One Friday Night

Chapter One

YOU SON OF A PIG! I LEAVE YOU FOR ONE HOUR TO TRY MY WEDDING GOWN, AND YOU DECIDE TO DO THE HUMPTY HUMP WITH THE SALES LADY? I roared, my eyes seeing only red.

Okay, let’s all hit pause here and take a moment to shout as many curse words in every possible language you know at my ex-fiancé. And while we’re still at it, I’ll explain to clear some things up.

You see, I was — I repeat, was, because no way in Satan’s hairy ass am I getting back with that poor excuse of a representative for the opposite sex — engaged to this disgusting creature I had known in college. He’s what I always thought my Mr. Perfect would be: sweet, caring, gentleman, generous and understanding. A dreamboat or overall package, as some would say. He can sweep you off of your feet with that once-pleasing-in-my-eyes grin in a blink of an eye and have you find yourself trip over your words like you’re some sort of illiterate.

Geoff Jetting is a panty-dropping, two-faced AF man whore that until a few moments ago, I believed is part of the five percent stick-to-one guys out there; a highly devious creature that will convince you he’s so loyal to the point you trust him completely. But like all men, he still has the capacity and gall to cheat.

With those chocolate brown eyes that hypnotize you, a Colgate smile that blind you, six-pack abs that are hard as a rock and a cute babyish face that now make me think twice about my life, trust me, girls, those things can either be the devil or an angel.

Geoff has been my boyfriend for three years, fiancé of two months and the president of Jetting Motors, a station that was passed on to him by his father after we graduated. It was all a waste of time, now, that I look at it. I could have done lots of adventurous things or partied properly instead of getting together with him in my last year of college. But no.

Despite my friends’ warnings, I had to go and be blinded by all those sweet but fake gestures. Those dinners by candlelight, laying on the grass and stargazing kind of dates... pfft, all lies. I am disgusted by how I threw their warnings aside. I mean, what kind of friend did that make me? I should have, at least, considered it; instead, I was delusional to even think that he was willing to wait for an inexperienced, prick-tease virgin like me; the one who had this amazing moral that was forever etched in her.

Not that I mind, though. I am beyond glad I didn’t give up the card to him. Ha! Point for me.

Ugh, now, go and hit play. I really want to get this over with.

The sales lady reddens, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Well, at least, she has the decency to look ashamed and embarrassed. Geoff, on the other hand, has this rotten smirk and relieved look on his face, completely unabashed as if he intended to get caught.

"Oh, thank goodness! Now I can stop pretending. Well, good night to you, Allie. Just catch a cab home, okay? And if it isn’t obvious enough, the wedding is off, but I paid for the dress already so you can keep that little piece of rag. Ciao!" He picked his blazer off the lush cream-colored couch and waved goodbye, the cheeky smirk still plastered on his now devilish face.

I watch as his back disappears from my line of sight, willing myself to run after him, to give him a piece of Athena Allison Hastings’ limited edition, wedding-style bitch freak, but my body cannot move an inch. I am too paralyzed from the anger, shock, betrayal, and heartbreak. I force myself to do something, anything ― too bad my muscles felt like freezing in place.

A whole five minutes must have gone by, I don’t know. My brain is having trouble on how to respond. The sales lady scuttled off, but I don’t have enough energy to waste on her. I feel so lifeless ― helpless even. The first drop of tear came as I fumble for my cellphone with gritted teeth, finally regaining control over my limbs. With trembling hands, I immediately dial my best friend and supposed maid of honor, Lacey Burhop.

C’mon, pick up, you blonde Barbie! I hiss.

Lacey answers on the fifth ring. Allie! How’s the dress fitting? she greeted in her usual perky voice.

I take several steadying breaths, struggling to maintain my cool, and then, I spoke through my teeth, barely keeping a lid on my anger.

"That absolute wanker, I caught him kissing the sales lady... a sales lady, Lace. He went from a multinational banking company heiress to some shitty looking brunette!"

Lacey let out a string of colorful profanities in English, Russian, French, Japanese, and Spanish, only two of which I understood. I’m quite impressed, to be honest. Being a translator has its perks at times. I hear a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, a signal that my best friend has calmed down enough to not cuss me into next week.

I’m so sorry, Allison, but I can’t leave Nana alone even if I wanted to, she said apologetically after her tirade. Maybe Henrie or Finn can pick you up?

I sob quietly, knowing fully well that the ninety-two-year-old grandmother of Lacey needed more attention than I do.

I inhale through my nose. Don’t worry about me, Lace, I’ll be fine. I just need to... I trail off. What do I need, exactly?

My eye catches the window of the store, and an idea comes to mind. I end the call promptly and gather my things. If I tell her what I am planning on doing, she will go thermonuclear on me in a nanosecond. Lacey and I are the same in that way. We blow up faster than you can say Kumbaya.

With one last glance in the mirror, I admire my Victorian satin gown for the final time, running my hand over the beadwork. Pain slices through my heart. I can’t...

Clutching my purse in one hand and bunching the hem of my gown in the other, I march out of Delights Bridal Shop.

The crowd of pedestrians parts for me like the Red Sea, and for a moment, I revel in that. Despite my tears, I laugh at myself. Talk about a crazy bride. Just across the street is a bar; a dingy and slightly doubtful one at that, but dare I question what a bar is doing in front of a bridal shop? It is my safe haven tonight after all.

The place is all cramped up when I walk in after I made the measly bouncer back off with the signature murderous glare of mine. Strobe lights bathe people in different colors, women who haven’t heard of proper clothing serve drink all around while men grope and fondle their flavors of the night. Half of the population inside the bar are even making out, others obviously swinging for the other team. Beer and cigarettes seem to be the constant smell all around the place, but it is bearable enough for me not to die of suffocation before I even die of heartbreak.

At least, they’re minding their own businesses and not staring at me as if I’ve lost my damn marbles.

I perch on a high bar stool, and a small, green-eyed man in a vest over a white long-sleeved shirt nodded at me. What’re you gettin’, dolly?

Whiskey, please, I mutter, a bit shyly, my eyes flitting apprehensively around my surroundings.

He silently pours some in a glass before sliding it to me. I accept it with mumbled thanks. I feel his eyes on me linger while I stare at the liquid swirling inside.

Want some ice with that?

I nod. I blink at the clink of the cubes of ice when the man drops it with a tong. His stare doesn’t waver on my profile.

Are ya’ okay, lady? His voice sounded scared. He probably should be. On the other hand, though, how many forlorn-looking brides has he met in is life?

I sigh and wave my hand dismissively. "Oh, I am wonderful. I just came from a gown fitting across the street — it’s hard to miss especially that you’re working here ― when I caught my ex-fiancé shoving his tongue down the sales lady’s throat. He didn’t even look sorry! Ugh, that ugly son of a―"

A bottle of Peroni.

I look up irritably at the man with the pretty accent who had settled beside me without me noticing. Even in my angry state, there’s no missing the fact that he is delish, and it hits me full force like an avalanche. His molten amber eyes pierce through me with just a bare glance, and he’s much better looking than all of Michelangelo’s creations put together.

The man is wearing a dark gray Giorgio Armani suit that very much becomes him. I should probably wonder what this Greek god paradigm of perfection and male sex appeal is doing in such a pigsty, but damn, have you seen his arms? They look very dangerous under his suit like guns wrapped in paper with the words OPEN ME NOW! written all over it.

What his good genes don’t change ― much to mine and probably everyone’s dismay ― is the fact that I am put out with him. No use having impeccable looks without proper manners anyway so I did whatever I would do in a situation such as this: I poke him on the jaw, his stubble pricking my index finger lightly.

Tell me I did not just do that?

A little voice in my head scoffed, You did, you creep. Congratulations!

Hey, I was talking! Nobody interrupts an almost bride when she’s talking, I snap.

Greek god angles himself facing me, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. My mouth goes dry on sight.

"My apologies, dolcezza. Perhaps, I could ask why you are wearing that dress of yours to continue what I am sure is quite a fascinating tale."

His endearment sends hot flashes through my body, and I have to open my mouth a little to accommodate my heavy breathing. With a shiver, I shake my head, stare at the whiskey I have yet to touch and sigh. "I, unfortunately, caught my fiancé making out with the sales lady; showed no remorse whatsoever. So I am here, intending to drink my heart out. Boo-fucking-hoo."

He nods and offers me the Peroni. I decline, gesturing to my own drink.

He sighs. That’s quite tragic, but can I confess that I have seen the whole thing?

I nearly stumble down my stool. Do I hear this sexy, hot male right? My head whips to him.

What? I breathed. You have to be kidding me. What are you? Are you from the Mafia? The Cartel? Have you come to take me?

He narrows his eyes a little. You sound too calm for someone who suspects I’m from the Mafia or the Cartel for that matter.

I’ve been known to react well to highly pressurized situations.

Good to hear, he answers dryly.

Answer my question, Godfather.

The man sighs another. No, I’m not into any illegal dealings. Sorry to burst your bubble of imagination; however... he trails off with an odd look in his eyes.

With a snap of his fingers, a tall man from behind him hands him a folder. He slides it to me tentatively as I look at it dumbly. Wha― Oh. Does he expect me to open it? This must be a joke. What if it’s just some sort of scam or magical modus operandi? People get murdered because of witchcraft. I mean, haven’t you guys watched the Harry Potter films?

I knew Geoff would only break your heart. He’s been cheating on you for about a year now, he said solemnly.

P-preposterous! I spluttered. Well, not exactly but this dude doesn’t need to know that.

The man in front of me seems to go along my line of thought as he raised a thick brow. Well then. If so, just please. He nods his head to the folder. Humor me.

I cannot bring myself to raise my hand and open the file. I am beyond afraid he will see how I badly I am shaking, yet he has this patient look on his face. He doesn’t force or pressure me. The taunting seems to be the folder’s job.

Do I want to see my ex-fiancé’s infidelity? No, I don’t. Do I need it? That’s what I’m not sure of. I’m not sure about anything, actually. I have been asking myself what I need exactly, and I keep drawing up blank. All I know is that my chest aches in a non-fatal way; my heart is heavy with all this pent up anger and that I badly want a cheeseburger with a side of fries.

But, in a moment of pure bravery, I brace myself and open the file in one swift movement, just like ripping a piece of duct tape off.

My chest feels like exploding upon seeing the countless pictures of Geoff; dry humping girls I recognize from college to being naked with multiple girls in one bed and in one startling photo, his executive assistant. Tears spring instantaneously from my eyes, and soon, I was sobbing uncontrollably. That abominable monster! How could he do this to me? I have been nothing but supportive and faithful, and this is what he does when my back is turned?

A man has needs, Allie. You didn’t want it, so he had to get his fix somewhere or better yet, someone else.

My heart broke yet again. Stupid conscience. Stupid heart.

A fresh handkerchief materializes in front of me. I take it without hesitation and blow my nose. Who cares if I look like a slob? I certainly don’t.

Why are you helping me? I don’t even know you, I mutter sullenly after a few moments of bawling my eyes out. He keeps staring at me all the while I cried, and that unnerves me a little. Okay, a lot.

His pink lips arch up as he smoothly holds out a long-fingered hand. Ryder Black, at your service.

I gingerly place my hand in his, blushing profusely as he kisses the back of my hand without taking his eyes off of me. Damn it, Allie! Stop hyperventilating for the guy. But how can I not? Who does that in this day and age?

I’m― I mumble as I struggle to form a coherent sentence, but he cuts me off again, for the second time in one night. I huff.

― Athena Allison Hastings, twenty-three years of age, only daughter of Niccolo Hastings Jr., sole heir to Hastings Union of Banking and Finance, Bachelor degree holder in Harvard, Business major, he smiles. I know.

I raise an eyebrow in amusement, the only reaction I am capable of making at the moment in spite of my annoyance. Well, somebody did their homework.

Ryder grins, but it falls off his face quickly, his expression turning business-like. I will come straight to the point, Miss Hastings. I want you to sign this contract— His henchman produced another folder in front of me as he spoke. Where are all those folders coming from? — consenting to be my wife in three months’ time. There will be no exit clauses, no prenuptial agreements, and divorce will only be possible after the first year if you want to. In return, I can help you make the biggest payback aimed at the one and only Geoff Jetting.

I didn’t even help my laughter from brimming out. My head was thrown back, clutching my sides as I laugh so hard I felt an eight-pack coming on. Tears flow down my cheeks for a different reason, this time, and the release is cathartic. I haven’t laughed like this in a very long time. Ryder simply waits for me to finish, raising an eyebrow when I finally calmed down.

Are you done?

I ignore him. Okay. I let a little chuckle escape. "Say I did sign that contract of yours. What makes you think I can’t get my own payback, Monsieur Black? I am an heiress after all. I have connections and means too," I say, and for some reason, I hear myself color my words with seduction.

Great. I’m already flirting with the guy, and I haven’t touched my drink yet.

He smirks, an expression of his that chases my breath away with the coldness and subtle deviousness in it. Tingles go up and down my spine as I stare, transfixed.

"Yes, but do you really think you can hurt someone you loved so much? I don’t think you’re that kind of person, Miss Hastings. Marry me, and I can inflict pain on that bastard in a snap of my fingers."

That sounds tempting, the inflicting pain part, I mean. Actually, anything that involved breaking a certain Geoff Jetting sounds like music in my ears. He’s right, though. No matter how much I deny it, I can’t hurt Geoff all by myself. Somebody has to push me off the ledge.

I watch the ice swirl with the whiskey inside my glass and smile to myself idiotically. I can’t believe I’m actually considering this! For goodness’ sake, this is a marriage on the line. How many times have I dreamt of the perfect wedding, a wedding wherein I will be in union with the one I truly loved forever?

I glance at Ryder who was still smirking sexily at me. Well, I wouldn’t mind marrying that hot piece of meat.

In fact, I am past caring what happened next. I am tired of being so controlled and uptight, and I am certainly letting loose. Additionally, didn’t contract marriages usually end up pretty nice in stories? Why not make my life one hell of a fairytale? I need to make up for all the lost fun by being so responsible. Besides, if things don’t work out, the divorce rate in this country is already high. Another one wouldn’t hurt.

Right?

I snatch the contract from the counter without preamble and quickly scan over the terms and conditions. Jeez, talk about relationships of that kind. I find myself over thinking again, and I cannot have that now. Ryder offers his fountain pen to me, and I take a moment to admire the flower motif. Pretty. I tear the cap off with my teeth and immediately sign, leaving no room for cold feet and definitely sealing off my fate for the whole year or so and hoping I am not making a huge mistake. After I sign, I hand the folder back, sharing the same dark grin with Ryder Black.

This is going to be good, Allie. I promise. He grabs hold of my hand firmly, an action I am not anticipating.

My heart beats fast against my ribcage and feels as if I’m having palpitations. Bile starts to rise up my throat, my chest hurting. Before I knew it, I was vomiting splendidly all over a pair of expensive custom-made black leather shoes.

Aww, crap!

Chapter Two

Have you ever had a hangover? Yes? Good. At least, there’s some mutual understanding going on between us in this particular playing field. We’ve made so much progress I’d hate if we hit a snag.

Now, have you ever promised to yourself you are never going to drink again and broke that promise, anyway? Hell yeah? I did too. I knew I’d regret it, but do I care? No. No, I don’t.

As soon as I have regained clear eyesight from my sleep, I immediately recognize that I am not in my own bed. The bed I am in, to put it in simpler terms, is much bigger and smells too much of the opposite sex. Plus, I do not do ultra-sized beds. I get cold at night even with the blankets. Not to mention, there’s a half-naked man sleeping beside me who probably caused me to reach out for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

Who leaves booze on their bedside table? I wonder idly. I’m not going to complain, though. I need it.

As I take a mouthful (and keep myself from cussing out at the bitter taste), I try to picture this in a non-embarrassing light as if this is the morning after a normal one night stand; something that I would never have thought to do and certainly something that I would expect waking up to naked or at least half-naked ― not wearing my tattered and dirtied wedding dress.

Wait, my gown last night... Oh, crap. No― oh, vomit!

I desperately try not to panic or make any sudden movements that will surely cause my stomach roll and for me, to get a repeat of last night on black satin sheets now, though, instead of a pretty suit and expensive leather shoes. All I can remember of last night was signing a piece of paper and emptying the contents of my stomach on Ryder. After that, he tried to drag me home, but somehow, I managed to down the whole content of a whiskey bottle as I got chased around. I also distinctly remember eating a cheeseburger and some fries while slumped on the sidewalk. The rest is a bit blurry.

I should be gathering my stuff and taking off right now, never looking back. I shouldn’t have even drunk last night just out of pure sadness. That was stupid. The wise Allie should never even be drinking at six in the morning for goodness’ sake. I look down at my gown. Gee, couldn’t he have changed my clothes? I mean, that’s what a gentleman would do, right? Last night’s events sum up pretty clear in my head. There is just one little detail I had to freak out on when my eyes land on Ryder Black.

WAKE UP! WAKE UP, YOU CREEPY BASTARD!

Ryder opens one sleepy eye after the other before groaning. I ignore the shivers running up and down my spine at the sound.

What the hell, Allie? It’s too early for you to scream the building down, he mumbles, shutting his eyes again.

I swear if you don’t get up, you will regret my method of rubbing your damned sleep out!

He must have known better to obey a woman who is shouting at six in the morning wearing a wedding gown and reeks of alcohol. How very smart of him.

All right, all right, he says as he stands, letting me get an eyeful of his toned body. I avert my eyes and stomp down the blush. I’m up.

"Is my memory serving me right? Because it tells me that I signed a freaking contract consenting to be your wife in three bloody months!" I exclaim.

He raises an eyebrow in mere amusement at me before stretching. I watch as those muscles flex and ripple. Pfft, never mind he’s half-naked, at least he has a nice body. And nice abs. Did I mention he has a nice body and has nice abs? I did? Twice? Oh, good.

Can we talk about this over breakfast, Miss Hastings? And maybe after you have showered? Richards has brought you some fresh clothes to change to though I think your dress is quite unsalvageable, he said with a nod to a chair where there lay a fresh change of clothes for me.

Oh my goodness, that smile should be illegal.

As tempting as the shower sounds and from the smell of it, there is no mistaking I threw up; I want to know whether I did sign a contract and not just a flimsy sheet of paper. I stubbornly put my fists on my hip. I must’ve resembled a cave woman.

Mr. Black― wait, Black, right?

He presses his lips in a tight line, his eyes twinkling with laughter. The nerve of this man to even be amused at me is ridiculous.

Yes, he answers.

I nod, getting my head in the game. "Right, Mr. Black, I think ― no ― I know I have a right to know at this very moment what I had gotten myself into. And is it not my intoxicated state last night when I signed the agreement an excuse to why I did such thing? I mean, clearly, I was not in any condition to make sensible choices."

He sighs and runs a hand through his curly mop of black hair. Yes, you did sign a contract stating you're agreeing in becoming my wife. But please, Allie, don’t kid yourself. You were not drunk when you signed the contract. Your perfect signature says it all.

His unfeeling tone makes me want to bash his face all the way into his skull. I clench my fists as if to hang on to the last strip of patience I have, gritting my teeth and breathing in deeply as an added measure.

Nope, the little voice in the back of my head whispered, You can’t kill him.

I stare daggers at the smirk that bloomed on his lips.

Okay, well maybe not yet.

What is it that you want so badly that you have to trick and take advantage of an alone, heartbroken, and depressed woman such as I? I ask with exasperation and irritation rolled into one. You are obviously rich, so I gather you don’t need any money. If it’s a woman you want, well, you picked the wrong sort. There are a lot of better girls out there. I don’t know exactly where, but there are. Try the red light district.

His smirk falters, a cold, hard haze shrouding his warm eyes. Pressing his lips tightly, he takes a step closer towards me.

"We shall discuss our situation further when you have made yourself presentable. I’ll call your father of your whereabouts and drop you off after our discussion. The bathroom is through the door to your left. And Miss Hastings, he said, almost hissing in that deep voice of his, It is not trickery if you readily agreed to it. Remember that."

With that, he walks briskly out of the room, leaving me agitated more than I already am. What a jerk! Just what exactly did I get myself sucked into? Gathering up the clothes in my arms, I make my way to the en-suite bathroom. Mr. Hotshot is going to have a nice long talking with me later.

But you signed the contract!

I ignore my conscience. Who the hell comes up to a woman with a contract, anyway? What have our species been reduced to?

The vast wet room was made of fine marble all the way with two sinks and vanity closets, a large shower sealed by a matted glass door, and a large tub with faucets normal people would have a hard time to understand. Everything just screams money bags. What does he even need a big bathroom for? Men, I’ll never understand them.

Claustrophobia?

Quite possibly.

I reach back to unzip my dress, struggling to get my hands on the damn zip. After a few more futile attempts, I have no choice but to ask for help. Seriously, I cannot be more embarrassed than I already am. I stick my head out of the bathroom and see Ryder’s smooth back. I stifle a gasp as I see his tattoo of a huge dragon. Its head rested on his right shoulder with the legs on either side of his spine while the tip of its tail curled on his lower back. The details are so clear, vivid as if it’s real. Ryder’s tanned skin looks great with his tattoo. It must’ve hurt a lot, though. I wonder when he got that.

It’s the Chinese Imperial dragon. The greatest of its kind, he murmurs before facing me, a softer expression on his profile than the one before he left, but still distant.

I blink and force myself to swallow, embarrassed that he caught me staring. I-I’m sorry.

He cocked his head to the side, I thought you were going to shower?

Oh! Um, yeah. I blush. Dammit, he made me blush! My zipper, I can’t get out of my dress.

The smirk I am beginning to get irritated of slowly makes its appearance, Oh really now?

I glower at him, Shut it.

With three long strides, he is behind me. My heart thumps loudly, too loudly, making me blush to my roots. Forget butterflies, I have rampaging ostriches in my stomach!

What in the world, Allie? My subconscious hisses from her permanent residence inside my head. You just came from a major breakup, and now, you have the hots for another guy? Not cool, sister. Not cool!

I hear instead of seeing the undoing of my dress. He is agonizingly slow; his finger traces my skin as it went, making my body react weirdly. He stops just an inch above unchartered territories. The normal reaction would be to get away as fast as I could as if I was escaping the plague, but among other feelings, I feel particularly calm. What a bold thing to be right now.

There you go, he murmurs, and even though I am a hundred percent sure he didn’t mean it, his breath tickled my nape.

Ever forgot to breathe? Yeah, I think I did too just now.

Without further ado, I hastily run back to the en suite and step out of the dress. I decide to do my crying episode later tonight when I am safe and alone in the confines of my home, so I lather and rinse quickly. Ryder’s choice of shampoo and soap is a far cry from what Geoff smelled like. Whereas Geoff emanates a fragrance that can make you interested, Ryder’s scent smells as if you have absolutely no chance of escape or sobriety. I step out and grab a huge, fluffy towel to dry myself off. My reflection in the wide mirror makes me stop in my tracks.

Saying I look like hell is putting it too mildly. Even my pretty blue-green eyes look lifeless and dull; my dirty blonde hair that cuts in the middle of my back is too flat. I look as if I’ve been through a lot in less than twelve hours, which is quite accurate really. The makings of dark circles under my eyes have begun, exhaustion making me even more depressed at the moment.  I slip on the new undergarments and proceed to the skinny jeans and a flowing, silky blouse with a square neckline. I have no other shoes available to me at the moment, so I guess I’ll just have to make good with the white pumps I was wearing last night.

The dress lies on the floor, tattered, dirty at the hem, ruined bead work, and torn beyond repair. Dejection surges through me as I pick it up and fold it neatly. Ryder wasn’t kidding when he said it had little to no chances of resurrection. I’m not even sure if I want to keep the damn thing; it brings too many unwelcome memories.

Shaking my head, I hunt for a hair dryer, checking through multiple drawers. Everything from razors to men’s facial wash is neatly arranged inside, and I am actually surprised to see this much beauty paraphernalia in a bathroom owned by a guy. Finn, one of my best friends, is a class-A slob and certainly doesn’t spend eons on his appearance. He probably just dives into the tub, dries himself off, brushes his teeth if he’s feeling extra hygienic, and throws on the first item of clothing he puts his hands on. I find the blower with a pair of eyeglasses beside it. So Ryder wears glasses? That’s interesting. I’d like to see him wear one someday.

What am I thinking? No, you don’t want to see Ryder Black wear glasses anytime in the immediate future, Allie, I berate myself.

Plugging the blow dryer on, I make short work of my hair with a brush and then, proceed to dry it thoroughly. After I’m done, I braid my hair into an updo to fall into a semblance of a human since I have no make-up on me, short tendrils framing my face in soft waves. Walking back into the bedroom, I find my purse on the already made bed. I check my cellphone, but my battery is already dead. Good. At least, I don’t have to face the voicemails and death threats of my friends. My father must be worried, though, and that makes me queasy.

I take a moment for