Page 34 of Wicked Pickle

Even Jenna and Marietta wouldn’t stop going on and on about what Diesel must have done to leave me with my hair that way and why did he “eat and run,” not that I told them a single scintillating detail.

Some twelve-year-old girl caught the bouquet. Not that I wanted it.

I spiraled, and even three pieces of cake didn’t help.

This Sunday morning, with the hairspray and makeup and grit of being outdoors for hours washed away, I feel very alone.

The tiny wheel in my hamster’s cage starts squeaking. I roll over on the bed, still in my fluffy robe, and watch him stroll along the metal spokes, almost as if he knows all the work is getting him nowhere.

“Same, Sir Mix-a-Lot, same.”

Sir Mix-a-Lot pauses at my voice, then starts walking again.

I force myself to get up. Summer classes start tomorrow. I have a reading assignment to finish before the first lecture. Bailey, who completed her coursework in May and has moved on to her thesis, warned me that I better know this book cover to cover before getting started, or I’ll feel behind from day one.

Jenna is taking the class, too, but Marietta has to work to save up money for her next tuition bill.

I could call Jenna over to read together. She’s better at talking out loud to make sure the information sticks. Marietta gets distracted. Bailey has a bulletproof memory that needs no additional help.

But I don’t want to go anywhere or do anything except ruminate on Diesel.

I have pictures of him now. Lots of people at the wedding took shots and tagged Bailey. There are several of him sitting beside me at the bridesmaid table, kicked back, looking sexy and cool.

There’s also an informal shot from the family photo, taken either before or after the official one. Diesel is there, surrounded by the Pickles, looking as though he’d like to murder someone.

Probably Bailey. Or me. He definitely thought I might have been involved.

I don’t think he does now.

He told me I could visit him at the bar, but he didn’t go so far as to give me a way to contact him.

I reach for my phone and do a quick search for the Leaky Skull. It has no social media accounts, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s the wrong kind of place for cute drink photos or atmospheric interior shots.

There’s a Google listing with the address and phone number, though. I suppose I could call. I wouldn’t be surprised if theynever answered, though. It’s the sort of place you go to because you’ve always gone there, or there was nowhere else to drink.

Almost all the reviews are one star. I scan the first lines.

I thought I was going to get knifed.

This is why they call alcohol poison.

Only go here to get kidnapped.

They all seem to be written by regular people who didn’t know what they were getting into, like us at the bachelorette.

I doubt any of the bikers or ex-military there bother with reviews.

And I can’t imagine Diesel cares what anybody says.

I don’t blame him for bailing on the wedding. Those Pickles were total assholes, acting like they could jump in and judge Diesel’s business just because he and his brother did it without Pickle help. They haven’t even been there.

Good on Diesel for telling them off.

I flip onto my back. Maybe I should have hiked up my dress and taken off on his bike. I wonder where he would have taken me. To his bar? To his place?

What kind of home does he have? Does he live with his brother? Does he have one-nighters all the time? Has he ever had a long-term thing with anybody?

I know nothing.

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