Picking Up the Pieces (Pieces, #2)(54)

“Well, I’m Catholic,” I said, “and I didn’t know what the f*ck was happening either, so don’t feel too bad. Of course that could've been because I was paying more attention to the bridal party than to anything the priest was saying. I mean, did you see the tits on the maid of honor?"

“Did I see the tits on the maid of honor?” Brian raised an eyebrow in disbelief and stretched his arms out confidently as he leaned against the dark wooden bar. “Come on, Samson. This is me you’re talkin’ to. That’s why I love winter weddings: cold air and low cut dresses. It’s like a Christmas miracle in my pants.” A devious smile came across his face, and I braced myself for what might come out of his mouth next. I knew that look well. “Hey, you think if I tell her I still breastfeed she’ll let me suck on those f*ckin’ things?”

Somehow Brian always managed to cross the line I didn’t even know existed until he sprinted over it. “That’s sick. Even for you.” But I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” he shrugged. “You act like I’m the only one who says shit like that. Remember that time you asked Trevor’s older sister if you could feel her satin pajama bottoms to see how soft they were?”

I smiled at the memory. My first pick-up line. “Yeah, I f*ckin’ remember. Because she let me do it. That was the highlight of my seventh grade year.”

“Well, tonight we’re gonna relive those days, my friend. Good call on the no date thing, by the way. It’s way easier to pick up chicks if you don’t bring one with you.”

“Can’t argue with sound logic,” I said. Even if I’d wanted to bring a date when I’d mailed in the response card over a month ago, I wouldn’t have known who to take, so I’d opted to pass on the “plus one.” My first instinct would have been to ask Lily—as friends, of course—but now I was definitely thankful I’d gone solo. Fuck. Come to think of it, I’ve “gone solo” a lot lately. “I definitely need to bag someone. I haven't gotten my dick sucked in over a month, and it’s killing me,” I said. “The only action I’ve gotten in a while is from Jill.”

“Jill? Who’s Jill?” Brian asked intrigued.

“You know Jill,” I said, holding up my left fist. “J.” I raised my index finger and stuck out my thumb to form the shape of the letter J. “I, L, L,” I added as I raised my three other fingers one by one.

Brian nearly spit his beer out as the meaning of my joke sunk in. “That’s good. Never heard that one before.” Then I could practically see the light bulb go on over Brian’s head. “You’re right handed though. What the hell are you doing that with your left hand for?”

I shook my head and let out a subtle laugh. “I don’t know. I do all the shit I’m not supposed to do with my left hand: drink, smoke, jerk off . . . the list is endless.”

“Interesting,” Brian replied. “I didn’t know you still smoked.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t, *.”

***

Dinner dragged as we were seated with some strangers: a heavier woman named Becky, who’d grown up with Yasmine, talked for an hour about how her cat was still throwing up the stuffing from a pillow he’d eaten over a week ago; a couple who didn’t speak a single word throughout dinner, even when we spoke to them; a woman in her late fifties who ate everything on her plate, including the decorative flower; and a guy Gary worked with who had just gotten married for the third time. I wondered why his wife hadn’t come with him to the wedding. But as I watched him get drunk and start dirty dancing with one of the groomsmen, my guess is that wife number three was filing for divorce at that very minute.

How the f*ck did me and Brian get stuck with these losers, especially when we knew some of the other people here? Gary would be hearing about this when he got back from his honeymoon. But as we downed our sixth beers and I told a few stories of some memorable games I’d played years ago, the appropriateness of our seating assignment became as clear as the thick lenses in Becky’ glasses. We were seated with these losers because, well, we were losers too.

By ten o’clock I’d had enough of The Breakfast Club’s ten year reunion. If the party wasn’t coming to me, I’d have to go to the party. So I stripped off my jacket, loosened my tie, and unbuttoned two of my shirt buttons. It was time to dance.

I didn’t make a habit of dancing at weddings. I usually preferred to relax at the bar and then take off early with whoever I’d brought with me. But it was New Year’s Eve, and I was shitfaced. I sure as hell wasn’t leaving early, especially when I had no one to leave early with. May as well make the most of it.

The band played a mix of classic rock, current pop, and modern country mostly, so there was something for everyone. The alcohol coursing through my system made it impossible for me to care how I danced or who I danced with. And for a while, I was pretty sure I was dancing with no one at all.

Until I felt a pair of hands slip around my torso and up my chest from behind me. I enjoyed the feeling of her fingers teasing my stomach so much that I almost didn’t turn around to face her for fear that I wouldn’t like what I saw. Luckily, when I finally did turn, a wave of relief washed over me. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three and was come-in-your-pants gorgeous. Solid Cs, smooth porcelain skin, and the type of hips that begged to be grabbed. So I did, pulling her so that her tight abdomen was against mine and I could feel the graze of her breasts on my chest.