One Too Many: A Riley Girls Romance Read online

  One Too Many

  A Riley Girls Romance

  Kayti McGee

  Contents

  Psst.

  1. The Bachelorette Party

  2. The Wedding

  3. The Second Wedding

  4. The Hangover

  5. The Honeymoon

  6. The Adjustment

  7. The Great Escape

  8. The Happy Ending

  Also by Kayti McGee

  The (Not-So) Secret Identity!

  Psst.

  Hey, kittens.

  Psst.

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  Also, if this book is familiar, it was previously published as Red-Headed $lut in the Sin and Tonic anthology.

  One

  The Bachelorette Party

  There’s an awful lot to recommend about having an Irish family. For example, it’s incredibly convenient—not to mention cost-effective—when a distant cousin owns your favorite bar. There In Spirits isn’t exactly what you’d think of as a traditional Irish pub. There’s not even Guinness on tap.

  But the code word that gets you into the speakeasy is “potato,” so there’s that little tell.

  I know when each of my bridesmaids shows up, because they all like to yell it a little differently. There’s Eileen, my best friend, favorite sister, maid of honor, and the loudest girl on either side of the state line. Everyone in a hundred-mile radius knows when she arrives anywhere. Skye, my back-up favorite sister, has that kind of sultry voice that silences everyone else around her while they look to see who it belongs to. Finally, Erin, my fourth-favorite sister, who spent a single summer in Dublin two years ago and still puts on the accent each and every time we meet up here.

  Actresses, man.

  My third-favorite sister and I aren’t speaking at current, due to a fallout over the dresses. She said blue wasn’t her color. I said she could fuck right off the Cliffs of Moher. There was fault on both sides, obviously. As long as she shows up for the wedding on Saturday, I could care less whether she’s at my bachelorette tonight.

  As for the rest of my sisters, Brian ran out of groomsmen to pair them up with, so they got axed from the ceremony. That makes it sound bad. When you have seven siblings, people get left out of everything. We’re all used to it.

  When you have seven sisters as siblings, though, you can sure fill up a bar fast. And clear it out just as quickly, when someone notices someone else wearing a shirt that doesn’t belong to them and starts a fight. This happens approximately twice a week when various contingents of the Riley sisters hit happy hour. It’s also why Eileen and Erin are seated as far from each other as possible and are currently unfriended on all social networks.

  By the end of the night, we’ll all be the best of friends again. It’s a comforting cycle for us.

  The pretty bartender’s new. I can tell because she doesn’t know our order by heart.

  “Jameson and cokes all around,” I tell her, and she smiles at me. On each side of her full mouth are dimples. It’s the kind of smile that invites a person to unburden themselves in confession. She’s going to be a great bartender, I can already tell.

  Once the drinks are ready and waiting, Eileen hollers a toast. “Two down, six to go! Bridget’s getting hitched! Slainte!” Erin got married before me, even though I’m the oldest, which is why she’s currently ranking number four on my list. It stings less today than the whisky’s fiery trail down my esophagus. This was mixed a tad stronger than I’m used to, not that I’m complaining. I knew—I glance at her nametag— that Sierra would be good at this.

  “You’ve got a good Irish name,” I compliment her. “By the way, I don’t plan to pay for a single drink tonight. You should just distribute them evenly between everyone else.”

  “That would make you Bridget, then. Tell me about your fiancé. Leave no gory details out.” She leans on the bar in front of me, all boobs and dimples, as my sisters bicker around me.

  “His name is Brian and he’s not Irish, but I’ve decided to forgive him for that seeing as he put a ring on it and all.” I hold up my left hand for her perusal. The diamond is worth precisely four times his monthly salary as a soap salesman. I know, I calculated it myself and gave him the resulting figure to take to the jewelry store. Sierra cocks a brow and waits for me to continue. Once I get over my jealousy that she can do that perfect Scarlet O’Hara face, I do.

  “We met at a bar. He bought me a Jim Beam and I poured it out right in front of him. The second I did it I had regrets, but it made him laugh and then he made me laugh and five years later here we are.”

  “And does he still make you laugh?” she asks. I pause to consider.

  “No, the humor faded along with the sex. I haven’t laughed in about a year, I suppose.” Give or take the occasional snicker over some antic of a sister. Meanwhile, Sierra’s dimples have entirely disappeared. She pushes her turquoise glasses higher up the bridge of her nose and stares intently at me.

  “If there are no gory details, why would you marry him?”

  “Because it’s like we’re already married. Your sex life and your sense of humor are always the first things to go in a marriage. We just got a jump on the settling is all.”

  “Um, I still get laid and laugh. Like, a lot,” Erin interjects.

  “No one asked you, overachiever,” I tell her, but Sierra smiles.

  “She’s not wrong. I’ve been with the same guy since I was fifteen, and we have amazing sex. There’s this room in the basement—”

  “I’ll take a refill, please.” And fast. I have zero desire to hear more about her basement sexcapades. Actually, that’s not true at all, but I’d rather not be comparing them to mine. Or my lack thereof.

  “Ooh, me too. Then tell us more,” says Erin, that traitor, my now fifth-favorite sister. Congratulations, Maggie, you’ve officially moved up a slot. “Do you guys ever try anything… spicy?”

  “Lambs, my bedroom is painted Illustrated Kink Encyclopedia Blue by Sherwin Williams. Ask me anything, I’ll gladly spread the gospel.” She pours herself a scotch and dimples back up. I melt faster than an ice cube would in the warm embrace of her bosom.

  “Maybe I could learn a new trick or two for the wedding night,” I acknowledge.

  “I want to know about butt stuff,” announces Erin.

  “Did someone say butt stuff?” asks Eileen.

  “No butt stuff until after midnight, ladies,” says Dave the barback. He’s always got to be the responsible one. Everyone groans, but it’s true that I haven’t had nearly enough to drink for a discussion of that magnitude. I always figured anal was for when the normal kind got boring, but frankly, isn’t the normal kind always boring? So then why would I even bother with taking the road less traveled?

  Brian is a very reliable guy. Things take reliably ten minutes, by which time I will have reliably worked out the week’s grocery list. Multitasking has always been a strong point of mine. It’s part of our compatibility. I multitask, he focuses. He’s a little bit country, I’m a little bit celtic rock. That old song-and-dance.

  Erin’s phone goes off, but she ignores it to ask about cocktails. In her fake accent that I’d be happy to insert in her butt, but consent is important.

  “I’ve invented some good ones,” Sierra tells us. “How do you feel about scotch?”

  “Inferior to Irish,” I tell her, as my sisters nod along, “but less offensive than anything from England.”

  “In which case, may I offer you a Princeton Rub? It’s Macallen 12, bitters, sweet vermouth, and a wash of ginger syrup.”


  “Ooohhh, what’s that rub thing mean?” Skye asks, as her phone buzzes.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” says Eileen. “But I’ll take two.” She glances at her phone for a second, does a double-take, and flips it screen-side down. I’m starting to get the idea that something’s happening I don’t want to be involved in. God, I hope it’s a male stripper. Brian looks fine naked, of course, but every now and again a girl just wants a little eye candy. A Jared Keeso type. Sure, he’s Canadian, but I’m certain there’s Irish blood in that nearly-ginger body.

  “I’m fairly certain we were responsible for giving the Scots kilts and whiskey,” says Erin. “Only we didn’t tell them the kilts were a joke.”

  We all crack up. Sierra, less so. Dave pretends he wasn’t laughing as she sternly glances his way. Traitor. I make a mental note to trip him the next time he emerges from behind the shelter of the bar.

  I grudgingly accept a Princeton Rub, mostly because I’m not paying for it. A few minutes later, after a brief internet search, I realize no woman has ever truly accepted a Princeton Rub, grudgingly or not. I decide this is what a bachelorette party is, though, a foreign land one must traverse in order to get to the safety of wedlock. And then I await the stripper. I await him through a second round of Rubs. I await him through Kathleen’s phone buzzing, and Darby’s phone chirping. I even await it through Kiera flushing hers down the toilet, as though it would stop whatever is happening on the other end.

  I await through discussions of the ceremony. Father Paddy tends to be a bit long-winded, but it isn’t like we we’d use Brian’s heathen Unitarian minister. Mass may not be comfortable for his family, but I’d planned on sending out a Facebook message the day before explaining when the up-downs and the also-with-you’s happen.

  I await through Darby and Kathleen dissecting the fact that we’d chosen to hold off on a honeymoon until Brian knew if he got the promotion to Head of Soap Sales or not for half a damn hour.

  TL;DR: they are not impressed.

  I await through another round of Rubs, wherein Sierra discusses the origin of the term. Only via downing mine rapidly was I able to understand why they had become my de facto bachelorette drink. The answer being, of course, that she likes them and she is too pretty to refuse.

  Finally, I open my purse to find that my phone has been going off too. I know it’s going to be Ma before I ever even look at the screen. She gets nervous every single time all the Riley’s are out in public. And well should she be; bail isn’t cheap and she’s paid it more than once. But when I flip my phone over, I’m surprised to see it’s a group text with all seven of my sisters, all sent from an unknown number.

  Pretty sure you don’t know what’s up, says the opening message.

  Well no, no, I don’t. So I scroll down.

  I just thought you should know. Screenshots attached.

  Turns out there’s a whole novel in the scrolling. A romance novel, one that prominently features Brian and someone that isn’t me. So I start at the beginning, the buzzes all my sisters have not-quite-discreetly chosen to ignore. I scroll through another round of Rubs. I scroll through my fiancé picking a nurse up on a swipe-app, and I scroll through their flirting. I scroll through the sexting. I scroll through the mediocre dick pics. I scroll, and I get more furious with every line.

  By the end, I’m in a record rage.

  This fucking guy. He doesn’t get to be unhappy with us, I am unhappy with us! Just because I was willing to settle? I was being mature. Adults settle! Professor Sierra finally stops preaching when she sees that my face has turned the same shade as the cranberry juice behind her bar.

  “Are we… Is there plans for butt stuff or something?” she asks. The bar falls silent, as all seven of my sisters turn to stare at me.

  “Oh, there are plans all right.”

  Another thing I can recommend about an Irish family—our tempers.

  Two

  The Wedding

  If anyone says every little girl doesn’t dream of their wedding day, they are a fucking liar. But in my experience, which I assume extrapolates, the most delightful thing about it is that it’s the one and only day of your life that you get to be Veruca Salt. Everything is your way, and anyone who isn’t on board the good ship Bridezilla can just fuck off into the Dover Sea.

  All of which is to say, my hair looks fucking amazing but I’m not one hundred percent pleased with the third iteration of my eyeliner.

  “It has to be perfect!” I scold Molly. “Today is the only day I will ever do this. I said Kardashian and I meant it.”

  She doesn’t even bother trying to roll her eyes, which I frankly respect about her. Molly takes no shit and gives none either. I’m pretty sure I forgot to pay her for my last root job, too, but she’s still here, rolling her eyes at me. Now that’s a good friend. She’ll be an even better friend if she gets my fucking eyeliner right. On a girl’s wedding day, she should look like a queen.

  My dress is definitely queenly. I picked it with Diana in mind. Kate was just a tad too understated for my liking. How are all eyes supposed to be on my perfect Kardashian liner if I’m in a minimalist dress? No, I needed a thousand yards of tulle. At least. Sure, I won’t be able to pee all day, but one must pay the price of glory. Besides, I have a rather Kate situation all ready for the reception dress change. Very demure in the front, all long sleeves, then a slutty low cut in the back. Also, it’s bright red.

  I like the idea of being a scarlet woman right about now.

  I breath deep and watch Molly’s nostrils flare as she pretends not to be annoyed that I just blinked and she’ll have to do my liner for a fourth time. I wonder if she’s ever met Sierra. The two could use each other, I think. Mixing up the visible annoyance and the dimple-deflection could probably make both of them better. Or, perhaps, it could turn them into the perfect weapon. I decide they should never meet, and the horror of the idea keeps my eyes wide open long enough for Molly to line and mascara my bottom lashes without interference this time.

  Once four of my sisters fluff my gown into place, I take a deep breath. This is it. This is the last moment before the ceremony. I should probably hug them, but they’d crush my tulle. Instead, I channel Diana yet again, and nod regally. They nod back.

  I nod at Molls. She rolls her eyes.

  “Are we ready? Ladies? I need you to be ready, okay?” My little wedding coordinator is suddenly in the doorway, bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes and quivering like a cold chihuahua. She might be on coke, it’s always hard to say with girls that hyper and skinny, but I sort of hope she is because that means she’ll be super organized and make sure my wedding goes off without a hitch. Perfect.

  Daddy is waiting for me in the hallway. He smiles at me like I’m his little princess. I am, too. Erin is a poser, and my other sisters are just that. Others. Extras. I love them, and I wouldn’t trade my big family for anything, but we all know my parents got it right the first time around, and there was no pressing need to attempt to replicate it.

  Sure didn’t stop them trying, though. Seven more times.

  I’m so glad they’re here to support me.

  I take Daddy’s arm and wait for the bouncy little planner to wave me into the sanctuary, where every single person I know and an equal number I don’t are all watching for me to step out and blow them away.

  I only have eyes for Brian, just like everyone said I would.

  We take short little steps up the aisle, and I’m beaming around because today is going to be unforgettable, and then we’re there at the altar and Daddy’s giving me away, and all my bridesmaids are already crying which makes me start too.

  I hold one finger up for Father Paddy, so he knows not to start in quite yet. Brian fumbles for his best man’s decorative handkerchief for me. I accept it, then turn and face my audience.

  “I want to thank you all so much for being here today. It really means a lot,” I tell them. Everyone looks confused, and Brian’s gripping my arm. Pre
-vow speeches aren’t standard Catholic fare. Ma mouths, “turn around” at me, but I will not.

  “There’s someone else here in spirit today,” and I see a lot of faces realize I’m probably just having a Moment over Nana, who died a few months ago. “Her name is Staci, and I’d just like to read a few words that Brian wrote about her.”

  I glance over to enjoy the sight of the blood draining from his face as I reach into my Kardashian-wedding cleavage and retrieve my phone. I clear my throat and read verbatim some highlights from the text chain about Staci-the-nurse.

  “U do things with ur body my girlfriend never does lol.”

  The murmurs are starting already.

  “Thinking about u naked is the only thing getting me thru this rehearsal dinner lol.” And finally, “Tomorrow’s the big day, send nudes lol.”

  None of my bridesmaid sisters are crying anymore, I guess because they were more upset about the idea I might go through with it than they were moved by my beauty. One or two of the groomsmen are already starting to shuffle backward, and Brian looks like he might faint. I feel absolutely triumphant.

  “I’m not marrying him, obviously, but my parents spent a lot of money on this reception and there’s an open bar, thank you, Ma and Daddy! So I hereby declare this wedding an Irish wake for my relationship with this disgusting, cheating jackal. See you in the reception hall!” I wonder if I should bow, then decide Diana wouldn’t have.

  People start moving around, the buzz of conversation everything I’d hoped for. Brian’s poor Gran looks mortified, which I might or might not feel bad about later. I mean, he did this to her himself, basically.

  “I can’t believe you would do this to me—and in front of my family!” But I’m not here for his bullshit anymore.