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Enjoy this Excerpt from Bleeding Heart...

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“Paisley, will you have Gavin as your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in the covenant of matrimony? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep you only unto him, for the rest of your life?”

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The end of the minister’s sentence fades, overcome by the loud whooshing in my ears. Sweat that has already dampened the satin at my armpits and down the back of my gown, making the soft fabric itchy and uncomfortable, now trickles between my breasts. My breaths come in short pants. My heart, searching for escape, is threatening to beat outside of my chest. Not literally, though once a man like Gavin held it cradled in their hands as gently as my husband-to-be is holding my hands. 

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My tongue darts to wet my parched lip. The underside gets caught on the smudge-proof lipstick the makeup artist applied. We’ve spared no expense for this wedding. I’d seen candelabras. Gavin suggested the ceremony be at night. And the chapel is lit by candlelight! We are what everyone deems perfect for one another.

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Gavin loves me. I love him. How could I not? He’s a good man.

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But do I not honor Gavin and devalue our relationship by continuing with this wedding? Or do I love him enough to be the “anyone who knows a reason” why we shouldn’t marry one another?

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keep you only unto him

for the rest of your life

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I’d abide by those words if somewhere deep in my gut my shriveling soul was interpreting them the same way that Gavin is.

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That’s what I have.

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A black soul for playing along with a lie until it was too late and embarrassing Gavin in public.

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We’re in a church, for Christ’s sake!

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Oh, crap. If I weren’t spinning the wheel trying to decide which path to hell the arrow will point me in, then taking Lord’s name in vain has added a short, direct route.

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Lightheaded, I wrap my left hand over my stomach and bend at the waist. Gavin’s thumb presses into the top of my left hand. His fingers pinch into my palm.

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“Paisley, are you okay?” His voice filled with concern, Gavin shifts his stance so that he’s shielding me from the pews occupied by our family and Gavin’s friends and colleagues from the hospital.

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“Just, ah, give me a sec.” The sheer fabric of my veil flops over my shoulder, covering my watery eyes. I try some deep breathing exercises. My chest aches. My fingertips are cold and tingling. Perspiration drenches my scalp.

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My mother’s compliment from before she escorted me down the aisle rushes at me like a tidal wave. You’re going to have the most beautiful marriage, Paisley. I’m so happy you found a man that loves you unconditionally and that you have a bright beginning, similar to what your father and I had.

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I wanted to tell my mom that Gavin’s love comes with strings attached. That he couldn’t keep me only unto him, no matter how short our life together winds up being. Gavin needs more.

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I can’t live trapped in the cage of domestic bliss. I don’t want him to kiss me goodbye in the morning and drive away in his BMW, pretending I’m the woman he still wants.

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Both of us can’t lie.

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I can’t marry Gavin.

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And now that I’ve made up my mind, I’m in a huge pickle, aren’t I? 

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“Oh, gosh!” I whip my head back, standing ramrod straight. I brush away the layers of tulle resting on my head to get them out of my face. When that doesn’t work, I grip the tiny pearl and silver tiara from Sterlings that the veil is attached to and rip it entirely out of my hair. Giving Gavin a wide-eyed and wily smile, I’m positive he’s ready to have me committed to the psychiatric wing.

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“Sweetheart?” Gavin’s gaze is wrought with concern.

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“You are going to make an amazing husband.” I pat underneath the knot in his silk cravat. “But you shouldn’t waste the happiness the world has to offer you on me.”

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I turn toward the chancel and bolt. My skirt swishes past the altar and I duck out the door in front of the minister’s vestry. The corridor leads to the stairs, to the lower floor where I waited to march down the aisle, and outside to the parking lot.

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“Paisley!” Gavin yells.

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I doubt he’ll stay put. I mean, would any groom if they were questioning why their bride left them at the altar? But I don’t have an answer Gavin will accept. He’ll coerce me back inside and I’ll give in so as not to disappoint anyone.

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The streetlights above light up the sky the moment I step outside. It casts a glow over the rows of parked cars, highlighting that none are of any use without a set of keys. The limo driver, charged with whisking the new Dr. and Mrs. Gavin Laughton to the reception, is waiting at the entrance of the church. Quickly, I realize I’ve skipped from one problem to the next. I need to find my way out of here.

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“This is why robbers don’t wait until the last minute to figure out their getaway plan, Paisley!” I chastise myself aloud.

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I lift my gown off the blacktop, ball it in my fists, and start running. My high heels pinch my toes when my feet land on the pavement, making my lips twist. Shoot! I was sorely mistaken thinking the blisters I’d have by the end of tonight would be from dancing the night away.

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I stop, hop up and down, remove my shoes, and let them clop to the ground. A twinge of guilt hits me. They were such nice shoes. It’s followed by a second pang of regret. How can I be sad about ditching Jimmy Choos when I just left the man I was supposed to marry in the most compromising position anyone could find themselves in?

Well, maybe it’s not the most. But getting ditched ranks up there for embarrassment. Poor Gavin. And my poor mother… Eeeh. My mother. I’ll find a way to live this fiasco down, but can they?

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“Paisley? Where are you?”

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“Oh shit, he’s still after me!” I squeak.

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Skittering onto the cold and damp sidewalk, I pick up the pace. Within the next few blocks, I’m going to go from Historic Brighton to Downtown Brighton to the back alleyways that investment firms thought twice about revitalizing.

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Beyond a chain link fence, flashing pink letters on a neon sign catch my attention. Almost out of breath from the heavy layers I’m carrying, I have two choices. I can keep running and risk the possibility of getting hepatitis when I step on a needle. Or I can duck inside and pray that Sweet Caroline’s is the last place on earth anyone—especially a well-respected heart surgeon—will come looking for me.

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There’s a single car in the lot, so I take my chances that the customers won’t think I’m part of the stage show. I scoot under an awning, ignoring the marquee advertising the scantily clad headline acts, and pull on a door handle.

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“No, no. Don’t be locked. Don’t be locked!” I dare to glance over my shoulder, reaching for the other door.

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Not as heavy as I expect, it swings open, nearly toppling me over. I step into the dark strip club, pulling my dress inside before I can’t see anything anymore, and risk it catching between the doors. My practically bare feet can feel the holes in my stockings and the short pile of the rug.

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“We’re closed,” booms a voice from down a dark hall.

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“I need to use the phone. Make a call.” I arch my spine six ways from Sunday, trying to see in the shadows.

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I’m also wondering who exactly am I calling? And how am I paying for the lift because my purse, with my phone and my credit cards, are in the church’s undercroft.

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Thank fuck I own a boutique because not making off with the money would make bank robbery an exceptionally poor career choice.

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A tall silhouette emerges, back lit by the hallway. He uses the top of a liquor bottle to flip a switch, washing the entire theater in harsh light. I cover my eyes for them to adjust.

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“Don’t you have a cell?” The man demands, accusing me of being an idiot.

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A whole congregation agrees you’re not far off, dude.

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“I lost it.” Along with my sanity.

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I blink, and the man across the room is staring at me in shock.

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Can’t say I blame him. I’m sort of shocked about how my night is going, too. Although, I’m the slightest bit more prepared for this encounter than Sweet Caroline’s proprietor is.

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From the looks of the desolate parking lot, I thought there would be a bartender in here. A bouncer. A regular watching a dancer spin around a pole, too enamored by the woman taking her clothes off on stage to become involved in my little circus act. After humiliating myself in front of two hundred people who I know, what difference would half a dozen who I don’t make?

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However, I hadn’t factored Jake Ballentine into the mix.

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No downtown business owner has to have met him to know him. Jake is a man whose reputation precedes him. His omnipotent presence in this small town is as much an institution as the gentleman’s club he owns.

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More than Jake’s questionable dealings tower above. From across the room, he looms gigantic. Long and lean, Jake is dressed in crisp black trousers. His unbuckled belt jangles at his hips. Several buttons on his shirt are undone at the collar. The power in his neck and broad shoulders is similar to a competitive swimmer. His tie hangs loose. His blond hair is disheveled like he’s gripped it at the root, but it appears he’s also tried to mat it down and back into place.

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I’m uncertain if the attempt to make himself look presentable is for my benefit. I would have buckled the belt first, but that’s just me, and I’m a girl.

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Jake strides over the carpeting with the bottle of amber liquid in his grip. He sets it on a small round table as he passes. 

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“I thought the princess lost a shoe leaving the ball?”

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I crane my neck to reply. “Oh, I did that b!tch one better.” I lift the tattered hem of my soiled gown and wiggle my toes.

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His cantankerous laughter bounces off the walls. “Come on, which one of the guys set me up?” He shakes his head, unbelieving. “I could have sworn Trig and Carver were having too much fun with their respective wives to notice I left.”

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I shake my head in response. “No clue what you are talking about. Didn’t know you were closed. Didn’t remember my cell.”

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Jake plays with the cleft in his square chin. His pupils are wide and black with an icy blue halo. He stares, daring me to hide the truth from him. “It can’t be that simple.” 

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“Uh, yeah. It can,” I say sarcastically. It is the truth and I’m coming down from the adrenaline high of hot-footing it out of a church during my wedding. “So can I—”

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The door flings open interrupting me. 

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“I need to use your phone. Please! I left mine at the church a few blocks away and I need to tell my fiancée’s mother… Paisley?” 

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Oh, ❤︎❤︎ckkity, ❤︎❤︎ck, ❤︎❤︎ck.

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My shoulders hit my ears. I’m caught in Jake’s blue-eyed tractor beam, unable to turn and look at Gavin.

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“Just go with it,” I whisper under my breath.

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I jump before even realizing what I’m doing. Wrapping my arms around his neck, the Norse God’s palms encase my ass, and our bodies press flush together. Jake plays along, kissing me as if runaway brides barrel into his establishment every single day, searching for sanctuary.

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And while this kiss isn’t the one I anticipated ending my wedding day with, I have to admit Jake Ballentine is an amazing kisser.

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©2022 Jody Kaye, All Rights Reserved

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