Leena
I’ve never seen a wedding where as soon as the bride and groom—I guess in our case, brides and grooms—have said their vows, the room erupts into cheering, hooting, hollering chaos. The ceremony was set late, at the hall, not to give us time to get ready and arrive from Jacksonville like I first thought, but so that the chairs could be scraped away and tables set out and a whole lot of eating and drinking and celebrating could get right underway.
The hall staff emerge after the tables are set up, pouring drinks at the bar like it’s going out of style, before the rest of the black pants, white shirted waiting staff can even get the food in the buffet line at the far side of the room.
The place isn’t classy. It looks like a gym, hardwood plank floor and white square concrete walls. The effort to decorate, with lights and paper flowers taped onto the walls, definitely falls flat, but apparently no one cares.
The area, which is one big open room with a bar at the back left and a buffet line at the back right, is so open that it echoes with the raucous laughter and shouts of the leather clad bikers in attendance. Even my father and older brothers and the rest of their goons, all wearing black, seem to be having a good time. I see my brother, Ivan, laughing as he downs a drink out of a plastic cup. He’s talking with a man in leather that I don’t know.
Why wouldn’t they be happy? They got what they wanted. They weren’t the ones who had to pay the price for it. I did. Steph did. Ami did.
I silently fume from my place at the far side of the room. After the short, terrible ceremony, my groom disappeared. I was astounded to find him staring at me like a voyeur during the vows. I was so terrified, eaten up by nerves, trying to blink back tears the entire time, that even when I stared right at him, I didn’t even get a good look at him.
I wish my sisters were around, but Ami seems to have wandered off somewhere. She likes to party, I guess. My dad always talked badly about her and her wild streak. I would say that she likes to have a good time, but then again, she’s twenty-two. Should she not?
I spot Steph on the far side of the hall. She’s leaning up against the wall, smiling shyly at her groom, who stands a few feet away from her. They’re talking about something, their lips moving, their gazes locked on each other like they’re the only ones there.
Something shivery and strange unfurls in my chest. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I’m glad, at least, that Steph appears happy enough. I watch her silently, watch the way her lips curl up shyly and her eyes dart from the floor to her groom’s face. I don’t even remember his real name, let alone his club name.
My sister blushes prettily and I’m torn between wanting to weep at her shy happiness and rage against the riot of her beauty. What man could see my sister and not fall instantly in love with her? She doesn’t even seem to mind that she’s a few inches taller than her dark-haired groom. He’s athletic lookingat least. He seems young enough. Older than Steph is, I’m sure, but he has a kind enough face.
I stand against the wall, watching the men in the room get drunker and drunker with every passing second. Hopefully, they’ll serve some food soon. I’ve never had the chance to get fully drunk before, but even I realize that all that booze without something to soak it up is a recipe for bodies to start dropping.
I decide to take advantage of the washroom before the drunken debauchery really has a chance to start. I’ve been to a few bathrooms that weren’t even bar bathrooms that had bodies curled in the stalls, someone holding their hair back.
I pick my way through the room quickly, unnoticed, the shouts and laughter ringing in my ears. For them, it might be a celebration, but for me, this day feels like a funeral. A death knell tolling away, my freedom being caged up before my life ever had a chance to begin.
The double metal doors at the back lead to a series of halls that eventually open to the outside world.
I stare longingly towards where the light drifts in at the end of the hall. How easy would it be to walk out those doors and never look back?
I already know the answer, and I force my feet to move.
Not easy at all. Even if my actions had no repercussions, I’d still have nowhere to go, minimal savings, hardly more than the clothes on my back, which at the moment, being a wedding dress, are incredibly useless.
If someone, one person even, would come and talk to me, it would make everything easier. As it is, I feel so alone, more alone than I ever have before. A hard, cold knot of fear lumps upin my belly, and I set a shaking hand there as doubts assail me and my fear of what’s to come tears me to ribbons inside. Hot tears scald the corners of my eyes, but I blink furiously before they can fall.
I take care of business, even with the stupid, cloying dress, and wash up after. I refuse to look at myself in the mirror. I straighten my spine, holding my head high like someone just inserted a steel rod down the center of it.
I’m an Olson and no matter what, Olsons are tough. You don’t grow up with Kevin Olson as a father and not learn to take care of yourself. I’ve survived everything. Everything that life has thrown at me so far, and it’s thrown a lot my way in my short nineteen years. I can make it through this.
I exit the bathroom with as much dignity as I can. My head is tilted so far up that I nearly run smack dab into a shadow when I turn to round the corner.
My eyes widen when I look up and I take a halting step back, nearly knocking the wind out of myself as I crash into the concrete block wall. It’s cold against my shoulders and neck. I force myself to breathe as I blink hard at the stranger in front of me.
Dressed head to toe in black, he’s shed his jacket. He carries himself with the easy grace of a born athlete. His streamlined muscular build is nothing like my brothers’ chunky muscle or their barrel chests. No, this man is so at odds with them, that it almost makes me smile, just because he’s so opposite. His shoulders are still incredibly broad, his chest wide and powerful. It tapers down to a narrow waist and ends in muscular legs that go on forever.
His dark hair is pulled back at his nape, but it’s unruly, messy, most of it escaping its confines in a languid mass. I’m shocked to find that my fingers actually tingle at the thought of combing through those thick waves. Something stabs me in the chest, some unfamiliar sensation, a pang of agony that is so physical it’s like an actual blow.
And that’s before I get a good look at his face.
Dark eyes, high cheekbones, a hard, square jawline, lips that aren’t too full or too thin. A dark shadow brackets his jaw. He blinks those gorgeous chocolate eyes, and I realize that his lashes are thick and dark, thick enough to make any woman jealous. His nose is the only flaw in a beautifully hard face. It’s just to the side at the top, like it’s been broken a few times and can’t decide which way is the right way to heal. His eyes, though liquid and warm, are bracketed by deep lines that speak to a life hard lived.
Coulson Hughes. Wraith.
That name, I remember.
Because it’s the name of my husband.
