The Worst Best Man(26)

“Easy?” she hissed, slapping his hand away.

“Well, you didn’t have to flash anyone this time,” Aiden pointed out.

Her gasp was worth the anticipation.

“You saw me?”

“I saw quite a bit of you.” Aiden decided not to mention that he’d been a split second slow in covering Antonio’s eyes.

Frankie slapped him in the shoulder.

“What? You’re the one who decided to flash half the island.”

“Yeah, but that didn’t mean you had to look, too!”

“I wasn’t about to miss out on that view, Franchesca.” He reached for her, and she held up her hands.

“Keep your hands off of me, or I’ll break off that hard-on you’ve been sporting all night and slap you in the face with it.”

How could he not want more of her? How could she believe that he’d leave her alone?

“Are you trying to draw attention to us?” he asked, pulling her into him. Those blue-green eyes narrowed at him. “We’re on the dance floor. So dance.”

She glanced around them and seemed to notice for the first time that they were surrounded by the upper echelon of California royalty. Aiden recognized a few faces here and there. A half dozen politicians, a handful of celebrities, but mostly it was a collection of heirs and heiresses to various fortunes who had clearly had more than enough to drink.

“What’s wrong with these people?” Frankie asked, allowing Aiden to draw her further onto the dance floor. Even the band was trashed, judging by the limping tempo to their song. “Oh, my god. Is that Meltdown?”

“The band with that song that you hear on the radio every six seconds? It would appear so. And what’s wrong with everyone is they’re wasted.”

It was like witnessing last call at an all-you-can drink gun raffle. The over-fifty crowd was straight up drunk. One man was projectile vomiting over the stone balustrade. A woman in her mid-sixties was sloppily pouring a homemade champagne fountain, pausing now and again to swig out of the open bottle.

There was a couple on the dance floor drunkenly leaning in time to the offbeat music and taking their clothes off.

It appeared that the younger set had graduated from alcohol to something harder. There were four women in couture gowns sitting in the shallow end of the pool laughing like hyenas. Further into the deep end a “who can break their neck first” diving competition was in full swing.

The bride was standing on the bar mainlining cosmos and shouting “I’m married, bitches!”

The third cosmo spilled like a waterfall down her bejeweled dress.

“Classy as fuck,” Frankie whispered to Aiden as they danced and dodged their way toward the hotel. “That’s a twenty-six-thousand-dollar dress.”

“Wonder where the groom is? Running for the hills?”

Frankie pointed toward a large potted palm. “I think he’s the one with his tongue down that groomsman’s throat.”

“Ah.” Aiden said.

Frankie shook her head. “This is like the Great Gatsby with a drug and alcohol problem.”

“And you thought Pruitt’s bridesmonsters were horrible,” Aiden teased.

A finger poked him hard in the shoulder. “Hey! Who arrrre yoooou?”

Aiden twirled Frankie around so they could face the poker together.

“I’m Aiden. Who are you?” he asked the woman. She looked to be in her forties and trying desperately to hang on to her twenties. Her lips had been done, badly. The tight skin around her eyes and forehead screamed BOTOX or facelift. One strap of her ivory colored dress was broken. She held a bottle of champagne in one hand. Her hair extensions were coming out of some intricate knot at the back of her head and hung over her eye.

“I’m Priscilla.” She swayed as she said her own name. “Are you fren of bride or the broom?”

“We’re friends of the broom,” Frankie said, stepping in smoothly. “I’m Druscilla, and this is my paid escort, Aiden. I met the groom on Season Eight of Trust Funds and Trophy Wives.”

“’Zat a reality show?” Priscilla asked.

Frankie nodded. “Oh, yeah. And the exposure was great. It really launched my career as a foot model. I can give you the producer’s number if you’re interested. It was the best eighteen months of my life if you like living on a yacht near the UAE.”

“Druscilla, we really should be going,” Aiden said, pinching Frankie in the waist.

“Call me,” Frankie sang as Aiden propelled her past the frowning Priscilla.

“We’re trying not to get noticed,” he reminded her.

“Aide, the only thing these people are going to remember tomorrow is a big, fat nothing.”

He hustled her into the hotel’s open-air lobby. With the ocean and debauchery at their back, the lobby was rather quiet. He made a move toward the front desk but was thwarted by the foot-dragging Frankie.

“Franchesca, come on. We’ve got work to do.”

“Sorry. Geez. Does being wealthy require you to ignore awesomeness?” she asked, admiring the thatched ceiling two stories above them. Gold and white statues and heavy potted palms filled in the expanse of stone floor. Her eyes widened as they approached the front desk. “Is that gold leaf?” She pointed to a grand staircase that winged off into two different directions one level up.