Page 3 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

Nothing makes you feel quite as alone as the celebration of someone else’s love.

“ You know you make me wanna… SHOUT!”

It’s hard not to smile as I watch a white-haired woman wave her spindly arms into the air half a beat behind everyone else.

She doesn’t seem to notice or care, with her eyes closed and a huge, cheesy grin on her face.

When she wobbles a bit, unsteady on her half-inch heels, her husband is right behind her with an assist.

I take a long swallow through the slim black straw to finish my Diet Coke and rattle the ice as I set it down. I resume picking at the vanilla buttercream, carefully scraping the icing off the cake into a pile to ration it perfectly with each bite.

At least Jenny has great taste in cake, even if she has terrible taste in dresses.

I know everyone says it, but this is a truly awful bridesmaid dress. It’s the most I’ve ever spent on a single item of clothing, and I’m certainly never going to wear it again, so that’s money down the drain that could have been better spent on several sets of very comfortable scrubs.

It’s shiny silk, and the cut is fine, skimming over tummy bulges and bumps with a bit of Spanx magic.

But whereas the ruching on the side gives the other bridesmaids, like size-zero Olivia and runner’s-body Heather, a delicate hourglass shape, it makes my plentiful hips and breasts look more like a 24-hourglass.

And this dark camel color is doing nothing for me.

Between the naturally light brown shade of my skin and sun-bleached caramel highlights in my hair, I’m all one color. I feel like a baked potato.

It’s a look, just not a great one.

We look good standing next to Jenny, though, which is really all that matters at the end of the day, I suppose. She chose tans and beiges as accent colors. And her skin tone is of the pale Eastern European variety, not half-Black like mine, so it doesn’t give the same monotone vibe.

I wish I hadn’t let myself be guilt-tripped into being a bridesmaid.

Especially because I can’t even remember if we’re third cousins or second cousins once removed.

I was a last-minute fill-in for a college friend who needed surgery—gotta keep those wedding parties perfectly balanced, and Matt has more family and “like a brother to me” friends than any man I’ve ever met.

One of whom is a complete douchebag.

Okay, time to press reset. I’m coming dangerously close to feeling sorry for myself.

Everything about this wedding has been perfect and beautiful and expensive .

It’s by far the biggest wedding I’ve ever been to, with 700-something guests, but somehow there’s enough room for everyone.

The sprawling estate is a super cool historical building with rolling hills, a pond and manicured gardens with a giant maze made of meticulously trimmed 10-foot hedges.

We’re on the outskirts of the small city of Ulysses, New Jersey, and at enough of an elevation that the city skyline is visible in the distance.

The ceremony was brief, and they couldn’t have asked for better weather or a more picture-perfect backdrop than the peachy clouds of a clear fall sky.

For dinner, we moved into the ballroom, which is decorated from floor to ceiling with florals and twinkling lights that cast a warm glow.

The food was great. The cake is delicious.

And I may not be taking advantage of the open bar, but it is open, so there are quite a few sloppy drunks on the dance floor having a good time.

If my feet weren’t killing me, I’d be on the dance floor too, because the band is great. A little bit ago, they threw open the balcony doors, letting in a cool breeze that’s heavy with the sweet scent of roses and verbena.

It’s fucking magical.

The table jostles, making the abandoned glasses clink together as my cousin Emma collapses into the chair next to me. The movement of air rustles a few of the tendrils the hairstylist had left out of my up-do to frame my face. Luckily, it’s a cool night, and they’re more wispy than frizzy. For now.

She reaches across me to grab an abandoned glass and starts drinking deeply from someone else’s water. It’s her first family event where she’s legally allowed to drink, and her cheeks are flushed with it.

After a few gulps that leave her gasping for breath, she whines, “Nicole! Why aren’t you dancing?”

I look pointedly down at the stilettos we both had to buy.

Honestly, it’s just more evidence that I was an afterthought bridesmaid.

Jenny said she wanted everyone to wear the same shoes for uniformity, but changed her mind when the photographer pointed out that one girl towering over everyone else at 6’4” ruined the lines of the bridesmaid photos.

Shoe uniformity wasn’t quite so important then, and I had to stand barefoot in the wet grass.

“I don’t know how you’re dancing in these,” I explain. “I can barely walk.”

“Take them off,” Emma suggests breezily, dabbing at the sweat on her upper lip with a linen napkin and assessing how much makeup transferred from the act. “No one will care.”

Just as she makes the suggestion, a shattering noise draws every pair of eyes in a large radius towards the dance floor. Just like everyone else, we crane our necks to see who did it, and I spot a sheepish middle-aged man stooping over and piling the bigger pieces of glass into his cupped hand.

“That’s the second time, and the music just started,” I point out dryly. Alcohol plus dancing makes for slippery fingers and a sticky floor.

“Point taken,” she winces. There’s a flash of the black light that turns her teeth otherworldly white. “You may need to be on standby.”

She’s probably right. A few more drinks and no one’s going to remember how much glass is on the floor until they’re limping away, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. That’s what you get when you’re the nurse in the family—the expectation to handle any medical issues that crop up.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Sensing Emma is settling in for a bit of a break, I angle myself in the seat towards her. “I feel like it’s been so long since we’ve caught up. How’s life? Things are going well with Natalie if she’s your date, I assume.”

“She’s getting us drinks. Things are going so well,” she replies with a dreamy look in her girlfriend’s direction. “We’re looking for apartments.”

“That’s exciting!” I say, mustering up some enthusiasm for her, since she seems so happy.

But internally… oof.

Living together is rough. Maybe it’s different with another girl, but I’ve lived with guys before. Once the honeymoon phase wears off, you’re left with a lot of strange, random boy stuff and a roommate whose definition of a clean toilet is nowhere near the same as yours.

“And did you get that nurse aide job at Mercy Grace?”

Emma nods wordlessly, selecting another water glass to steal. “Thanks again for writing that rec for me. The head of the ER was on the panel for my interview. He said he remembered you.”

I’m surprised. I was only there for a year-long contract that I chose not to extend because New York City was too big for me. “No problem at all. And if you ever decide to move to one of the other places I’ve contracted at, let me know. I’ve got you covered coast to coast.”

Travel nursing is a sweet gig—good pay, good hours, interesting new places.

Between my willingness to work unusual shifts and all the extra certifications like wound care, life support and trauma, I’m an attractive candidate and I never have trouble finding a new contract when I inevitably get that familiar itch to move.

My resume is a laundry list that reads like American Airlines’ domestic flight offerings.

Another grin splits her face. “Will do. You’re back here now, right?”

“I rolled in earlier this week and jumped right in at St. Luke’s.

I gave myself zero wiggle room and had to haul ass driving up from Charlotte,” I remark dryly.

“The U-Haul is still in the driveway of my new rental row home—I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress and living out of a rolling suitcase.

I have so much unpacking to do, but I’ve got the next four days off—I can get it all done, but it won’t be fun. ”

“Ohhh… Is that why you’re not drinking? My mom thought you were pregnant,” she giggles.

A sour flash of nerves flares low in my stomach like it always does at the reminder of where other people think I should be at my age—of where I thought I’d be. By 31, most people I know are married, have a house, maybe a baby already or one on the way… I don’t even have a dog.

I should get a dog.

“Yeah, unpacking while hungover is not fun.”

A man sways close as he walks by our table, drawing both of our eyes and making me tense until I realize it’s not Kyle, my “date.” He’s not really—he’s just the douchebag who walked with me down the aisle.

The stranger brushes Emma’s shoulder with the back of his hand, and she flinches, then drops her gaze, clearly uncomfortable.

“You okay?” I ask, shifting closer.

“Yeah, fine…” she says as he passes by, glancing around almost furtively. “Okay, I wasn’t going to say anything because my mom told me I’m being ri diculous, but have you noticed that some people here are kind of… um…”

“Scary?” I supply.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, yes! So it’s not just me. Okay, so the guy Nat was sitting next to during the ceremony gave off seriously bad vibes, and he was talking on the phone in another language the whole time apparently, even when Jenny was walking down the aisle. Fucking rude, right?”

The difference between the sides of the aisle had been noticeable. My extended family cleans up well, but we don’t know many people who wear Armani suits or gold rings on every finger. And there’s more than one Rolls-Royce parked in the lot.

She leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you think the rumors are true?”

“What rumors?”