Kissing The Bride by Tracey Alvarez

Author:Tracey Alvarez [Alvarez, Tracey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Icon Publishing
Published: 2016-06-17T23:00:00+00:00

***

Day before the Big Day and counting…

Toasts made, X-rated jokes laughed over, numerous ball-and-chain jibes tolerated and too-many-to-count “remember when we…” stories retold, Del leaned back in his chair at Due South’s pub and took a sip of his non-alcoholic beer. Counted himself lucky by only being the butt of a few jokes instead of blindfolded and tied up somewhere on the Rakiura Track. Considering West and Ben had organized his stag night, Del had gotten off lightly.

Speaking of his big brother…

“Where did West go?” Del asked Ben, who slouched beside Del, also nursing a non-alcoholic beer.

His brother and mates, knowing of Del’s previous issues with alcohol abuse—not to mention, he functioned with only one remaining kidney—were considerate with their drinking around him. But they didn’t coddle him either, which he appreciated. Tonight, however, Ben, West, Kip, Ford, and Harley had been threatened with dismemberment from their women if they came home smashed, so all of his mates watched their booze intake.

“Dunno.” Ben picked up his glass and drained it. He swiped a wrist across his mouth then gestured over his shoulder toward the back corner, where Ford was fiddling with the mic stand. “But it looks like Ford’s gonna serenade you.”

A screech of feedback sounded from the mic, fingernails-on-blackboard loud. “Sorry ‘bout that.” Ford’s amplified voice filled the pub. “Kia ora, everyone. As you know, the youngest Westlake’s tying the knot tomorrow afternoon—”

Whoops and hollers and feet-stamping erupted throughout the pub, which was predominantly filled with wool-jersey-and-gumboot-wearing males with a few wide-eyed, late-in-the-season tourists sprinkled amongst them.

“Yeah, yeah. Pipe down,” Ford said. “So how could me and the guys not organize something special for a man who’d once called Hollywood home?”

Del rolled his eyes. That he’d actually lived in Venice Beach made no difference to his mates; he’d always be Hollywood to them.

“Even though we promised his beautiful wife-to-be that we’d keep tonight’s entertainment family friendly…” Ford continued.

Del’s stomach plummeted to the soles of his boots. Oh shit. This didn’t sound good.

“Guys, give a big hand to the South’s sensationally seductive strippers!”

Someone flashed the pub’s lights on and off a few times, and the instantly recognizable “stripper” music blared through the sound-system. The door between pub and hallway flung open, and octogenarian Mrs. Taylor swept through the entrance. Dressed in a sleeveless purple-and-black dress that looked like a costume out of a roaring twenties movie, she wore a matching feathery purple boa draped across her skinny shoulders. Trailing after her, wearing similar attire, were her two closest pals, Mrs. Brailsford and Mrs. Randal—and following them was…his dad, who wore a gigantic, lacy bra on the outside of his shirt plus a bright-pink boa flung artfully around his neck.

Oh. Dear. God. Laughter bubbled up in Del, and he doubled over, his sides aching. He was absolutely going to kill his mates for this.

The pub crowd erupted into laughter as the “strippers” wound their way through a sea of mobile phones clicking photos. The trio and Del’s dad stopped at a

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