The Wedding Audition Read online

  The Wedding Audition

  A Runaway Brides Novella

  Catherine Mann

  and

  Joanne Rock

  The Wedding Audition

  Copyright © 2015 Catherine Mann and Joanne Rock

  Kindle Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-942240-51-8

  Dedication

  In memory of DeWanna Pace, an early champion of our work and lover of quirky voices. Dee generously shared her knowledge and creativity with hungry new writers, providing much needed affirmation and guidance. We couldn’t have asked for a kinder introduction to the writing world.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  The Runaway Bride Series

  About the Authors

  Chapter One

  ‡

  “What’s so wrong with asking my guy for a threesome?”

  The question blared from the radio sex talk show and fired into Annamae Jessup’s mind faster than the chemicals refreshing her highlights before her rehearsal dinner tonight. Her hands clenched the armrests on the hair salon chair, the scent of the developing solution stinging her nose.

  God, she could barely manage a twosome with her fiancé without breaking out into hives lately. Everyone told her it was pre-wedding jitters. She should be dancing on a cloud. She’d snagged Atlanta’s golden boy, third baseman for the Atlanta Stars.

  If only her engagement wasn’t so public, every moment of their romance recorded by cameras because of her family’s reality TV show. Thanks to the wealth of Jessup sportswear and her producer stepfather’s connections, her family had become Atlanta’s small time cable answer to the Kardashians – Acting Up: The Atlanta Heiresses.

  Four years of her life had been documented since her stepfather had landed the network deal for his family. Her role? The good girl in the middle of drama while her siblings and sorority sisters partied. All she’d wanted was a peaceful life and to finish her degree in hospitality and tourism. But as a habitual family peacekeeper, she went with the flow for what the rest of them wanted, putting up with the show and hoping her part would stay small.

  She wasn’t the smart one or the sexy one or even the quirky one. Now the Atlanta cable area was watching the live televised special as the show’s homemaker darling prepared to walk down the aisle in the ultimate love match. It was the biggest role she’d ever played on the show and she hated that it had become just that—a role.

  There were even “Annamae Loves Boone” t-shirts and billboards all over town.

  That’s what she felt, right? Love. The nerves were to be expected. Even that radio talk show would agree.

  The radio blared with the dulcet British accent as the call-in show host answered the threesome question, “It’s not a matter of right or wrong, love, it’s a matter of mutual consent. You and your partner need to be in agreement on your sexual journey whatever path that may take. Thank you for calling.” The sound of the phone disconnecting echoed. “Next up? If you need help with your relationship, emotional or physical, call Sex Talk with Serena, that’s 5-5-5-s-e-x-t-a-l-k.”

  Acting Up’s producer, a retired game show model, waved from beside the television camera. “Turn down the radio. We’re ready to roll.”

  An intern scrambled to adjust the volume on “Sex Talk with Serena” to a low whisper. Darn shame. Maybe Serena could have shed some light on the cold feet setting in faster than her highlights.

  Annamae pushed back a chunk of foil wraps on her hair, the black cape slick and cool against her skin heated with nerves. Celebrated stylist Lindsey Ballard wielded a comb and a paintbrush along Annamae’s hair. Dressed in a Janis Joplin t-shirt and purple paisley scarf tied—pirate style—around her head, Lindsey cast meaningful looks at the junior hair designers scattered around the elite Buckhead studio. “I could use some help finishing up the color,” she announced to the other stylists who’d gathered to watch her work. “Who wants to share the spotlight for fifteen minutes of fame?”

  She rearranged the tail end of her purple scarf on her shoulder, fluffing the sheer fabric and winking at Annamae. Lindsey had become one of Annamae’s best friends over the course of the show, winning Annamae’s heart as a kindred spirit by ducking as much screen time as possible.

  “I’m in.” One of the interns set aside an oversized European fashion magazine he’d been thumbing through and crossed over into the camera’s field, dodging an umbrella light on the way.

  “Awesome.” Lindsey handed the junior stylist a chunk of hair before weaving the tail end of her comb through the next section of strands, never missing a beat. “Well, what do you know? We’ve got a little three-way of our own going here now.”

  Not exactly racy stuff, but compared to Annamae’s real weeknights, this afternoon’s hair style three-way sounded downright exotic. “I’m settling down. I’ll be a married lady by this time tomorrow.”

  An intimate ceremony – with a half a million of her nearest and dearest friends in TV land watching. Gulp.

  “That doesn’t mean the two of you can’t live it up. Follow him on the road and keep those sports groupies away.” Lindsey paused, dipping into the bowl of touch-up color and peering down into her friend’s eyes. “Smile, Annamae, this is your big week.”

  Had she been frowning? Her stepfather would kill her for being “flat” on screen. She sat up straighter and tried to smile. “I’m just nervous changing my hair so close to the wedding.” A good enough excuse for something she couldn’t explain.

  Lindsey sifted through the next batch of hair and reached for a foil. “It’s not a big change. Just a little more lift than usual. You can trust me.”

  “I know.” And she did. Lindsey wouldn’t steer her wrong. “I adore your work. Your whole salon.” Annamae glanced around at the wide open space filled with natural light from floor to ceiling windows. The setting sun cast pink and purple shadows on brick walls that were painted bright, shiny eggshell, decorated with framed, classic black and white photography of historic Atlanta. She’d always appreciated the way the salon gave her the necessary armor to face the cameras. Today, the place had been jazzed up for the pre-rehearsal dinner festivities with her bridesmaids, a mini-salon party for the cameras. “It’s just pre-wedding jitters making me question everything.”

  Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the camera move closer. She could already feel the controversial statement gaining gasps from viewers. Her gut knotted at the possibility of uttering one of those sound bites that went viral and defined a person for life.

  She didn’t want to be that person. A doubting bride. She stared at her Medusa reflection, the foils spiking from her head like snakes.

  Of course she wanted to marry Boone Sullivan. Right? Who wouldn’t? He was sexy, rich, even romantic. Any commitment phobia she felt had come from issues of abandonment by her biological father. B
ut surely she couldn’t be so messed up that she would marry the wrong man just to please her stepfather?

  “Every woman gets nervous before a wedding. I’ve got my panic attack scheduled for six days from now,” Lindsey assured her over the din of nearby blow dryers while a shampoo boy escorted one of Annamae’s bridesmaids toward the sinks. Lindsey was marrying a prominent Atlanta lawyer in the D.A.’s office next week, so she was no stranger to wedding hype. “But you’ve got nothing to be nervous about. I was drooling over that latest tabloid photo of you and your hunky fiancé clubbing last night.”

  “Photo?” Did her every moment have to be documented? Silence greeted her question. Even the cameras stayed stock still as they blinked back at her with their red recording lights. “I’ll have to check when I get home.”

  Lindsey backed up, her naturally blonde hair swishing in a low ponytail. She didn’t have to fake anything with chemicals. “You don’t have to wait.” She pulled out her cell phone and tapped the screen to life. “Here’s the whole article.”

  Annamae scrolled through the tabloid piece, her hands shaking. She and Boone had gone out clubbing with the second baseman from Boone’s team and his new wife. At first glance they looked like two couples having fun, tearing up the town. But Annamae saw the truth in the photo. She saw love in the newlyweds’ eyes. Undeniable emotion.

  Annamae looked at her own face and saw … acting. Damn good acting, but acting all the same. But was she just pretending to have fun? Or pretending to be in love?

  And was the salon shrinking or were the fumes just making her dizzy?

  “I’ll be right back. I need to go to the ladies’ room.” She snatched up her purse and made fast tracks around Lindsey and another woman under a hairdryer with foils heating.

  Cape flapping, Annamae raced past a line of sinks in use, past a champagne fountain and into the bathroom. She clicked on the sparkling chandelier and sagged back against the door. Her heart hammered triple time. The gilded mirror reflected scared-as-hell eyes to go with that Medusa foil wrap.

  The door vibrated behind her with a pounding fist. “Annamae,” her mother warbled – no doubt having downed at least three champagnes, “are you all right?”

  “Fine, Mother,” she gasped. “I just need a moment to catch my breath. The fumes from the chemicals are messing with my asthma.”

  Yet another reason she wasn’t the perfect daughter. Crummy lungs. Mousy hair. And mediocre grades. She should be happy that such a charismatic man wanted to marry her, but she could only see a life of being steamrolled. Overlooked. Fading. Coming up short.

  “Annamae, honey, please collect yourself quickly. We need to get those foils finished or you’re going to have uneven highlights right before your wedding. Those camera lights can be particularly unforgiving.”

  “Of course,” Annamae called back, knowing resistance was futile. Her life hadn’t been her own for years, not even her hairstyle.

  “Let me get your father. He can fix anything. Maybe he can talk Boone’s team into giving him some downtime so you two can take a real honeymoon.”

  Alone. With Boone and all his perfection? Her throat closed.

  “Mom, he’s a baseball player. He can’t just take time off at the start of the regular season.”

  But her mother’s voice faded and Annamae could already hear her talking into her cell phone. All of Atlanta would know what they’d planned before she would, boom microphones recording just outside the bathroom door.

  Except this wasn’t fake drama to keep the live wedding special interesting. This bathroom panic attack was one hundred percent genuine from her queasy stomach to her sweating forehead. No way could Mom’s husband fix this.

  Her stepfather was an expert at offering his children material goods in replace of the more traditional family support. In exchange for his generosity, he only expected to micromanage their social calendars, professional choices and even wardrobes. The others were younger – his biological children, still in high school and willing to be bought off in exchange for a BMW.

  Wiping a mascara smear from under her eyes, she wondered how her face—only semi-attractive after last night’s tears and a bout with PMS—could hide so much anger. Frustration. Fury.

  Acting Up: The Atlanta Heiresses had stolen Annamae’s privacy, her life, and the relationships that meant the most to her. The cameras waited.

  Not seeing any hint of the good girl who’d been the moral center of her family filled with too much wealth, privilege and immaturity, she turned away from the mirror. She needed advice. Desperately. Except she couldn’t think of anyone she could trust not to blast it on the show to extend their air time. Was it so wrong she’d just wanted her stepfather’s attention, a father’s love for the kid he’d raised for twenty-two years? She’d never truly wanted any part her producer stepfather had been pushing her toward ever since she was old enough to sing and dance with Big Bird.

  She’d only signed onto this project to spend time with her parents, hopefully help her mom and step-dad through a rocky patch in their marriage. What kind of family example and hope for her own future did she have if her own core family of origin kept splitting down the middle? Well, not actual family of origin since she didn’t know her real father – aka the loser alligator hunter from Alabama. He’d cut out for Australia, of all places, a month before she was born. She wanted what so few people seemed to have anymore. The picture. The family portrait kind where everyone was happy.

  And she’d almost allowed that wish to push her into marrying the wrong man.

  Even when she wasn’t doing reality TV, cameras followed her. And all this time, she’d let them. At least on the show she didn’t have to answer questions about her parents’ troubled marriage, her adopted father’s latest scandal or her mother’s trips to rehab.

  The Acting Up crew protected her from outside reporters while narrowing their focus to her. A questionable trade-off, she realized too late in the game.

  There were two places that were off limits to the cameras. Her bedroom.

  And bathrooms.

  She slid down the door to sit on the floor. The scent of roses on the sink filled the small space. She fished in her purse and pulled out her phone. Before she could think or question, she found herself dialing 5-5-5-s-e-x-t-a-l-k.

  “This is Sex Talk with Serena,” the lady answered with her unmistakable British accent that had made her a sensation on the American radio waves. “Whom am I speaking to and what can I help you with, love?”

  “Uhm, this is … Annam—er—.” She stopped herself. “Anna. And I need your help with advice in the romance department.”

  “Well, Anna, I’ll do my best.”

  She struggled for the right words to sum up her situation, currently more tangled than her hair. “I’m engaged to be married and it’s a fairy tale match.”

  “That sounds amazing. But clearly you don’t agree or you wouldn’t be phoning. What’s the catch?”

  “I feel like it’s just a fantasy. How do I know if I really love this man?” Annamae didn’t know who was making her mouth move, because she never spoke out of turn, conscious all her life of being viewed as overprivileged and working hard to overcome the image.

  A sympathetic sigh filled the receiver. “I can’t answer that for you. But I can say if you have any doubts at all, you need to postpone the wedding. A marriage is supposed to be forever.”

  “But he’s going to be hurt and we’ll both be embarrassed.” Publically. Horribly.

  “Hurt. Embarrassed. I notice you didn’t say broken-hearted,” she pointed out aptly. “Truly, it’s only going to hurt worse if you break up after the vows are spoken.”

  God, the truth was easy. The actions were tough.

  “You’re saying I have to call it off?” Her knees stopped shaking for a second, as if her body recognized the truth before her brain did. She repeated the words, wondering if she could force herself to do the impossible, “I have to call it off.”

  Th
e knocking on the door resumed, a light tapping this time.

  “Annamae?” the hairdresser, her friend, Lindsey, called softly.

  She put the phone on mute. “Thanks. I’m almost done. I’ll be right out so you can finish my hair.”

  “Annamae,” Lindsey whispered, “uh, the radio is on out here and everyone knows it’s you on the call-in show. You just broke up with your fiancé on the reality show via the radio. Live.”

  Horror sucker punched all the air from her lungs. Annamae stared down at the phone cradled in her lap. Had she really just done that?

  Panic made her chest go tighter, sending her hand groping in her pocket for her inhaler as she thought of her words heard by so many. All those people. Her parents.

  And Boone.

  Oh God. She closed her eyes tight as her world tipped sideways. She couldn’t go back out there and face the cameras. She couldn’t face her fiancé who deserved so much better than a halfway committed bride who may or may not have just done this awful thing accidentally on purpose in a massive passive-aggressive way.

  Already she could hear the volume increasing outside the door. Her mother’s shriek. The producer shouting. Dozens of cell phones ringing in unison like some kind of flash mob prank.

  She needed to get away from here and arrange a time to talk to Boone. Privately, and please Lord, maybe before he heard. But first and foremost, she had to get away from the media or things would be worse. Far worse.

  Scrambling to her feet, she jammed her phone in her back pocket. The pressure of being followed night and day finally exploded, her world narrowed to one thought. Escape and regroup. And there was only one person who’d apparently never bought into her lifestyle. One relative who had never shown up in town for a chance to be on the show. The same person her mother and stepfather did their best to keep out of her life.

  Her paternal grandmother. The woman who’d given birth to the loser alligator hunter. Maybe a dose of reality—real freaking reality and not the made for TV variety—could help her understand herself. Her past. Her future.