Page 1 of The Love Wager

ONE

Indie

The horn blares obnoxiously as my foot crashes onto the brake pedal. My body launches forward, crushing me into the seatbelt.Fuck! How is there traffic?I didn’t think there were enough people in this tiny town to create a standstill on their two-way main street. I crane my neck to see around the vehicle stopped two inches in front of me, but I can’t see a damn thing around his dually pickup.

“Come on. Come on. Come on,” I chant, glancing down at the time on the radio.

I’m already ten minutes late to the party I planned.

Some Maid of Honor I am.

I shouldn’t have waited so long to get ready, but the work emails wouldn’t stop coming through. When you’ve been grinding away trying to get your new event planning business rolling, it’s hard to step away and let go of the reins entirely. I prepared everything for Madi, so all she had to do was show up on the day of the few events I had on the calendar. She’s my marketing manager, not an event coordinator, and I was lucky she didn’t walk out the door when I asked her for this favor. But the promise of double her weekly salary was the perfectsweetener to the deal. How I would afford it was a problem to figure out next week when I was back in California.

“Come on, dude. Let’s go!” I yell again at the truck in front of me.

The GPS displays the route on my phone—one minute until arrival. I scan the road and spot a parking space on the opposite side of the street. Checking the rearview, I slip the compact rental in reverse and flip a bitch into the non-existent oncoming traffic. I whip the car into a parallel parking spot, and throw it in park.

Snatching my purse and the bag of goodies for the group, I high-tail it toward the only bar in town. Salt crunches under the thud of my booties, and I’m glad I changed from the heels I originally had planned for this outfit. I expected Georgia to be as warm as it was back home in California, but of course, an unexpected cold front had to blow in, leaving me wholly unprepared in the wardrobe department.

A weather-worn plank sign that readsThe Placeswings back and forth from the overhang as the wind whips through. An older gentleman steps aside, holding the door open for me to enter and get out of this damn cold. I let out a rushed “Thank you” while my bags crash against my sides and skid to a halt on the threshold.

When I asked Taylor what kind of bachelorette party she saw herself having, I expected endless mimosas and a spa day with the entire bridal party. The words dive bar and too drunk to walk did not come to mind. I assumed she’d thrown out our college partying ways in exchange for lunching with the wives of her fiancé’s business partners. Then again, this is her last single girl hurrah. I can’t deny her one final night on the wild side.

“There you are!” the woman of the hour yells over the chatter and music pumping in from unseen speakers.

“I know. I’m late.” I huff, dropping the bag with our night’s essentials into the booth.

“Oh, hush. You’re not even the last to arrive. I just got here early because I know how busy it gets on a Friday night.” She throws her arm out, gesturing to the already raucous crowd.

This is why I love her.

Four years of college together as roommates and three years apart on opposite sides of the country, she still expects me to be late and doesn’t judge me for it.

The tabletop is empty, and I get to work pulling out the obnoxiously pink and glittery decorations I snagged from the party store. Shaking out the plastic table cover, I throw the penis-shaped confetti across the table to make what we’re celebrating obvious.

I grab Taylor’s shoulder and spin her back toward me, breaking her conversation with one of her local friends I’m not familiar with. I help her into the white and gold sash, labeling her as theBride to Bebefore crowning her with the matching plastic tiara.

Throwing on my ownMaid of Dishonorsash, I hand the rest of the stack off to the only one of us who will know best how to hand them out. I wasn’t about to try and label the rest of the women when they say things likeHot MessandTrophy Wife.

As entertaining as it would be to watch them learn what Taylor thinks of them, I break away from the growing group to the bar for our first round of shots. It’s eight o’clock, and I hope everyone had the foresight to eat a carb-loaded dinner before coming out tonight.

The bar front is filled with people waiting shoulder to shoulder, trying to place their drink orders. With a place this busy, I’m shocked to see a single bartender slinging drinks from one end to the other. I wait patiently, taking in the crowd. It’s the biggest hodgepodge group. Some are in slacks and button-downs, looking like they’re coming home from their nine-to-five at the bank, while others are in dusty jeans and cowboy boots fresh off the farm. I guess when you’re the only bar in town, it’s everyone’s watering hole.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks a few minutes later.

“Twenty shots of tequila with limes!” I shout.

His eyes bug at my request, but when they fall to my chest, he shakes his head instead. He grabs a round tray from beneath the counter, quickly lining up the shot glasses. The alcohol pours from two bottles, rapidly filling all twenty. He adds a bowl of limes and a saltshaker, completing my order. When I try to hand over my card, he shakes his head.

“A tab’s already been opened for your table.”

I try to hide my relief, but the sigh still comes out. Thankfully, he’s too busy moving on to the next customer to notice. After working nonstop over the last year on a struggling business, I saved a meager amount of money to make this trip happen. That sum is nothing compared to what Taylor would have needed if the roles were reversed. She comes from the kind of wealth accumulated over generations, and she’s used to certain travel standards. I have no such limitations. Thankfully, her fiancé, Spencer, was born into the same elite class, so she won’t have to give up her ways any time soon.

Using my skills from years in the service industry, I balance the tray of sloshing liquid without losing a drop.

“Shots are here!” I announce, setting them in the center of the table. Everyone grabs a glass, or, in Taylor’s case, two.

“To the bride.” I cheers and throw it back. My phone vibrates in my back pocket but I ignore the annoying thing. What ever it is can wait. The tequila burns down my throat; I immediately want to gag at the ashtray-like taste coating my tongue. It’s not my preferred alcohol by any means, but the lime is my saving grace for keeping it down.

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