Wicked Pickle

Girlfriends, I’ve really done it this time.

I’m a bridesmaid at a bachelorette party, minding my own business at a local bar after doing six shots of Fireball, when I realize I need to pee. In size small Spanx.

I’m a large.

While I wrestle with my white-spandex belly-smasher in the only bathroom, I’m holding up the whole bar from relieving itself.

When the broody, tatted-up owner breaks down the door, thinking maybe I’ve alcohol-poisoned myself into the afterlife, my drink-addled brain decides to revisit the karate I learned around third grade.

But I misfire my karate kick and hook a thigh around his waist....

Girlfriends, I’ve really done it this time.

I’m a bridesmaid at a bachelorette party, minding my own business at a local bar after doing six shots of Fireball, when I realize I need to pee. In size small Spanx.

I’m a large.

While I wrestle with my white-spandex belly-smasher in the only bathroom, I’m holding up the whole bar from relieving itself.

When the broody, tatted-up owner breaks down the door, thinking maybe I’ve alcohol-poisoned myself into the afterlife, my drink-addled brain decides to revisit the karate I learned around third grade.

But I misfire my karate kick and hook a thigh around his waist. Then, the sexy rock skull chains hanging off his belt snag my Spanx.

We’re stuck.

Junk to junk.

My best friend, the bride, holds back the bar room paparazzi and promises to snip us apart on one condition:

This hottie biker bad boy has to be my date at her wedding.

Friends, this is the start of one wicked love story.