7. Tatum

CHAPTER 7

TATUM

I think I'm in shock. Thirty minutes ago, Abi Kincaid forced me to ejaculate as he screamed that I was a "filthy fucking whore." Now, he's sitting in the back seat of my dad's car, right beside me, shooting the shit with his future father-in-law.

No. Absolutely not.

There will be no wedding. There will be no familial bonds forged against my will. We will stage a believable breakup for all to witness, stay for Scotty's wedding, and return home. Or I'll stay. Honestly? TBD ...

Dad and Abi have been discussing their shared love of soccer while Mom and I gab about Real Housewives. As a staunch anti-Lisa Rinna advocate, my mom can't seem to understand my devotion to the unrepentant television villain.

"She's a monster, Tatum. I didn't raise you to worship the devil herself."

"Bite your tongue," I snap. "She knows what it takes to make good television. Do you want to sit around watching Kyle Richards being an absolute bore for forty-five minutes? Is that what you want?"

Mom looks at me through the rearview mirror, her eyebrows scrunched together in the center of her forehead. "I love Kyle. "

"You would," I growl at her. Those words are treasonous. They're like poison, and the only antidote is the seven-hundred-foot-tall giant sitting beside me, invading my space. "Abi. Tell her."

Dad is still talking, but Abi must realize where his loyalty needs to lie, because he stops my father mid-sentence, barking, "Silence." Dad startles behind the wheel, and we momentarily veer into oncoming traffic, which ... yeah, it's less than ideal, but Dad's a champ and he's able to course-correct before killing us all. "The little one is speaking." He turns to me, his face serious. "What is wrong?"

I point at Mom. "She's talking about Rinna. Make her stop. Do it now."

"If you insist." He reaches for his waistband, lifting his black shirt, revealing ...

"Oh, Jesus actual Christ. Nyet to that!" I shout, placing my hand on top of his. I lean in and whisper-slash-hiss into his ear, "That's obviously not what I meant. You can't just shoot my mom in the head. What the hell is wrong with you?"

He presses a hand against my chest and gently pushes me away. When our gazes lock, his eyes are twinkling with mischief. "I was only joking, my love."

"I hate you. Everything you are—all you'll eventually become—I hate it."

He shrugs. "That's not what you said earlier." He's said the words loudly enough for my parents to hear who are now laughing like treasonous bastards.

"And what the hell are you laughing about?"

"Language," Mom scolds. "We heard you both earlier, baby."

"I'll tell you," Dad says with a hearty chuckle, "I haven't made noises like that in twenty years."

"I know," Mom says bitterly. "You better believe, I know." Mom's got her phone in her hand, tapping out a message. Looking over her shoulder when she's done, she stares at Abi and me for a moment, drinking in the vision like sweet tea. "I've invited Fiona along, too. I hope you don't mind."

"The more the merrier," I say, and the worst part is, I think I mean it. I kind of love all the focus being on Abi and me.

Dad pulls onto Tallulah's town square, and I'm a little confused when he parks in front of Foote's Feet, a shoe store specializing in women's orthopedic pumps. Once he cuts the car off, Dad turns and smiles at us over his shoulder. "Alright, Abdulov," he says, and my entire body tenses. I'm the only person who has ever called him that, aside from his parents. For a moment, I worry he might scold my father, but he doesn't. To my surprise—and perhaps to my horror—a peaceful, content smile spreads across his face, and he says nothing, just reaches for my hand and squeezes gently. "It's going to be me, you, and Scotty's fiancé this morning, buddy. You boys can't see their outfits before the big day. Tradition, you know. After that, we'll meet up for lunch."

"I would love nothing more, sir," Abi says sincerely. "May I have a moment with Tatum before we leave?"

Mom and Dad share a secret smile before Dad gives the green light, and they leave us to talk in private. Outside the car, it seems like my parents are standing a million miles away from each other. There's something going on between them, and I'll get to it eventually, but there are far more pressing matters at hand. Their backs are to us, giving us privacy. Abi wastes no time, unbuckling my seat belt and pulling me onto his lap. One arm wraps around my waist as he sucks a finger into his mouth, getting it wet. Once he's done, he shoves his hand down the back of my pants, finding my hole on the first try. The moment he's inside, I suck in a quick, sharp breath, my eyes rolling back in my head when he searches out my prostate.

"I hope you don't mind," he mumbles against the side of my face. "I just needed to feel you." His lips are reckless. Little anarchists, hellbent on shattering my resistance. My chest rises and falls rapidly, my hands holding onto the arm he's got around my waist, clinging on for dear life.

"It's okay. I don't mind."

His finger explores me with abandon, touching each and every inch. "I can feel it. My cum. I filled you up, Tatum. Can you still feel me?"

I'm making all of these awful sounds; grunts and gasps as he assaults my insides. I press a palm against my stomach and smile warmly. "Yeah. I feel you. You're deep in there, Abi."

He growls at me, pressing against my prostate harder than before. "Tell me you'll miss me today. Swear it."

"Fuck. Abi," I moan. "You have to stop or I'm going to get hard. I can't go in there with an erection."

He smirks. "Then say it."

"Yeah," I admit, suddenly feeling breathless. "I'm going to miss you."

"Good. I will miss you too." The smile he gives me sends a chill down my spine. "When you select your outfit, do not worry about what I will think. I want you to feel beautiful when you walk down the aisle. If that means simply wearing a jockstrap and your crop top, so be it."

I stare at him in silence, feeling dizzy with hope, but that hope makes way for reality rather quickly. We haven't discussed it yet, but we'll have to have some sort of game plan going forward. Something to stop this sham of a wedding in its tracks.

"I'm not walking down an aisle." I say the words as softly as I can, because even if I have to be the one to say it out loud, I don't want to hurt him. I would never want to bring him pain, but letting him live in this happy-go-lucky headspace will lead to just that. Hurt. Disappointment. My big Russian bastard, the owner of a broken heart. "We're going to have to stage a breakup. Abi, I can't just marry you, willy-nilly, like it means nothing."

"Like it means nothing?" he whispers. The face he makes seems like the words taste bitter on his tongue. The most pained expression flashes across his face, but only for a second, and then it's gone. Had I blinked, I would have missed it. Truthfully, I wish I had, because it was an awful sight. Seeing hope fade from his eyes feels like a gut-punch. He was staring at me like I've just taken all he holds dear and burned everything down to ash. I open my mouth to apologize, but he cuts me off. "Yes. We'll be broken up long before the wedding."

He pulls his finger out of me and reaches beside him, reaching for his small black satchel. Inside, there are a few wet wipes. I love that he carries them around on his person, probably hoping for the chance to discreetly slip inside me throughout the day. Stolen moments belonging only to us. I take the bag from him and pull out one of the wipes, grabbing his wrist and pulling him closer. I can't look him in the eyes. Not after seeing all that hope fade away.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, cleaning his finger.

"Sorry for what?"

"That I can't give you what you want," I say sheepishly. "Or that I don't know what I want."

His finger tickles my wrist. "I'll take as much as you're willing to give me."

As much as I wish that were true, the painful expression he was just wearing doesn't give any of those words much credence.

If my heart was feeling heavy in the car, that heaviness lifts the moment I walk into Foote's Feet. For the life of me, I don't understand why we're buying wedding attire at a shoe store. Scotty was very clear in his text earlier; we're getting clothing, shoes, and even our wedding-day cologne from the same store. A one-stop shop, he'd called it. Unless Evelyn Foote is an undercover seamstress, I'm not entirely sure what she can offer us other than disappointment.

And what a disappointment it is. The entire store is tragic. The walls are lined with hideous creations. Mismatched wedges. Forgettable flats. As for the heels, I don't think there's a single shoe with more than a one-inch incline in this shithole.

Mom is standing by an oversized, papier-maché pump, orange in hue. The orange of the shoe matches Evelyn Foote's hair perfectly, as both appear to be the shade of a traffic cone. There's another woman I've never met standing next to Evelyn. They look like mirror images, but in a light-meets-dark situation. While Evelyn wears sassy, snazzy ensembles—today's being a form-fitted women's business suit with inconsistently placed stars covering the fabric—the other woman is the epitome of chaste, wearing a beige blouse and an ankle-length denim skirt.

The second they spot me, it's pandemonium. Evelyn hobbles forward looking dizzied and frazzled, like she might topple over at any moment. "Well, if it isn't our little Tatum!" she announces to the room like no one knows me all of a sudden. "I'll tell you, baby; when Scotty said you wanted me to design your outfits, I almost had a nervous breakdown. I've never taken on a job of this size before, but it's like my dear friend Vivian VanDamme used to say: the Lord works in mysterious ways. Ever since she passed, it's like my life ain't had a bit of purpose. Then little Scotty called, and it felt like I had a reason for living again."

I blink at her, trying to figure out why she felt it prudent I know the details of her life. "Yeah, but can you actually make clothing? You work at a shoe store."

She gives me a nervous nod. "Well, I'm really good at big picture stuff. I might not be able to stitch or sew, but I am fashion personified." Taking a step back, she twirls around like a ballerina in a music box, her body rocking to a song only she can hear. "See? I had my sister make this up for me, but it didn't have much personality, so I says to her—I says, ‘Listen, Elmyra, we're working with gays. We've got to give them a little sparkle.' Two days later, we had this bad boy rocking and ready to roll."

I stare her up and down. If this is her definition of fashion, Scotty's wedding is going to be a shitstorm of epic proportions. As I'm drinking in the sight of the abominable business suit, the other woman makes her way over to us, beaming ear to ear. When she reaches me, she thrusts her hand in my direction and waits expectantly. The second our hands touch, I cringe, because her palm seems to be slathered in lotion.

"Tatum?" she says, her voice soft and almost baby like in nature.

"Yes, ma'am. And you're . . .?"

"Elmyra," she answers. "Elmyra Foote. I'm Evelyn's sister. Now, I don't want you to worry about a thing—I've got everything sorted. I've been working my fingers to the bone on this outfit for three months, and I think I've got it perfected. If you want, we can go into the back, and you can try it on. We'll make note of anything you think might need changing, and then I can get to work."

"Three months?" I cock my head to the side, trying to make sense of the words. "You've been working on it for three months?" Behind us, Scotty sucks in a quick breath, and when I look over, he's slowly moving behind Mom, probably hoping to use her as a human shield. Whatever Elmyra is droning on about goes out the window, because I'm seeing red. "Three months, Scotty? How long have you been planning this? Mom said she didn't even know until two months ago." My voice is cool and calm. I close my eyes and picture Almighty Rinna's face. Yes. Yes, I can do this. I am the embodiment of tranquility. A beacon of emotional stability. I open my eyes and exhale love and light. "What the fucking fuck does she mean three months, you son of a—No." I stop myself, because if I cause a scene, Brody might storm in and slaughter everyone in here except Scotty .

"Goodness," Elmyra says, clutching her non-existent pearls. "I haven't heard language like that since my dear friend Kent found out the low-carb cheesecake I baked him to celebrate Pride month was just store-bought cheesecake." She purses her lips, her shoulders rising and falling quickly when she huffs out a breath. "I'll tell you, that day he used words I didn't even know existed. I had to ask my son Nebuchadnezzar to look them up on The Google for me, but he couldn't find them either."

"Your son is a Siamese cat," Evelyn points out.

Elmyra nods. "And he's a clever boy. He can use the big-boy potty now. Took me dang-near five years to train him, but?—"

"Enough!" I shout, flinging my hands in the air, cutting the conversation off at the root. I point an accusatory finger at Scotty and scowl. "You."

Scotty shakes his head emphatically, his hands clinging tightly to my mom's arms as he holds on for dear life. "You don't get to be mad at me, I already apologized," he shouts back at me, peeking over Mom's shoulder.

"No. You apologized for ..." I pause, trying to think of how I can word this. Mom doesn't know the only reason I'm getting married is because of the terroristic twink currently using her as human levy, hoping to hold back the tsunami of sass I'm about to unload on him. "You apologized for planning our double wedding without my input, Scotty. Now, I find out you've been working on it for months. Months! You had no right." If I was hoping for an apology, I quickly realize I'll be waiting for a while, because his eyes narrow, and his cheeks go red.

"Jesus, Tatum. How many times must we rehash the insignificant details? I've apologized. Move on, already! You already yelled at me. It's just cruel at this point. Now shut up, put a stupid smile on your stupid face, and let's try on our clothes! Miss Foote has worked tooth and nail to get them done, and I'm not going to let you spoil the afternoon by being ungracious for whatever outfit she's come up with. Kindness costs nothing. Use it. "

"Now, you listen to me, you delusional motherfu?—"

"Boys?" Mom interrupts, taking a cautious step toward me. "I think maybe we should take a minute to cool down before someone says something you can't take back." She looks at me, then at Elmyra. "Why don't you go try on your outfit in the back?"

Elmyra takes me by the hand, grinning the toothiest grin I've ever seen. "Let's go get you gussied up, sweety." Before I can voice my approval, she tugs me onward, behind the shop's counter, toward the back of the room. Swinging saloon doors separate the back office from the store, and she pushes past them, finally breaking the hold she has on me.

"Alrighty," she says, setting the black garment bag on a small desk in the corner. "I wasn't given much to work with, I'm afraid, but now that I've seen you in person, I think we'll need to make a few adjustments."

"I ..." It's like I've been sucked into a cyclone. I don't even know who this woman is. Honestly, I'm still trying to process the fact Scotty's basically been planning this since the moment I first stepped foot in Washington. My blood is boiling, but I know I can't take it out on this poor lady.

When she turns around, she's holding the strangest wedding gown I've ever seen. I mean, it's not really a gown, but it's got that aesthetic. The trousers have wide legs like bells, and they rest so close together, it almost looks like a skirt. I won't be wearing those. I goddessdamn refuse. The top, however, isn't completely terrible. It's black, which doesn't seem terribly apropos for a wedding, but I bite my tongue. The fabric is so sheer, it almost looks see-through. While it might not be something I would wear to a wedding, I could see myself slipping into it for a night on the town.

I imagine myself walking down the aisle in the outfit. Marching at Scotty's side, each of us heading toward our happy ending. In my mind, Brody's eye-fucking Scotty like there's no tomorrow, but Abi? Abi's staring at me with an intensity that makes me shudder. Makes my knees wobble. Makes my heart slam in my chest. I'm walking toward him, but he's the one making all the moves. Guiding me to him with the surety of his gaze. Promising protection and devotion with his goofy grin.

I close my eyes and take a breath.

Hold.

Allow myself this single moment.

And release.

"You hate it?" Elmyra says, pulling me out of my peaceful headspace. When I open my eyes, she's staring at me with a worried expression.

"No," I quickly assure her. "Sorry, my mind's all over the place. It's not the outfit, I promise." I stare down at the pants and try to force a smile, but she must see through it.

"I wasn't too sure about them, either," she says, matching my scowl as she studies them. "Don't worry, we've got a week to get it right. This is just a fitting so we can see what we like and what needs changing."

The only thing needing changing is my current headspace. For a moment—a ridiculous, unwelcome moment—I was happy with the thought of walking down the aisle. Now, it's like someone's slit my stomach open, shoved a handful of lit firecrackers in me, and stitched the wound shut. I know I might blow at any moment, but the panic and dread rushing through me is almost exhilarating. I kind of want to explode just to see if Abi would be at my side in the aftermath, collecting stray parts like forget-me-nots.

We go over the ensemble for a while longer, deciding to tighten the trousers and stitch pink flowers across the fabric to match Scotty's. I still don't think it feels like ‘the' outfit. It's not what I'd select for a real wedding, but I push those thoughts away, because I can't ask her to make it perfect, working her fingers to the bone for a wedding that won't be taking place.

When we exit the back office, I've calmed down, for the most part. As angry as I get with Scotty, I just can't stay mad at him. We've always been like this. We fight to the death like hellhounds, but that anger never lingers. It doesn't fester inside us, tainting our familial bond. We're a bit like sisters in that regard. I can eviscerate him with words in one moment and want to cuddle up close to him the next. It's what biffles do.

The sight of Scotty takes my breath away. He's standing on an elevated platform, facing away from me. He's wearing a hot-pink crop top with the words Daddy's Bride scribbled across his shoulders in glittery letters. Instead of pants, he's wearing pink, sequined hot pants that leave little to the imagination. With him bending over to tie his shoes, his entire crack is on display, the fabric wedged between his cheeks like a second skin. I'm pretty sure I can see the outline of his asshole. Mom is fussing over him, stroking his shoulder, whispering words meant for only him, and I'm struck with an unwelcome twinge of jealousy, because I'm her son. She should be looking at me with hope and awe in her eyes. She didn't even offer to come back and see my outfit. I know this wedding isn't real, but she doesn't, and it stings to see her choose his happiness over mine.

But those are nasty thoughts I shouldn't be thinking. This is Scotty's day. Sure, he's tried to force me into the chaos with him, but even if that's not happening— it can't happen —I plan on standing at his side as his best man.

"You look beautiful, babes." When he turns around, I'm taken aback. Now I see why Mom is touching all over him. She's not hemming and hawing at his outfit. She's consoling him. Tears are pouring down his face, and he's sniffling something awful. "Scotty?"

He chews his bottom lip, his eyes pleading. I don't know what he wants, but I know my biffle well enough to know what he needs.

Me.

"Tater Tot?" God. His voice is wrecked. Jagged and broken sounds that tug at my heartstrings .

"What's wrong?" I say as I rush toward him. When I reach him, he throws himself at me, clinging on like a koala bear.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know I messed up, but I'm sorry, okay?" I look at Mom, then at the back office, hoping she'll give us the room. She nods before leaning in and kissing my forehead. Once she's done with me, she offers a kiss to Scotty. Mom, Fee, and the Foote sisters head toward the back, and I guide Scotty to a small bench near the front door. Once I'm down, I pat the empty space beside me, but Scotty has other plans. He plops down on my lap and buries his face in the crook of my neck.

"You're okay," I say, wanting to assure him.

"I'm not," he says, tickling my neck with his stubble when he shakes his head. "I was just so scared of doing this by myself. You're always there for the big stuff, and I figured it would make it all easier if you had to do it too." He sniffles and pulls away, wiping his eyes with his palms.

"Scotty," I say, my voice soft, bringing my hand to his face to wipe away a rogue teardrop. "I'm always going to be there for you. Even when Abi and I call this off, I'll still be right by your side. You're not in this alone. Not anymore." I lean closer and kiss the tip of his nose. "I followed you to conversion camp just to keep you safe. Do you really think I'd abandon you?"

"You tried, though. A whole bunch of times. You always run away, and it's like you're running away from me. Like you're throwing me away, the same way Dad did."

It feels like my heart is cracking in my chest. I've seen what losing his father did to Scotty. I saw how losing his mom almost destroyed him. That's why I allow myself to make an admission I'd never tell anyone else.

"I'm not throwing you away." Touching my chest, I twinkle my fingers over my heart. "Every time I run, it feels like there's a rope around my heart. The further I get, the harder it tugs. It's like my body is working against me, because it knows I belong here. With you." With Abi. "Somewhere along the way, we formed this silly, stupid, ridiculous family, and I think part of me wants Abi to find me each time." No. Not part. All of me. Each time I run, it's like I'm waiting for him to sniff me out and drag me home, because I know he will. Because he knows I want him to.

"You promise you're going to be there?"

I nod, because it's all I can do to ease his mind. "I wouldn't miss it."