You’re not supposed to root on the morning of your wedding.’
Now, there’s an Aussie term for you. Root, verb or noun.
To root: to fuck
Rooted: you’re fucked.
A good root: a desirable sort.So, not Rafferty, then.
When in Aus, never say you root for your favourite sports team. And if you’rerooting around in the cupboardI hope you’re both having a damn good time.
‘Let me get this straight,’ I begin. ‘On the morning of my wedding—on the morning of the day I tie myself to one woman for life, I’m not allowed to show that woman a little affection?’
‘I don’t make the fuckin’ rules,’ he grumbles. ‘And is that what you’re calling your cock these days—affection? I remember the days when you used to call it Peter the Dancing Penis.’
‘I was three years old. And piss off, those stories are for mum to tell.’
‘You fucking root rat,’ Rafferty complains good naturedly. I think that insult speaks for itself. ‘You’ve got no decorum. Your supposed to wait ’till your wedding night—and then be too drunk to get it up.’
‘I suppose that’s where you’ll come in?’
‘I am the best man,’ he reasons. ‘Some would go as far as to say thebetterman.’
‘You’re a tosser,’ I return as he shakes his head, slapping his manicured hand on my shoulder. ‘How long before we can expect the news of the pitter-patter of tiny feet?’
‘Kids? I’ve only been married five minutes.’ And living with her for twelve months. Living with her, sleeping with her, fucking her like it’s going out of fashion. And every month like clockwork, she gets her period. I don’t know who’s more disappointed; me or her. But we know these things take time. So in the meantime, we’re just keeping up our practice hours.
‘You did good, kid.’ Raff squeezes my shoulder and I let him have his big brother moment, despite there being only a couple of years between us. ‘Chastity is a keeper. You hit the porn peddling jackpot.’ He’s still laughing as he walks away.The wanker.
I’m a married man.Who’d believe it?I think, my eyes sliding to the vintage red London bus ambling along the road. Today has been perfect. Low key and low fuss, just as my bride intended.
We’d married at eleven this morning at Chelsea Registry Office on the Kings Road, much to the consternation of Chastity’s family. They wanted pomp and circumstance—a fucking cathedral wedding. But Chastity wanted none of that. Just a quiet day with a few friends.And family, if we must,she’d said. As there was no chance of hiding a wedding from my lot, or forgiveness after the fact, both sets of parents are here, along with my brothers, and Max and Camilla. But still, Chastity’s mother isn’t pleased. That the building we married in is beautiful—Victorian Greek revival—and that it was deemed good enough for James Joyce to marry in, didn’t seem to matter at all.
Honestly? I don’t give a fuck. I would’ve have married her stark bollock naked in the middle of Leicester Square, if that’s what she’d wanted.
The London bus pulls up outside of our favourite pub. Yep, we had our wedding breakfast in a pub. Roast beef and veggies, and enough champagne to sink a ship, and to add to the theme of low key, we didn’t hire wedding cars, we hired wedding busses.
I spot my bride as she steps down from the vintage vehicle, a tiny silver clutch and flower corsage in the place of a bouquet. She looks like a summer sprite as she jumps from the last step with a dainty swing of her dress. Knee length and almost silver, it covers all my favourite bits of her in lace, with the exception of her back, her creamy skin exposed by a deepV.
Paisley steps down from the bus next, passing a glass of champagne into Chastity’s hand as the pair laugh at something Mac’s little boy has said.
