Excerpt from Cruel Summer
Clay
I hate weddings. I hate that I closed Gallo’s for this one.
Why on earth anyone would want to legally attach their fate to another human is beyond me.
People use each other. Sometimes it’s mutually beneficial—I smile at Kristen Donnelly as she walks by with another woman, and the smile she returns is polite and distant, precisely what I want from her now that our business is concluded—but most of the time, it’s not.
Years go by. One partner slowly strips everything from the other, who allows it in the name of love or whatever.
Or maybe one partner feels fooled when the one they married can no longer give them what they wanted, and simply takes everything else.
Benji and Gina look happy, I guess. They’re dancing in the middle of the dancefloor set up under the marquee, smiling at each other in the warm glow cast by hundreds of vintage string lights and oblivious to the world around them.
There’s something so genuine and down-to-earth about both of them.
They might escape the fate that awaits everyone else down the aisle.
Good for them, I guess.
I stand in the shadows at the party's edge, take a sip from my glass of wine, and resign myself to the bright burst of cherries. It’s a full-bodied fruit-forward blend, but I don’t think the cherry would stand out so much if I hadn’t eaten that maraschino cherry earlier.
Louisa Gallo is here. She was here when I arrived, helping Gina get ready. She’d stepped out of Gina’s bedroom, spotted me in the kitchen, then tilted her pointy little chin into the air and walked out.
She’s cleaned up—although I’m not sure a knee-length black halter dress covered in skulls and blood-red roses is appropriate for a wedding.
But I suppose I have most of her clothes boxed up in my apartment, and considering I was the one to put them in the boxes, her fashion choice isn’t exactly a surprise.
The way she’s talking and laughing with everyone is.
I guess she saves her acidic tongue for me.
She’s also profoundly drunk. I’m not sure how she’s still standing, given she’s on her seventh rum and cherry coke.
It probably helps that she took those spiky red heels off. They’re now dangling from her hand.
As though she can feel my gaze, her eyes settle on me and narrow. I’m not delusional. The shadows aren’t deep enough to hide me—even though, like her, I’m wearing black—so I raise my glass in her direction. She raises her glass but holds it in a way that lets her extend her middle finger.
How surprising.
“You look like you’ve had enough of this,” a woman says, joining me in the shadows and gesturing with her wine glass.
I tear my eyes from that middle finger and look down. The bride’s mother looks up at me with a mischievous smile. Dawn—that’s her name. She has the easy, flirty manner of someone not looking for anything more than a good time. She might even be fun.
“Weddings aren’t my thing,” I say, taking another drink and glancing at the people dancing or clustered around the tables.
“Wanna get out of here then?” she asks pointedly.
“And miss the drama?” I point my wine glass to where Milo stands, blending into the shadows in his black shirt and pants, staring at Briar with a panty-dropping intensity. Briar, talking to a young man near the dance floor, laughs so loudly I suspect she’s aware of the lumberjack’s gaze.
“Looks like Lou has some competition,” Dawn remarks.
My eyes find Louisa again just as she looks in Briar’s direction.
Those full red lips turn down into a befuddled frown before she turns back to look at Milo, who is still staring at Briar.
With a toss of her long, shiny dark hair, Louisa spins on her bare feet and saunters over to Milo, who reluctantly takes his eyes off Briar to greet her.
“Interesting,” Dawn says quietly, and when I glance at her, she’s watching me with a knowing smirk.
“What?” I demand, scrubbing a hand over my jaw.
“I think I’m going to pass on this drama.” She walks off, raising her wine glass and wiggling her fingers at me. “See you around, Clay.”
I narrow my eyes after her. Surely she’s not implying I’m somehow involved in this apparent love triangle?
When I turn back, Louisa and Milo are gone, and Briar’s not laughing so loudly.
What a waste of a perfectly good night’s inflated sales. The thought of finishing the wine turns my stomach, so I leave it on the nearest table and follow the citronella candles and dim solar lights away from the reception.
Half the town of Havenwood was already here when I arrived, so I parked far down Happy Lake Lodge’s driveway.
It’s dark, and I don’t want to scuff my Italian shoes on the gravel, so I take my time.
The dark has never really bothered me, but once I’m past the lights of the cabins and the tents and RVs, I’m uncomfortably aware of the forest closing in around me.
And when clouds cut off the dim light of the crescent moon, I sigh and dig around in my pocket for my phone.
“Hey! Wait up!”
Louisa Gallo’s smoky voice stops me, and I slowly turn as she recklessly flies down the driveway.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says, breathless.
About what? I open my mouth to ask, but she grabs my shirt and hauls me down. I choke on a gasp as she kisses me like she’s kissed me a million times before.
But instead of removing her fisted hands from my shirt, I cover them with my own.
She tastes like rum, sugar, and those infernal cherries, and I buckle. It’s a bad idea, but I’m already kissing her back, fumbling to catch up, like I missed the shot marking the start of the race.
She moans. The throaty, delicious sound that goes straight to my cock. “How far to your tent?” she asks against my lips.
“Tent?”
She freezes.
Something icy creeps up my spine.
She takes a step back, her hands falling from my shirt. I let her go.
The cloud passes, moonlight catching cruelly on her lips, transforming them into a midnight rose blooming in surprise as she recognizes me. “You.” There’s no mistaking the disgust in her voice.
I scrub a hand over my mouth, trying to forget her bruising kiss. Impossible when I can still taste her. “Unfortunately.”
“I thought you were someone else.” There’s an accusation in her voice.
Someone else wearing black. Maybe with tattoos and a man bun. “Clearly.” The wine in my stomach turns sour. I should know better than to drink the cheap stuff. I turn away from her and continue walking to my car.
“You should have said something.”
Why is she following me? “When, exactly? You came out of the dark and plastered your lips on mine.”
That pisses her off—her voice vibrates with anger. “Oh, you kissed me back, and you know it.”
I shrug. “Felt like the safest option.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” she snaps.
Finally, my car comes into sight. “I’m aware of my mistake. Next time, I’ll hold perfectly still until you realize yours.”
“Next time?” her enraged voice rises into the dark trees. “There won’t be a next time. It’s dark. You’re both wearing black.”
I stop next to my car. “And neither of us is particularly interested in you, Miss Gallo. But that’s where the similarities end.”
She gasps.
I open the passenger’s door. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”