Page 13 of The Worst Best Man

“Hey, why don’t we leave the cat claws at home, Margeaux?” Pru warned the woman.

“Do not listen to this angry woman,” Cressida said, pointing in Margeaux’s direction. “She has bet she can fuck Aiden this weekend.”

“Fuck you, Cressida,” Margeaux spat out.

“That was not the bet,” Cressida insisted, frowning. Frankie couldn’t tell if she was purposely poking at Margeaux or if the language barrier made for accidental insults.

“Ladies,” Pru sighed. She rubbed absently at her forehead.

No drama, Frankie reminded herself.She was here to make sure Pru had her perfect day.She took a drink straight from the bottle. “Not to worry,Margie. Your odds are still excellent for luring him into your Venus Fly Trap vag. He was just being nice. There’s no interest on either side,” Frankie promised.

“Aiden isn’t nice,” Margeaux argued, ignoring the slam on her vagina.

“Then why do you want to bang him?” Frankie asked in frustration.

Taffany launched into a fit of giggles and hiccups. She reached for the bottle. “Hello. He’s gorgandrich. What else is there? A prenup from him would set a girl up at least into her fifties.”

“I have heard that he is quite excellent in bed,” Cressida added. “His children would be prime specimens.”

These women were from a different planet. Planet Crazy Bitch.

Frankie’s parents got married because they fell in love in high school and got pregnant on prom night. They fought about toilet paper and which one of them was supposed to call the accountant. That was normal. That was love.

This?This was what happened with too much inbreeding amongst Manhattan’s wealthy.

“Don’t you want to meet a guy and fall in love?” Frankie asked the group in general.

The blondes shared a baffled look and broke out into a delightful cultured laughter—plus hiccups from Taffany.

“That is sopoor people,” Taffany announced. “Poor people have to look for love because they can’t have money.”

“So, money is better than love?” Frankie reiterated the point.

“Duh. And what’s better than money?” Taffany chirped, taking the tequila back.

“More money,” Margeaux and Cressida chimed in.

“To trophy wives,” Taffany said, holding the bottle aloft. Margeaux and Cressida raised their glasses and Pru, looking slightly embarrassed, raised hers.

“To trophy wives,” they echoed.

“Well, I’ve been doing this all wrong then,” Frankie announced cheerfully. “Teach me your ways.”

Margeaux slid her sunglasses back on. “Sweetie, no amount of education can makethis,” she circled the palm of her hand in Frankie’s direction, “trophy. You’re more participation medal. Anyone can have one.”

Fucking asshole. Frankie hoped Margeaux would get backed over by her own limo.

Frankie smiled sweetly. “When you marry husband number two, does the prenup state that you have to have that giant stick removed from your ass, or does that get to stay?”

Taffany choked and sprayed Margeaux with a fine cloud of tequila.

“You fucking idiot!” Margeaux sprang to her feet. She grabbed the bottle out of Taffany’s hand and tossed it into the pool.

“Hey!” Taffany reacted as if Margeaux had thrown her teacup Chihuahua off an overpass. She lowered her shoulder and charged, sending them both into the water.

Cressida said something that sounded like a derisive four-letter word in German and stalked off.

“How do you know these clowns again?” Frankie asked as Margeaux grabbed a handful of Taffany’s hair.