Fall Apart (2 page)

In that guy’s world, anger was simply two doors down from passion, and passion just a skip away from sex. The sex always led to a time of estrangement and then the process began again when he approached the next time. It could even begin with a simple text saying,
You mad?
or
You ignoring me?

Much more difficult to brush off than it seemed. Especially when loneliness came knocking.

Damon secretly hated Andrew and he hated himself more because he’d fallen into that trap
three
times. He didn’t want to see Andrew again. He didn’t want to be used. The onus was on him, though. When Andrew came his way, which he most certainly would, Damon had to keep his mouth shut and escape.

The restaurant lot was packed and it took him several minutes to find a spot he could squeeze into. His truck looked out of place amongst the luxury sedans stretching out in silver and black lines in every direction, but it’s not like he could haul gear and camping equipment over mountain roads in a Benz.

Damon was still a good distance from the entrance when he spotted his only friends in the wedding party waiting outside. Franco was smoking and Todd was on the bench behind him, somehow giving off the impression of extreme boredom even across the parking lot. When Damon was closer he waved and Franco stubbed out his cigarette to jog forward and meet him, his brown, styled hair gleaming in the sunlight.

“You should see the groom,” he laughed and shook Damon’s hand, slapping him on the back as they turned toward Todd. “He’s pissin’ his pants.”

Todd nodded and raised his eyebrows simultaneously by way of a greeting. “How many mimosas do you think I can safely drink at this thing without being completely inebriated for the service?”

“Four,” Damon and Franco answered together after a shared look of deliberation.

Todd gave a very put-upon sigh and turned to go inside. “I hate weddings.”

Damon stepped up beside him and grabbed his shoulder with a staying hand. “I saw you leave with Valerie last night. Something tells me you don’t hate this that much.”

Franco gaped in disbelief. “Valerie? The Maid of Honor? The glacier with facial expressions?”

Todd held his hands out like
What?
and took a few more steps forward before pausing and looking back over his shoulder with a smirk. “I said I hate weddings, but I happen to enjoy the occasional bridesmaid.”

“Valerie?” Franco hissed as Todd abandoned them in the lobby. “
Really?
”

“That’s our Todd: Disenchanted Lady Killer, The Melancholy One. His saga continues.”

Never was a man more blasé—even about getting laid—than Todd. He gave the illusion of a Ghandi-esque calm when it came to companionship, but Damon suspected he was just sorta tired. Years ago, his friend stopped putting energy into anything remotely romantic. If a woman was around and she was interested, okay…fine. Todd wanted sex, but he wasn’t going to break a sweat chasing it. Cynical was his shtick and it was really working for him. The world-weariness was somehow attractive to women and few understood that it all stemmed from a thoroughly crushed heart, courtesy of his college sweetheart, Ella.

“Damn,” Franco frowned, almost certainly picturing the Maid of Honor in her ice queen mode. “Sandra hates Val, you know.”

“Everyone knows.”

Franco’s wife, Sandra, didn’t believe in wishy-washy emotions. Extreme reaction, one way or the other, was a medium she could really work with. She was tough as nails and the scariest woman Damon knew. She ran her home like a 1920s prison warden might and even Franco was terrified of her. In a loving way.

“Does she know you were out smoking?”

“Hell no,” he answered with a shiver. “She thinks I quit.” As if the question reminded him, Franco popped a breath mint. “Don’t tell.”

Damon raised a brow in agreement and peeked through the doors leading into the private hall reserved for the brunch, trying to see where everyone was seated. The bride’s family was grotesquely rich and this wasn’t a wedding so much as an
event
, and not so much an event as it was a
weeklong extravaganza
. It was a super high-class, yet less fun Lollapalooza. Oktoberfest without the cheerful people.

There had been a golfing expedition for all of the men in the wedding party—paid for by the bride’s father, Percy Thackerey—a spa day for the women, a bridal luncheon, an evening of cigars and brandy for the groomsmen, the wedding brunch, the wedding, the wedding reception, and whispers of a wedding gift in the form of a BMW 7 Series. The Thacks, as Damon referred to them, were practically hemorrhaging cash for their little girl’s big day.

Luke’s family was by no means rubbing elbows with the middle class, but even
his
parents looked on with wide eyes at the gargantuan display of wealth that their son’s nuptials were turning into. Somehow, their soon-to-be daughter-in-law had managed to avoid the usual pitfalls associated with a well-off young woman born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and they thought she was wonderful in every regard. And actually, they were pretty much right. Mandy was really cool.

She was the one who figured out he was gay a couple years ago and helped him come out to his best friends. It was a long, long story. Embarrassing, too, but mostly long.

“Come on, gentlemen,” Luke’s voice rang out behind him and Franco. “We’ve gotta go in sometime.”

Damon grinned and pulled the groom into a hug. “If it isn’t the man of the hour! Congrats.”

Luke kept one arm around him and threw the other around Franco. “I’m terrified.”

“Told you,” Franco offered up. “You’ve got it easy, though. Remember my wedding day? Puked six goddamn times. Best day of my life.” And he meant it.

Luke laughed loudly, a little too loudly, and Damon gave the back of his neck a squeeze. “Are you gonna make it?”

His best friend swallowed audibly and stepped away to smooth his hands over his hair. “Yeah. I just wish we were on the plane, heading off for our honeymoon, and that this
production
was over with. I swear I’m going to the bathroom every five minutes, I’m so nervous. All this shit going on and it makes you forget what the celebration’s supposed to be about.”

One of the doors opened nearby and Todd squeezed out with a mimosa in hand. He saluted with it and took a swig. “Number one, boys. Put it on my tab.”

“Are the rest of the guys inside?” Luke asked him and Todd shrugged. He couldn’t stand “the rest of the guys” and avoided speaking to them or acknowledging their existence if at all possible. When he did refer to them, he called them “The Law Turds” since all of them worked at Percy Thackerey’s firm.

From the point that Mandy began planning the wedding, there had been a great deal of discussion about the size of the wedding party. She insisted that there was no way she could have fewer than nine women standing up with her without seriously offending a great many people. Luke, who prided himself on his ability to make and keep only four close friends—one of which was the woman he was marrying—was forced to come up with an additional six men to balance out the guy/girl ratio. He adamantly refused to allow Andrew in the wedding party to Damon’s relief. Although, ten years from now, Luke would look at his wedding photos and have to ask for help identifying the six guys Mandy came up with. Damon couldn’t remember their names, but since they worked for Mr. Thackerey it meant:
Don’t say anything stupid to them that you don’t want the big Thack to hear
.

Todd knocked back the last of his drink and Luke flicked him in the chest. “So…
Valerie
?”

Another shrug. “She’s got a soft candy center,” he admitted, refusing to smile.

Franco’s eyes rolled back in his head. “Don’t tell me these things. No—forget that—tell me.”

A clinking of a knife against fine crystal made it to their ears and Luke visibly braced himself. “Too late. That’s our cue.”

***

Money Bags Thackerey was standing at the head table, a glass in one hand, as a waiter gave him a microphone. He was a charismatic man with the standard salt and pepper hair and booming laugh Alarik had trouble finding sincere. All eyes were glued to him as he opened the brunch with a speech, yet when Alarik lifted his camera; his attention was on the bride, his dearest friend.

Mandy was watching her father like everyone else, but the sunlight was streaming in the window at her back and with her head tilted just so, he was able to get a beautiful silhouette, with wisps of her hair falling softly to her shoulders.

He let his eyes run over the rest of the wedding party at the head table, each person playing his or her role perfectly. The All-American groom. The frosty Maid of Honor. The deeply sincere and kind bride. One true-blue mate. A semi-intoxicated pal. About seven women ready to party and have sex in not-so-secluded places. Some hungry lawyer types eyeing up those women and making bets. And then there was The Best Man.

Alarik’s camera stopped panning and he snapped three shots. He wasn’t for sure, but he thought Mandy said his name was Damon. Even after Alarik continued taking pictures of the party, it was easy to let his attention slide back to that dark hair and winning smile. The guy had no idea that Alarik was scamming pictures, so none of his expressions were filtered or posed. By the time Thackerey finished his speech, Alarik had taken several shots: Damon laughing, smiling, and leaning nearer to the neighbor on his left to hear what she was saying.

Alarik wasn’t the wedding photographer, but taking pictures was his thing and Mandy had hunted him down and invited him there simply for his presence. The camera came with him because it always did. He was one of
those guys
, lugging a Sony or Nikon or a Canon around wherever he went, because he never wanted to miss a great picture. He loved the way photographs became handheld memories. When someone said to him,
“Remember the time we…”
Alarik loved that he could often say,
“Yes, I remember. I have a picture.”

His seat was close to the head table so he had a great line of sight if any opportunities arose that he couldn’t resist, but his spot also offered the added benefit of a perfect view of Damon. Not a bad place to be at all.

Servers in coat tails and black ties swept through the room with platters of food for each table and Alarik let his mind wander. Back in college, after he’d been on his own in New York for a few years, he’d made extra money working as a photographer’s assistant to a real arse who also happened to be a genius. Alarik learned more from Paolo about composition and models, light and technique; than he had in any professional courses he’d ever taken.

Paolo did a lot of editorial work and portfolios for up-and-coming models, but he loved the big magazine cover stories best, shooting daring and breathtaking photographs that people remembered. Alarik had met a
lot
of actors and actresses when they were first on the scene, before the big movie deals and hype. Zane Whitlow was one of them, before he hit the big-time with
The Mercenary
.

He was one of Alarik’s favorites—a man so modest, yet at home in front of the camera that photo shoots were a dream with him. Paolo let Alarik take half the shots the two times they photographed him solo and even though it was years ago and some of his early work, Alarik still included those photos in his own portfolio. They were honest. They were honestly good, too. He’d also come away from the opportunity with a lifelong friend in Zane.

Every now and then, Paolo had someone like that come into his studio who had an unstudied, unrehearsed look. They weren’t simply responsive to direction, they
melded
into the moment and seemed to know where Paolo was headed and what emotion he was looking for. He’d no longer have to yell out instructions; the sessions would become silent and full of energy. Alarik loved that.

Watching Damon at the head table, he was reminded of those times. He wanted very badly to know about that smile. And the man behind it. He wanted to see why that suit fit so well—was it good tailoring, or was it simply goodness from the inside out?

Mandy had provided a
Who’s Who
rundown for him when she called last week to make certain he was still attending, and there was a lilt,
a quality
, in her voice when she mentioned Damon. Not the kind of lilt that said she was secretly in love with him. Rather, it was the way she spoke when she wanted to rescue someone. Alarik cocked his head as he considered the auburn-haired man who was currently pointing at his friend’s drink and holding up three fingers. He didn’t look like someone who needed rescuing.

The woman seated next to Alarik thought they’d been silent too long and dragged him into a conversation about the “gorgeous” spread in front of them. Alarik did the polite thing and made up some observations of his own.
Yes, the plates are indeed a light china.

He was sipping his second cup of tea poured from a “lovely silver pot,” as his table mate informed him, when a pair of arms encircled his shoulders from behind and he got a whiff of Mandy’s perfume.

A familiar happy tug in the region of his heart came and went, and he pushed back his chair to pull her into a tight hug. “Hello, beautiful,” he whispered and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You made it to your big day.”

Mandy beamed up at him as he smiled down at her. It was hard to believe they’d known each other for twelve years. Unlikely roommates turned unlikely best mates. He, a lad raised in London and then transplanted to New York, and she, a native southern Californian trying to make it through school in the big city. Their five-year age difference hadn’t been an issue, either.

The groom didn’t know Alarik had slept with Mandy years ago—one of his most hilarious sexual exploits and one of only two times he’d shagged a woman. Some memories he was quite glad he didn’t have pictures of, and if he had a picture of
that
particular night, he’d piss himself laughing each time he looked at it.

“Thanks for shifting around your very important, very exciting, incredibly busy schedule to accommodate my wedding.” She made a funny little face.