The Worst Best Man(10)

“You and the very good-looking best man?” Cressida demanded, her accent seeming to shift between Austrian and Russian. Frankie couldn’t stop staring at the woman’s breasts that seemed hell-bent on escaping the scrap of fabric masquerading as a bandeau top.

Self-consciously, Frankie reached up to adjust the ties of her own suit to make sure her girls didn’t escape.

A chorus of “Ooooohs” rose from the volleyball court, and the girls craned their necks to see what had happened. Aiden, still spectacularly shirtless and ripped, was holding a hand over his eye.

“What did I tell you guys?” Pru yelled.

“No bruises!” they parroted back to her.

“No bruises, no cuts, no scrapes, no freak hair accidents. I need your faces perfect for pictures,” the bride reminded them.

“Sorry,” they said as one.

“Aiden was distracted,” Chip added with a wink.

Aiden gave Frankie a long look, and she dropped her hands from where they were fiddling with the strings of her suit. Had he been watching her?

“Can’t you guys just sit and read?” Pru begged.

“No more overhand serves,” Davenport, the peacemaker and resident drunk, offered.

“Ugh. Fine. But keep your attention on the ball, Aiden.” Pru sat back down. “It’s like herding kindergartners at a candy factory. Now, sit down Frankie before Aiden loses an eye checking you out.”

All attention on her, Frankie sank down on the chair and stretched her legs out in front of her. “He picked me up at the airport,” she said. She wasn’t a fan of gossip in general and feeding anything to these hellhounds was a bad, bad idea.

“Why?” Margeaux asked, wrinkling her nose. “Was there a mix up?”

In Margeaux’s beautiful, pristine, gold-dipped world, that was the only plausible reason why Aiden Kilbourn would offer a ride to someone so lowly. Riled now, Frankie gave a lazy one-shoulder shrug as she plucked at the ties of her top. “Nope. He was waiting for me when I got off the plane.”

“He canceled the car I had scheduled to pick her up,” Pru added.

Taffany picked up the tequila again but handed it to Frankie. “Way to go, Francine.”

“Frankie.”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t understand,” Margeaux announced. She took her sunglasses off and arranged herself on her side, a model taking directions from an invisible photographer. “Why would Aiden go out of his way for you?”

“Hey, why don’t we leave the cat claws at home, Margeaux?” Pru warned the woman.

“Do not listen to this angry woman,” Cressida said, pointing in Margeaux’s direction. “She has bet she can fuck Aiden this weekend.”

“Fuck you, Cressida,” Margeaux spat out.

“That was not the bet,” Cressida insisted, frowning. Frankie couldn’t tell if she was purposely poking at Margeaux or if the language barrier made for accidental insults.

“Ladies,” Pru sighed. She rubbed absently at her forehead.

No drama, Frankie reminded herself. She was here to make sure Pru had her perfect day. She took a drink straight from the bottle. “Not to worry, Margie. Your odds are still excellent for luring him into your Venus Fly Trap vag. He was just being nice. There’s no interest on either side,” Frankie promised.

“Aiden isn’t nice,” Margeaux argued, ignoring the slam on her vagina.

“Then why do you want to bang him?” Frankie asked in frustration.

Taffany launched into a fit of giggles and hiccups. She reached for the bottle. “Hello. He’s gorg and rich. What else is there? A prenup from him would set a girl up at least into her fifties.”

“I have heard that he is quite excellent in bed,” Cressida added. “His children would be prime specimens.”

These women were from a different planet. Planet Crazy Bitch.

Frankie’s parents got married because they fell in love in high school and got pregnant on prom night. They fought about toilet paper and which one of them was supposed to call the accountant. That was normal. That was love.

This? This was what happened with too much inbreeding amongst Manhattan’s wealthy.

“Don’t you want to meet a guy and fall in love?” Frankie asked the group in general.

The blondes shared a baffled look and broke out into a delightful cultured laughter—plus hiccups from Taffany.

“That is so poor people,” Taffany announced. “Poor people have to look for love because they can’t have money.”

“So, money is better than love?” Frankie reiterated the point.

“Duh. And what’s better than money?” Taffany chirped, taking the tequila back.

“More money,” Margeaux and Cressida chimed in.

“To trophy wives,” Taffany said, holding the bottle aloft. Margeaux and Cressida raised their glasses and Pru, looking slightly embarrassed, raised hers.

“To trophy wives,” they echoed.

“Well, I’ve been doing this all wrong then,” Frankie announced cheerfully. “Teach me your ways.”

Margeaux slid her sunglasses back on. “Sweetie, no amount of education can make this,” she circled the palm of her hand in Frankie’s direction, “trophy. You’re more participation medal. Anyone can have one.”