Page 8 of Breaking Storm

Next to me, Joey clears his throat and says, “You’re beautiful, Tea.”

I smile down at my dress, and then at him. He called me Tea. I haven’t been called my abbreviated name in years. It reminds me of how he used to call me Tea when he tried to hold my hand. Or when he chased me around the swings. Our families’ territories are shouldered against each other at our childhood park.

This endearing memory has me biting my lip, and saying, “You look handsome, too, Joey.”

Neither of us say another word. Once we arrive at the reception, we stand in the receiving line, and after cocktail hour, everyone has made their way to the tables. Outside the room, Joey takes my hand as the DJ announces us as Mr. and Mrs. Joey “Storm” Cooper. This is the first time I’ve heard him called that, and I glance at him before we walk in. The clapping increases until we’re seated at the raised table.

My bridesmaids are unfamiliar, picked by my father and mother, purposely leaving out Erin. So, I sit down with a stranger for a husband and unhappy bridesmaids. Whispers of disdain trickle down the table. Apparently, they all want Joey, and I ruined their chances. I fold and unfold the napkin on my lap, drink my wine, and glance out at the faces laughing, talking, and staring back at me. It’s like I’m intruding on their celebration. If it felt like a hot cast iron pan was shoved into my chest earlier, now my insides are roasting, melting into a glob of substance no longer identifiable.

Clinking resonates throughout the room, which is a sign for us to kiss. Joey is busy talking to the guy next to him, so I sneak out onto a large cement balcony. Vines curl around the thick railing and lion statues are suspended on each end. I lean over the railing. There’s at least a ten-foot drop to the ground.

“Don’t jump.”

I jerk away and turn toward the intruder. Joey comes closer, hands hidden in his pockets, which seems to be a habit of his. He joins me by the railing. My body dwarfs in comparison to his. He’s a towering wall, blocking the chandeliers from inside. We look out onto a lawn ladened with trees, plants, and statues. It’s a clear dark evening sky, illuminated by stars that resemble strings of Christmas lights.

He interrupts the silence. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

“You’re not to blame.”

I shiver at our dilemma. Perhaps Erin is right, and I can explain what I want. He comes across as sensible.

Joey takes his coat off, puts it around my shoulders, and the material swallows half of my body. This makes us laugh.

“How did you get the name Storm?”

He faces the ballroom and rests his elbows on the railing. “From fighting.”

Street fighting. No wonder. My brother has told me some members participate in them. I’m told it’s a lucrative income. To me, the whole fighting thing is barbaric and there are plenty of other ways to make money legally.

I stare at his profile. Dusk absorbs the hardness he carries in his face. Tension and anger saturate his features. His gaze and thoughts seem far from the present. This must be hard for him, too. Erin told me he had a girlfriend.

Joey shifts, crosses one ankle over the other, and says, “After this, we’re going to the hotel suite. James reserved it for us.”

“You call your dad James?”

“Better than most things I call him.”

I smirk at his comment. “Joey, I’m not ready for… uh… sex. We’ve only—”

Joey cuts me off by saying, “It’s our wedding night, Tea.” He pushes off from the ledge and says as he’s leaving, “Let’s get it over with.”

We go through all the wedding rituals, such as the cake cutting, the garter, and the bouquet toss, yet I can’t think of anything else other than tonight. I’m not a prude. I’ve had sex. But Joey and I are strangers, like a one-night stand, except I’ve never had one. I’m scared shitless. Is he well-endowed? Will he be rough? I hate feeling trapped. It’s bad enough to be forced into marriage, let alone coerced into having sex. I’ll refuse.

People continue to party as Joey suggests we leave. After countless farewells, congratulations, and whistles, we drive to the hotel, which is ten minutes away. I hear only the tires on the road and the heat rustling through the vents.

In the room, Joey offers me a drink, but I decline while he pours himself one, followed by another two. He abandoned his coat and suit jacket when we arrived. Now he’s loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. My heart races from fear and determination. He might not accept the rejection. Or worse, he might beat and assault me. I hug my coat tighter around me. Joey keeps glancing my way, taking sips of his drink, and continuing to undress. Words freeze on my tongue in a last-ditch effort to plead my case. My eyes wander the room thinking of what I should do, and when I come to a decision, I know Joey is privy to it, too. I dash to the bedroom doors, rushing inside, but before I can close and lock the doors, Joey slams them open.

I stumble backwards, fisting my coat by the collar. “Listen, Joey.” My legs connect to the bed. “This isn’t right.”

He’s mute, but not crippled. There’s a foot between us. His breathing is heavy. Eyes deadened of emotion. A ripple of fear runs through the gamut of my body.

I press my hands against his chest. “I’m not saying I’ll never—” Joey presses forward until my back meets the mattress. My legs hang over the side. “Please. We can talk—” His hand skirts up my dress and I yell for him to stop.

In soft, rueful murmurs, he says, “I’m sorry, Tea. I have no choice.”

“Wait! Yes, you do.”

By now, I’m sobbing. Shaking. This can’t be happening. I grab his shirt, hiccupping, trying to say his name and fail.

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