We stopped at Latrobe’s on Royal Street finding the beautiful yellow building with the white trim and wrought iron railings crowded with cars and the sparsest littering of photographers there to steal celebrity shots of Ransom and Kona and Keira. I didn’t care. Let the world see.
“Fuck ‘em,” Ransom said, following my gaze to the small cluster of folks, paparazzi included, that had cornered behind a barricade that blocked off part of the street. Money well spent, getting the Second Line permit and the police escort to keep the media at bay. My husband gave his umbrella to the wedding planner’s assistant and took mine from me, pulling my attention away from the gawking crowd to escort me through the lavish black wooden doors, the glass panes lined with fine gold draperies. We were brought out of the main stretch of rooms, asked to hold back and wait for the entrance we should make.
“It’ll only take a minute or two to get everyone seated.” I barely noticed the fussy assistant fixing my dress, making sure the train was attached securely to the hook at the waist. I only cared about the smile on Ransom’s face, how he kept his gaze open, focused on me as he leaned against a chair, eyes unmoving over the rim of the glass of bourbon he drank from. “Let me go see if they’re ready,” the assistant said. And just like that, we were all alone.
He looked unreal. Like some sort of Polynesian warrior had been fitted into a tuxedo, clamoring for the freedom of nudity away from the noose of a tie around his neck. It wasn’t a traditional tux—no cummerbund, no bow tie. It was like Ransom—smooth, classy with a bit of an edge—gray vest, gray tie with a diamond fleur-de-lis pin, black pants and jacket and a white Plumeria with pink tips boutonniere wrapped in lei leaves and baby’s breath. As I looked at him, the notion that he was really mine nearly staggered me.
“Those eyes, ko`u aloha, they say a damn lot.” He put the glass down, nearly toppling it over in his eagerness to get to me. “My wife. God help me.” He kissed me carefully, fingers gentle against my face, mouth hesitant. “Fuck, do I want you out of that dress.” He stepped back, looking down my body, head shaking like he didn’t believe I was real. “When I saw you walking down that aisle, all on your own, looking like a fucking goddess, I swear, nani, I didn’t breathe for a good two minutes.” Ransom held out my arms to get a better look at me. That expression, the wild, hungry heat I noticed in his eyes made me think I was a goddess. And I wanted to be the fearsome thing he saw in me. “It should not be right, this dress. Brides are supposed to look like princesses, not vixens.”
“Is that what you think I am? A vixen?” My laugh was soft and it transformed into a moan when Ransom kissed my neck. “Because…” a little sigh left my mouth as he continued to kiss me, “because that’s what I feel like. A vixen. Your vixen, anmourèz mwen.”
“It’s a suitable description for how you look, baby.” I let him go on kissing me, pulling him close when he used his tongue to kiss a path just under my neck.
The dress had been on purpose. I’d never understood women who spoke about their wedding day as though they wanted some Disney fairytale poupou. I’d never once felt like a princess and I had no desire to start on my wedding day. I wanted to look like how Ransom made me feel: alive, wanted, desired and yeah, sexy as hell. So Lettie and Keira had gone with me to look for a dress, knowing that subtle wouldn’t do. Knowing that fluff and billowing skirts wouldn’t hold my interest.
We’d found a tiny shop called Kisten’s in Uptown, just a few blocks away from my new studio. I’d left Camp Street out of respect for Ethan’s feelings and Ransom’s notion that Ethan seeing me every day, knowing I hadn’t chosen him, was just mean. We had invited Ethan to the wedding, but he politely declined, sending in his stead a very old, very expensive bottle of scotch, and a lovely worded note, hand written, wishing us all the happiness that our lives could hold.
Kisten’s shop was no more than a thousand square feet and every inch of it was cluttered with wedding dresses, prom dresses, and outfits I was sure only a Drag Queen could pull off. All of them designed and made by a young team trying to get a little notice in a very dense market.
“I want something sexy. I want my husband to be panting over me all night.”
The owner’s big brown eyes had widened and the twitch of his mouth had told me he already had idea bouncing around in his head. “I got you, boo. Don’t worry.”
And I didn’t. Not once Kisten got out his measuring tape and sketch pad. Then we got to work, the result of weeks and weeks of fittings, consultations and just a few arguments was a dress that did have my husband panting. Like he was just then. Hands slipping over my waist, down to cup my ass.