Page 100 of Bona Fide

I’m done here. There is no way my business will ever survive another scandal or if Wade gets caught outside like a fucking lunatic.

The next thing I need is him attached to my name. I could give a shit about his career, he did that to himself.

But mine?

Yeah, I can’t take any more nails to my coffin.

* * *

Wade: Please talk to me.

I fightthe urge to chuck my phone across the room but refrain. I don’t feel like going to the store to buy another one. I don’t want to have to redo everything. I don’t want to do anything.

Getting out of bed is a struggle all on its own. I skipped breakfast and peek into Marty’s room that hasn’t been touched.

He didn't come home last night, more than likely stayed with Mama at the hospital. The driveway is clear of Wade's SUV, and I'm starting to think it was a dream.

Well, a nightmare.

“Do these pants make my ass look fat?” I glance up to see one of Jed’s groomsmen peering over his shoulder to look at his butt in the full-length mirror, moving from side to side.

I roll my eyes.

I’m playing babysitter to a bunch of grown-ass men because Jed was afraid they’d all show up in different colored suits just to give the bride-to-be a damn stroke on their wedding day.

Now I can see why he’s worried.

I’ve had to slap away wandering hands from one dude who tried to touch one of the store associate’s ass. Smacked another upside the back of the head while he peered down the shirt of a brunette who bent over to help him get his shoes on.

This is what Jed gets for being too damn nice.

He has idiots for friends that are now part of his wedding.

Glancing down at my phone, I check my calendar to scope the things I have to do for the rest of the week.

11 AM tomorrow—lunch with Tracy Renshaw. I can cross that out because she canceled.

2 PM on Thursday—Schedule taste testing with Martha for an art opening, which was put on a "temporary hold" because more than likely, they were trying to find another party planner but wanted to make sure they could get another in such short notice.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stan (and the only reason why I know his name is because he keeps singing Eminem’s “Stan”), grabbing the bottle of Patron again out of his leather bag.

“Stan, if you crack that bottle open,” I warn without glancing up. “I’m going to crack it over your head.”

Another two hours go by, and all eight guys are measured and tailored. I make sure all of them are out of the store before leaving myself just so I'm there in case I need to scold another one again.

Next stop: Jed’s house.

He sent me a text about an hour ago to meet him because he had some things to go over with me. Then warns me that Grant will be there too.

Awesome, let’s tack some more bullshit to this week.

Hopping in my car, my phone buzzes in my cup holder, and I wish I never looked at it. I envy not being able to be a cold-hearted bitch right now, so that he’d leave me alone.

Wade: Just let me know you’re there and okay.

I’m not here, motherfucker.

And I’m dead to you.

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