“Laugh it up,” Drake muttered, and then automatically lifted a hand to call over the bartender only to drop it back to the bar when he realized all he’d be able to order was a soft drink or some of that god-awful swamp water Cort had. “If Saxon and his whip-wielding bride are going to make me dress like a goddamn pirate, they could at least have some rum for me.”
Cort actually swiped at the tears of amusement dampening his eyes, then after a few more laughs and sniffs, he managed to pull himself together.
“Besides, Saxon likes you better—why didn’t he pick you?” Drake pointed out, which wasn’t totally true. Cort just happened to tolerate Saxon’s “alternative” outlook on the world better than Drake. Saxon didn’t really play favorites. He was a bit like a not particularly bright but sweet puppy. He loved everyone.
“Well, that’s simple. You two have been in the band together longer than I have. Saxon is pretty loyal.”
Yep, definitely just like a puppy.
“Lucky me,” Drake grumbled. “He’s been in the band just as long with Johnny and Wyatt.”
“But would a gangster or a cowboy really make sense for this wedding?” Cort said, looking around at the odd assembly of people as if he were making a valid point.
“Nothing at this wedding makes sense.”
Cort didn’t even try to argue that. “Well, anyway, you know Saxon loves pirates. And I think it’s nice he wanted to take you back to your roots.”
It was Drake’s turn to snort, but not with amusement. “My roots? I was a lord, my friend. Not a lowly gangster like Johnny. Or a dusty, flea-bitten cowboy like Wyatt. I was Lord Hanover. Pristine bloodlines. Royalty.”
“You were a pirate, too, my friend,” Cort pointed out with a smirk. “Turning to a life of pillaging and plundering on the high seas? To avoid the penal colony? Because you were framed by your mistress as a thief? Ring any bells?”
Drake gave his friend a haughty look that only a true aristocrat could manage. “That is not a time I want to relive. Especially dressed like some ridiculous extra who wandered off the set of the Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Cort laughed again.
“I think you look rather dashing,” Katie, Cort’s wife and eternal ray of vampiric sunshine, said as she joined them. Cort immediately pulled the petite blonde against his side and kissed her temple.
More bitterness welled up in Drake’s ruffle-covered chest at the sight of their affectionate embrace.
Who needs this lovey-dovey bullshit all the time? he thought sourly. Sharing an apartment with Cort and Katie, who were also newlyweds—although Drake had long thought their “newly” status had expired months ago—and now being the best man at one of the most ludicrous weddings he’d ever been to was enough to make anyone cranky.
He tugged at his sleeve, and just when he would have ripped off the ruffles oozing from his wrist, Saxon’s new wife, Zelda, approached them.
The bride should be the center of attention on her special day, but this woman was impossible to miss any day. Almost six feet tall in bare feet, she was an absolute Amazon in her six-inch, patent leather, thigh-high boots. Above the boots was an expanse of pale thighs encased in fishnets that disappeared under a micromini leather wedding dress. The skintight skirt cinched into a corseted top, which barely contained high, firm br**sts that had probably cost her more than the whole wedding.
Especially given what they must have saved on alcohol, Drake thought bitterly. But he did almost admire that this woman dared to wear all white. Her hooha might be perilously close to being exposed to the whole reception, but she was going to wear virginal white.
“Hello, guys,” Zelda greeted them with a smile that always made Drake a little nervous. Of course it could be the cat-o’-nine-tails that had also served as her wedding bouquet, which she now absently tapped against her outer thigh. Did Saxon really enjoy whips and chains?
Drake shuddered. That had never been his thing. At all.
Sure, Zelda was hot in a statuesque, unnaturally shapely and intimidating way, but she was definitely not Drake’s style.
Out the corner of his eyes, Drake noticed a curvy brunette hurrying through the courtyard toward the cupcake buffet with a fresh tray of minicakes.
Cupcakes.
Even those irritated Drake. But the woman carrying them, on the other hand, now she was more his style—all sweet looking, with ample curves. Natural, ample curves. Soft and warm against him, offering him her sexy little body. Yeah, that was how he liked his women.
Not armed. He looked back to Zelda. That was so not his idea of a dream woman.
Of course, he couldn’t imagine anyone finding Saxon to be her dream man. Especially not as a husband.
Something about the fact that these two—a flaky vampire keyboard player and a gigantic, silicone domme—had managed to find love, depressed Drake almost as much as the lack of liquor.
Weren’t weddings supposed to be uplifting? His gaze returned to the cupcake table, but the curvy woman had disappeared.
“The wedding was beautiful,” Katie told Zelda with her usual generosity.
Zelda beamed, her wide, bloodred smile, making Drake uneasy again. Of course, the bouquet/deadly weapon was still swishing idly at her side.
“I think so,” Zelda said and the two women sank into conversation about decorations and dresses and wedding songs. Funny, even a Pollyanna-like Katie and a sniff-my-boots dominatrix like Zelda could find common ground discussing wedding preparations.
Cort took another sip of his bog water and perused the scene, seemingly quite content with the festivities, if the courtyard could be described as festive. The tables were decorated with bloodred roses arranged in black miniature coffins. Red candles burned everywhere, and the guests looked like a combination of undertakers, the dead, and the crazy-ass dommes who killed them with . . . with things like—Drake’s gaze dropped to Zelda’s bridal whip—things like that. Even the cupcakes were decorated with red frosting, black piping, and small silver handcuffs made out of fondant.
At least that part was apropos. Marriage did mean being shackled to someone else. Until death do you part . . . or until the divorce papers were signed.
Drake scanned the crowd once more, then leaned closer to Cort and muttered “You know you are at a pretty f**ked-up shindig when the vampires are the cheeriest ones in attendance. And the least scary.”
Cort chuckled, still looking content to be there.
Drake tried to affect the same collected air, but the lace at his throat itched. And his knee breeches tugged in all the wrong places, and one of his hose was sliding down into his big buckled shoe.