Chapter 1
Greta was twenty-six the second time she managed to get entangled in a binding promise with her so-called sisters. Yet again, and probably not surprisingly, there was booze involved. But, free booze was pretty much the only perk of being a bridesmaid. And the only free thing. This particular occasion was the wedding of Angie, her oldest sister. Before that, it had been Beth, her middle sister. Before that, Jennifer, her youngest sister. Before them, there had been Sheri and Melissa from school, and Paula from summer camp.
Yep, the view around this table was getting pretty familiar. Same duties, different dresses. Overpriced dresses. Amy poured another round of tequila for the never-brides, and a vodka shot for the inescapable Michael.
“To not always being a bridesmaid,” she toasted.
“Hear, hear,” replied Michael. She punched him.
“Seriously, is it just me, or do they all … blend together after a while? I can’t remember who had the cupcake tower or the chocolate fountain. Who rented the theater and who had the live doves? Everything is just the same kind of different, and it’s all boring as hell,” Greta said. Although the music was better this time. And the DJ was way cuter. She grabbed a lime wedge from the bowl they had appropriated and stuck it in her mouth to cover her teeth and grinned bright green at them. None of the clever (and occasionally delicious) accoutrements meant the marriages would last any longer.
“It’s all in my bridesmaid scrapbook,” offered Summer, snatching the lime out and throwing it at her.
“I don’t actually care. I’m just making a point. The first wedding was exciting. The second two were easy, because we knew what to expect. Now it’s just tedious. And frankly, kind of embarrassing. Oh, here come the perpetual bridesmaids, to the singles table. Again.” She glanced back at the DJ. Way cuter. Thank you, Angie.
“Seriously, you guys. I figured by now, I’d be married, so I could pretend to be too busy with my wifely duties to say yes to any more maid stints.” Amy picked at the strap of her turquoise dress as the entire table groaned. Turquoise was a big color lately. This was their third dress in the shade. Not that they could re-wear.
The biggest lie ever told to bridesmaids was that the dresses were re-usable.
“It’s not for lack of trying, I’ll give you that,” Michael smirked. “How many proposals have your so-called besties nixed now?”
“Only three, thank you very much. The other nine just—didn’t work out.” She clearly realized there was no real way to maintain her dignity through this statement, and poured more shots to cover.
“Really, Amy?” asked Greta. She donned an expression of utter innocence. “It was so surprising that the guy you were tree-sitting with didn’t work out?” Sometimes her friend made it too easy.
“You weren’t there, Greta. Rainn was so poetic. We were in that tree for sixty-two days. We shared absolutely everything. And the sponge-baths…” Amy smiled dreamily, recalling some of the particulars.
Michael spit some of his vodka out. “Hideous. That is hideous.”
“How was I supposed to know he was already married to a girl in another tree?” It had turned out Rainn had a type. The song changed, and Greta bobbed her head. There was an air of familiarity to this song, but she didn’t think she knew it. It was just a sense of nostalgia in the beat, in the surprisingly gentle tones of the girl crooning across the bass. She did not have a type, not like Rainn, but if she did it would be a DJ who played music like this.
“I thought you shared everything.” Summer’s eyes could not have rolled any further without getting lost back there.
“Wait, wait, remember the time you got engaged at Burning Man?” Greta added through her giggles. “To the trash collector?”
“He was a recycling specialist. And he treated me like a goddess. Until the LSD wore off and he realized I wasn’t actually one.” Amy seemed not to like the turn this evening was taking. “So what? So what if I’ve been unlucky in love? A few more times than most? At least I haven’t hidden my sentimentality beneath a tough-as-nails exterior like you, Summer. Or closed myself off to it entirely, like you, Greta.
“The right one’s going to come along for me. And for you, too, naysayers.” She squinted at them. Greta couldn’t tell if she was trying to look serious, or cut the booze-induced blurriness.
“It better. I’m about sick of being the token escort,” Michael teased.
“Oh, like your love life is so awesome.” Greta leaned over to shove him, but under-reached and hit Summer instead. She tried to move back, gave up, and stayed slumped against her friend instead.
“Ow!” Summer shoved Greta upright and hit Michael. “That was meant for you.”
“Look, I’m not the one wearing my seventh bridesmaid’s dress. And I always leave these things with at least one phone number. Which is more than I can say for any of you.” He glanced out at the dance floor and winked at a groomsman.
“Well, it’s not my fault Amy has the worst taste in men and we keep having to veto her choices.” Summer was still rubbing her shoulder. She reached over Amy to grab the bottle.
“It’s not my fault Summer thinks she can only date fictional men.” Greta held her shot glass out with a slightly wobbly hand.
“It’s not my fault Greta thinks she’s dating us.” Amy held out her glass too.
“You three are the most ridiculous people I have ever met. If you all hate each other’s taste so much, why don’t you just figure it out for each other? Seeing as you guys know everything, and all. I’ll be on the dance floor.” Michael slammed his vodka down and went off to join a conga line behind the groomsman in question.
The girls stared at each other. Had it really been so obvious all along? Amy always picked men based on their causes, not their worth. Summer and Greta knew that. But then, Greta and Amy always knew that Summer was too scared that after the third date, no one would live up to her expectations. And Summer and Amy were extremely vocal about Greta’s jaded attitude keeping her from dating at all.
Once Michael pointed it out, they knew just what to do. One by one, they spit in the tequila and linked pinkies, ignoring a nasty glare from the mother of the groom. Salt, shot, lime, and it was set in stone.
They were totally picking each other’s dates from then on.
“Now that’s settled, shall we dance?” Amy stood up and started doing the body roll.
“I need more margaritas if I’m going to dance. I’m not done with this—this yet. Let’s write out our boyfriend specifications. I have a few brilliant ideas for you two.” Greta had ideas all right. Lots of them. She grabbed a nearby cocktail napkin.
“I’m on my fourth, there’s no way my handwriting is going to make sense in the morning. Shouldn’t we have a family meeting when we’re sober instead?” Summer was shaking her ass in her seat and casting longing looks at the Tootsie Roll happening on the floor. But when Greta made up her mind, she could not be swayed.
“I’m gonna—hic—even let you do me first.” She was being over-generous; tequila always brought out that quality in her.
“That’s what she said,” Summer giggled. “Okay, then. Gimme some paper. Or … something. Gimme something.” She snatched Greta’s napkin.
Amy produced a lipliner from her fake-leather clutch. The look of glee on her face almost made Greta take back her offer. They definitely should not have had that last shot.
“Firstly. A hottie. You haven’t dated in so long, you can’t just say yes to the first average dudebro.” She nodded in agreement with herself.
“I would not date a dudebro, Drunk Amy. That can be marked off the list immediately. But what’s wrong with an average guy? They’d probably be okay with my quirks. And I am okay with that.”
“Greta Steinburg, what you call quirks, the rest of us see for the copouts they are. When you pull this whole, ‘oh I can’t possibly go out, because my ward will want to watch Doctor Who’ bullshit, we all know you are forcing the poor child you nanny to come watch television with you in your apartment.” Amy giggled like a madwoman.
“Or how you never come to pizza night cause you have gluuuuten problems. But it’s really cause you have don’t wanna wear paaaants problems!” she added through her laughter.
“Not fair. I do too have gluten problems. With or without pants on.” Greta wasn’t entirely certain she’d made her point. Anyway, she liked staying in with Mina, so what? She actually enjoyed her job and Mina was awesome and shared her tastes in quality television shows. Not to mention that being a live-in nanny meant she tailored her schedule to match the nine year-old’s, and not the other way around. Social lives always suffered when kids were involved, and that was how it should be. Only people like her father, and possibly Mina’s, didn’t seem to accept that.
“I call bullshit. You know it, we know it. Doesn’t really matter what you admit.” Summer always told it like it was, and when she had a few drinks, well, she was brutally honest.
Greta sighed heavily. How could it be that her friends were tougher on her than her siblings? It was Angie’s wedding, but her sister was kind enough not to seat her next to an eligible bachelor the groom knew. Because Ang knew her little sister was just flat out not interested. In fact, her entire family had long ago stopped trying to set her up.
It was just her pseudosisters now. Amy and Summer, in whom hope sprang eternal that if one of them found true love, the others would swiftly fall like dominoes.
* * *
As she formulated her rebuttal, the DJ looked up and caught her eye. Her first instinct was to look down, uncomfortable at being caught staring, but something about the searching look he gave her made her feel pinned in place. Even across the room, she could see his eyes were a startlingly green. With a deft flick of his wrist, the song changed seamlessly into something slower, and couples began to pair up on the floor.
“Just like that,” Summer was muttering. Greta wrenched her eyes away from his magnetic gaze to glance down at the napkin, which now said things like “tall,” “dirty blonde,” “lean,” and “DJ”. Oh, no.
“Seriously, can I not even admire the view without you two reading something into it?” She wasn’t just pretending to be annoyed. Drunk Amy was notorious for getting blabbermouthy, and the last thing Greta wanted was for her friend to accost this poor DJ. Poor, hot DJ. Poor, smoking hot DJ. She wasn’t going to look back. Nope.
She looked back. His eyes were still on her, not lasciviously, but almost thoughtful. Maybe she looked like someone he knew, she thought. People occasionally told her she reminded them of Amy Winehouse, with her small frame, big hair, and thick eye makeup. Unlike Amy, she was completely drug free. There was one hundred percent less heroin involved in her own look, just genetics, the aforementioned gluten sensitivity, and MAC. His attention returned to the decks in front of him, and she was able to study him closer.
In the sea of semi-formal wear bobbing on the floor, he stood out in a casual white button-down and straight-leg jeans. She took stock of him, his hair was short but unkempt like he mussed it often, setting off his shockingly green eyes. His look screamed casual but he was laser focused on the music as if everyone fell away and he had the room to himself. He barely nodded his head to the beat, as if restrained by his own focus on keeping it going …
“You’ve got champagne taste, my friend,” came Summer’s voice in her ear, Damn it, she had to stop staring. “DJ Force is like the hottest thing on the San Fran music scene. Didn’t you see his big write-up on the SFRightNow blog last week? They say he’s like the Californian Calvin Harris.”
In fact, Greta had stopped her subscription to that blog a month prior, after they had slammed her favorite gluten-free brewery as a hipster-catnip waste of time. She eyeballed DJ Force and idly wondered what kind of beer he liked.
“He’s playing my sister’s wedding. If this is champagne taste, I’m afraid I’m buying Andre,” Greta turned to grin at the other girl. “And what kind of a name is Force, anyway?”
“He’s friends with Matt. Your new brother-in-law? I’m shocked that you didn’t know this. Force may not be the best name, but hey, with a face like that and the talent he’s got, he can call himself anything he wants. I’m not kicking him out of bed for eating crackers.” Summer waggled her eyebrows.
“I don’t see why you would. He could even have some Cheez Wiz in bed with those crackers.” The gestures Amy was making just a little too vigorously left no doubt that Cheez Wiz was a euphemism.
“Gross, you guys! You know I tune out wedding talk. That’s what my other sisters are for. I’m just the eternal bridesmaid, that’s my role. And I’m not going to bed with anyone, crackers or not, much less someone who calls himself Force.”
“Your loss. I bet he knows a thing or two about rhythm. And its not like your disposition has been improved by all the times you didn’t go to bed with someone. I’d hire you a sex partner if I thought you’d take me up on it.” Summer’s brows were going again. It was difficult to be annoyed at someone so enthusiastically silly.
“You know full well I’m not bringing a guy home to my boss’s house. I am done with this conversation!” Greta raised her voice to be heard over the opening notes of That Thing You Do. This was one of her favorite songs, and DJ Force was creating a remix, infusing it with a few different melodies. She was digging it. Maybe those music bloggers were on to something. She pulled Summer by the arm. “Come on, let’s dance!”
She chose not to dwell on the fact that the dance floor would give her a much nicer view of the unfortunately-named DJ in question.
* * *
And she couldn’t dance, Jon mentally added to the list of reasons why he shouldn’t continue staring at the pint-sized beauty on the floor before him. The list was actually more of a multi-circular Venn diagram, and this girl fell into the intersection of “no more girls while building career,” “no dating mates’ sisters,” and “seriously, though, no mates’ sisters.”
Her arms were flailing a bit like she might break into the chicken dance, and her legs were shuffling. She knew every word to the song, yet somehow couldn’t identify a beat anywhere. But she looked like she was having a blast. It was charming.
Confidence always was.
The fact that she could be confident and silly was refreshing. He scanned the crowd, taking in the confectionary bridesmaid dresses interspersed with the half-drunk guests smiling and dancing … or, well, trying. Wobbling was a better term than dancing after a bit too much of the champagne.
He had to admit, when Matt had asked him to DJ this wedding, he groaned. A wedding, really? One of the perks of growing fame was never doing weddings again. But he owed Matt a favor, after the guy had coached him through a nasty breakup, and saying out loud that he was too good for weddings was a bit shit, wasn’t it? So although he would rather turn in his decks then admit it, he was having a great time. When people came to his shows, they knew they liked him. Watching people who’d never once heard his name respond to his music … that was a drug.
Jon knew he was talented and more than a little bit lucky, but when your star was on the rise, everyone wanted a ride. The clubs, the parties, the girls … all fun, all exhausting. He never knew who wanted him, and who just wanted a piece of fame. Even if it was semi-fame. He glanced over at his dancing hot mess.
She looked up at him for a brief moment before blushing and looking back at the girl in a matching dress she’d dragged out to the dance floor. That was the difference, right there. It was her seeming reluctance to connect with him. The models and wannabe singers who set their sights on him had done just that—made sure he knew they were looking. Made sure he knew they were willing to go to bed with him if he was willing to introduce them to the right people, get them into the right clubs.
It was gross, really, the transactional aspect of becoming famous. Emotionless sex-for-a step-up. How easily people were willing to trade their souls for the promise of stardom. How little that promise had to be in order to deserve their attention, their bodies. People who probably grew up with dreams beyond his, but settled for selling themselves to the lowest bidder.
What was even sadder was that Jon was so easily duped into thinking that his ex, Leah, she of the nasty break up, was different. How quickly he fell for the first pretty face that also happened to have a brain behind it; a brain that recognized his insecurities and used them to wrap him around her conniving little finger.
He wasn’t going to relive that humiliation for the umpteenth time tonight, though. Tonight was a good night. Matt was getting married and he couldn’t have picked a better wife, in Jon’s opinion. Angie was good people.
He may have been utterly blind to Leah’s true intentions, but it was clear to everyone with eyes that Angie was head over heels for his mate. For just one second, he let himself wonder what it would be like to have a woman care about him for no other reason than she liked him. His friend had that. Why couldn’t he have that?
Despite the list in his head, the list he had carefully compiled under Matt’s instructions after the breakup, he found himself gazing again at the badly dancing girl in turquoise. As though she felt it, her eyes met his. One side of her mouth quirked up in a half-smile, and it utterly did him in. She wasn’t really Matt’s sister, after all, just an in-law. And she was magnetic.
One of the other bridesmaids, clearly drunk, was grinding on poor Angie as he watched. She looked at the cute one, followed her gaze, and took off. She wound her way towards his girl—no, not his girl, he hadn’t mentally agreed to—and mimed pointing her towards—him? He scratched the record. Totally pointing at him.
Could it possibly happen this easily? That a gorgeous, silly, carefree girl could just drop into his lap a mere six months after he’d sworn off women? It felt like a trap.
But then, so had his first contract.
So had his first real show.
So had every single step along the path from Jon to Force that he’d traveled since his half-assed immigration from southern England to western America.
So what reason did he have to assume this wasn’t another blessing? He looked at the corner of the dance floor that Matt and Angie were occupying, slow dancing through every fast song, whispering together as though no one else on earth existed. And perhaps, for them, no one else did. He suddenly discovered that he wanted that feeling more than he wanted to hear the bass drop.
And nothing was better than the perfect bass drop. Jon looked away from the couple in the corner and into the eyes of Angie’s mysterious sister as her friend shoved her towards him. He took a deep breath. It felt predestined, as she gazed up at him, cheeks still pink.
Yep, that was happening. This was going to be even easier than he had hoped. She’d walk up to him, introduce herself, he’d let her spin a record, she’d be impressed, he’d be suave.
But wait. Why wasn’t she walking towards him? Why was she shaking her head? That was a no. A no? A no to him? A no to him.
Jon loaded the next record automatically, wondering. She’d kept looking at him. Why didn’t she want to talk to him? That was new. Never mind that a few moments ago he was busily telling himself she was probably no one he was interested in. He was interested now. Not just because she so clearly wasn’t.
Maybe.
Self-examination was for suckers. Right now what was important was that he had an in. She may have stolen all the attention, at least in his mind, from the bride, but the bride could answer a few questions for him. He waved Angie over.
“Love, I’ve a few questions about your bridesmaid.” His turn to point.
“My sister? Oh, good luck, friend. I wouldn’t put money on your odds with Greta.” Angie was giggling in a way that suggested a challenge. Well, Jon had certainly never backed down from a challenge.
“I’m not opposed to a small wager…” He grinned at Angie. She grinned back.
And then the bass dropped.
Copyright © 2017 Kayti McGee
