Katy Evans - Remy

There will be hundreds of days in my life that I wont remember.

But this is one day that I will never forget.

Today I marry my wife. Brooke Little Firecracker Dumas.

I promised her a church wedding. And a church wedding is what shell get.

I swear if you frown any harder at the door, its going to collapse under your stare, my PA, Pete, calls from the couch.

I swing around to where he and Riley have been watching me pace around the living room of Brookes old Seattle apartment. Apparently those two are amused as fuck by me. Dipshits. I dont see whats so amusing. Turning back to the bedroom door, I continue pacing.

For the life of me, I cant imagine whats taking her so long. Its been exactly fifty-eight minutes since she locked herself up in our bedroom to get ready, when Brookemy fucking Brookeusually gets dressed in five.

Dude, its her wedding day. Chicks take a lot of time to get prepped. Riley thrusts his arms out in the air in a gesture that implies Thats life!

Like youre an expert now, Pete jabs.

Its the dress! Melanie, Brookes best friend, says, exploding out of the master bedroom with a trail of white stuff that looks like a veil. It has all these buttons . . . and what are you three doing here anyway? Remington, I talked to Brooke about it. You guys should leave and well meet you at the altar.

Thats fucking ridiculous, I say, laughing. But when Melanie keeps staring at the three of us, and especially me, with an expression someone might use on a couple of dogs they want to scat, I scowl and head to the bedroom door.

I curl my fingers around the doorknob and speak through the closure slit. Brooke?

Remy, please dont come in here!

Come to the door, then.

When I hear shuffling, I press closer to the edge and drop my voice so the dipshits on the living room couch dont hear. Why the fuck cant I see you right now, baby?

All this entering and exiting the room by Melanie, with me separated by a locked door from my soon-to-be wife? I dont like it. And separated despite the fact that shes supposed to be getting dressed for me.

I guess because I want you to see me walk up to you, she whispers.

God, that voice, right there. Makes me want to throw the door down and kiss the hell out of her, then do stuff to her under that dress shes trying to put onthe things that husbands do to their fucking wives. I will see you walk up to me, baby, I just want to see you now too. Open the door and Ill do your buttons.

You can undo them later and then do me. The cheeky statement is followed by a soft Gaaah, like someonea very little someoneis amused about something on the other side of this door.

Excuse me, Riptide, Melanie says as she returns, and waves me away from the door. You boys should head out to church. Well see you there in thirty minutes.

I scowl when she slides inside the bedroom like a goddamn worm through a tiny slit, preventing me from so much as glimpsing Brooke. Using much the same method, the much-larger Josephine steps out with something squirming against her chest. My son looks at me from the crook of her arm and falls still; his lips are curled in such a way that he almost wears the same amused expression Pete and Riley do.

He takes the hand hes got stuck inside his mouth and slaps it flat and wet to my jaw. Gah! he says, then squirms and flings himself to me.

Catching him, I nuzzle his stomach and growl, which elicits another Gaaaaaah!

When I lift my head to look into his eyes, hes fucking delighted. And so am I, but I growl again like Im not and grumble at him, You think Im funny?

Gaaah!

His eyes are all mischief. His head is smaller than my palm as I cup it and buzz the fuzz on the top of his head. My four-month-old, Racer, the son Brooke gave me? Hes the most perfect thing Ive ever done in my life.

I never thought Id have something like him. Now my life revolves around this dimpled squirrel, who pukes on all my fucking T-shirts, and my Brooke. And, god, where do I start with her?

Pete slaps my back with a loud thunk. All right, dude, you heard them. And watch ithes going to get all that baby stuff on your suit!

Clamping my jaw, I pat Racers head and he grins at me. He has one dimple, not two. Brooke says its because hes only half mine. I contest hes all mine, and so is she.

Smiling back at him, I return him to Josephine, who assures me, Go peacefully, Mr. Tate, Ive got this.

Shes supposed to be a bodyguard, but I dont know what the hell she is now. She strolls outside with Racer and does some nanny work too. He sticks his fingers into her hair and pulls and she even seems to like it.

After a glance at the kitchen clock, I level my gaze at her. I want her there in fifteen minutes, I say, and she nods.

A limo is waiting for my bride, but Rileys got the keys to Melanies convertible, parked just outside without the top down. We all leap inside. I drop down on the front passenger seat and then stare up at the window of our temporary apartment. I cant understand what the big fuss is about wedding-dress buttons. As far as Im concerned, I should ride, in the car, with my wife, to the fucking church, where we marry. Period.

Rem. Its not like shes going to leave you standing at the altar, man, Riley says, laughing.

Yeah, I know, I whisper, turning back around. But sometimes I just dont know. Sometimes all my chest feels knotted and I think about waking one morning to find Brooke and my son gone, and dying is too easy to describe what I want to do.

Twenty-eight minutes, shell be walking up to the altar in white, just for you, Pete says.

I stare out in silence.

Brooke has been excited about this all month. Wondering if this, if that, if a cake, if not a cake. Id say yes to anything that made her voice more excited, and shed kiss me like I like. So now she seems in control, getting dressed, ready for her day, and I feel like a mess because shed said she didnt mind us driving together to the church. And then her best friend put stupid-girl ideas in her head. I ride alone. To a church I never go to. To marry my wife. Shes right behind us, but Im not good. Im fucking anxious and this is an anxiety that would have been appeased if shed opened the door and just looked at me with those gold eyesmy mind would have gone still and all the roiling in my chest would have gone quiet.

But its not happening.

Now I have twenty-seven infernal minutes to go . . . and my mind is playing tricks on me like it does when it starts swinging like a pendulum, and the only way I can seem to stop it is with her.

Tapping my foot, I stroke the ring in my hand. Then I pull it off and it helps to see her name on its inscription: TO MY REAL, YOUR BROOKE DUMAS.

The Seattle crowd roars as I come trotting out onto the Underground walkway.

Far at the end and directly in my line of vision, the ring awaits. Twenty-three feet by twenty-three feet, four ropes parallel on each side, four fucking posts, and thats about it.

That ring is a home to me. When Im not on it, I miss it. When I train, I think about it.

Every step I take in its direction pumps me up and gets me going. My veins dilate, my heartbeat works to feed my muscles. My mind sharpens and clears. Every inch of me readies to attack, defend, and surviveand give these people the thrill theyre all yelling for.

Remy! I love you, Remy! I hear them yell.

Ill suck your cock for you, Remy!

REMY, POUND ME, REMY!

Remington, I want your Riptide!

Stretching out my fingers, I grab the top rope and jump over it into the ring, taking a look at the people surrounding me. The lights are shining. My name is on everyones lips. And all their excitement and anticipation spins around me in a fun little whirlwind. Theyre yelling and waving pink shit at me. They want me up here. Right here. Just me, some asshole opponent, and our fists.