My Mob Wedding

Chapter 12 - Truth or Dare

I stand up and turn 180 degrees, looking for the perfect sucker.

Ah! There! Tall, blonde and....a woman? That is not how you go about wearing a suit! Leave that to Ellen Page please.

I turn some more. There has to be someone here that isn't too bad looking and doesn't look too creepy or old and distinguished.

A large man walks into the room with a glare directed at the world in general. Nope, not happening. I'll get crushed like a grape for even thinking about looking at him.

Another guy, younger and friendlier looking, laughs animatedly in a group with other guys around his age. He might not be too bad. He's not too large and intimidating to approach, but he just looks annoying. Nah.

My shoulders slump in an attempt to subconsciously make me give up. I straighten them ferociously and stride over to one of the waiters carrying a tray of shots and down the first one I can get my hands on.

Less than five minutes. Gooooo! This is no time to weigh risks and benefits.

I glance around the room, this time, searching with a vengeance. I will not lose this bet. I refuse to.

I spin on my heel, intending to go ask Patrick for more time, but I end up smacking into some guy instead. Not bad looking, not too old. Patrick never said it had to be voluntary.

"I am so-" he starts.

In one swift motion, I stand on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down so his lips meet mine. His body goes rigid for a moment, probably out of shock, but he relaxes and melds his mouth to mine. His hands roam down my sides, but they, surprisingly, stop at my waist.

Hmm, a gentleman. Surprising, given the circumstances really. A drunk girl walks up and starts making out with a guy. The guy would usually take advantage of the situation. So this guy is either gay, married, taken, or sober.

On that note, I pull back and smirk at the shock in his wide blue eyes. That's usually the response I get. I may not be good at a lot of things, but this is one thing I excel at.

"Well then, maybe I should start bumping into people more often," he says, flashing a maniacal smile.

"I don't know that you'll get that response, but you can try I guess." I laugh.

"Probably not," he agrees.

"Wait," I begin, my arms resting on his shoulders, and his still encircling my waist, "Your last name isn't Valicenti, is it?"

He laughs so hard that he shakes me with him. "No, I am most certainly not a Valicenti, and God help you if I was."

I eye him skeptically. "Are you sure you're not?"

"Positive."

"Prove it." I honestly don't feel like being used as a bargaining chip against Colton. Seems like too much effort.

"My last name is Black, not Valicenti," he answers.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Did you just make that up?"

"No."

"I don't believe you," I announce.

"Ask someone then." He shrugs, a slight smirk playing on his softly angular features.

"Fine." I drag him over to Patrick, whose drunken smirk threatens to split his face in two.

"What's his last name?" I ask, jabbing my thumb in the guy's direction.

"Him? Black. Why?" Patrick answers with a look that knows more than he's letting on.

"Just making sure. And what aren't you telling me?" I demand.

"Nothing. I'm gonna go to the bathroom," he says with a snicker, darting before I get the chance to stop him.

I roll my eyes and turn back to the guy. "Well, Mr. Black, it seems you weren't lying."

"It seems that way. Can I get you a drink?"

I think about it for a moment. There's nothing really that could go wrong here, he's not a Valicenti and Connor didn't warn me about anyone else. "Sure."

He casually slides my hand down from on his wrist to in his hand. I turn my face so he won't see me blushing. I don't know what it is with this guy, but he's resurfacing old feelings. Feelings I only ever felt when I--

"Hey, are you okay?" Mr. Black asks, his brows furrowed and the corners of his lips turned down in a look of concern.

I nod. "Yeah. Drinks?"

"Right over here."

We approach another one of the cliche waiters. Just once, I want a waiter to be shirtless or something. Then it wouldn't be so cliche all the time. Although, I suppose that would be a different sort of party. The waiter impressively balances twelve full flutes of champagne on a tray that seems far too small, and he doesn't look like he's about to puke either. I remember when I tried being a waitress for a second. I spilled a tray full of coffee and shattered all the mugs and then cried while the owner, who looked like a gremlin, yelled at me and told me I'd be paying for everything. Needless to say, I quit that job on the spot.

Mr. Black hands me one of the flutes carefully and grabs one for himself. "Here you go."

"Thanks."

He grins at me and leads me over to a table at the side of the room. It's one of those really tall ones that made kids feel really special to sit in, like royalty in Taco Bell.

I set my drink on the table and climb onto the chair across from his. Downside of being short: I have to climb places that normal people can just get on.

I glance at the champagne. I don't want to be rude but I'm not exactly a champagne kind of girl. The kind of parties I'm used to aren't really the champagne-serving type. I down it as fast as I can.

"Well then. Did you want another?" he asks with widened, clearly impressed eyes.

"Nah." I wave over one of the shots guys, and he unloads the contents of his tray onto the smooth, round surface of the table.

"Ah okay. Now we're talking." He picks up one of them and downs it, crinkling his nose in a way that's kind of cute.

I pick up one of my own. "So, Mr. Black, truth or dare?"