Dearly Beloved

Ronald Morgan stands in the office of his vast LA mansion, tuxedo jacket discarded on a plush, emerald chaise to the left. His brand-new wedding ring clacks on the wood of the tall ebony bookshelf behind him as he leans back, head tilted upward like he’s contemplating the plaster of the decorative ceiling.

In truth, the ceiling isn’t shit. It’s just that the catering waitress has her glossy lips wrapped around his dick.

Her slurping and smacking sounds are all I’ve been listening to for the last ten fucking minutes. Meanwhile, the bride is downstairs surrounded by tufts of pink peonies and dazzling tea lights. It hasn’t even been an hour since the ceremony. I’ve been hiding in this closet since just after the “I dos.”

Last I checked, the new Mrs. Morgan was downing her third glass of champagne, mingling with the Hollywood folk, doing whatever brides do during this elaborate waste of money. Their special day.

I’ve never been into voyeurism but it’s hard not to watch Morgan and the waitress. She is certainly giving it her all, and it’s not like I can do anything else. I need Ronald alone, so I have to wait here in the office closet that smells too much of cigar smoke and Louis Vuitton luggage.

It’s hard to kill a man when he’s rich, surrounded by staff, and living in properties wrapped in razor-barbed fences. He wasn’t a cradle-born billionaire, but he grew up with the elites; his wealth and lifestyle built from his father’s music production business, founded decades ago. Ronald pretends to keep it running, but Moonlight Records is managed by a raft of industry veterans. They don’t need Ronald. So he spends his time enjoying the spoils of his father’s wealth. Eating. Drinking. Causing ludicrous scenes across the globe, usually naked. He pops in for a board meeting from time to time. They make him feel like he’s made some important decisions. He accepts his pat on the head and goes on his merry way. He doesn’t pay attention to details. Which works out for me.

After years of planning, I’m ready. I waited. I prayed extra hard at Mother’s tombstone for nothing to go wrong. The dirt underneath my fingernails proves it. With the chaos of the wedding, sneaking into his house and stealing a chef’s uniform, and cap was easier than I thought. Everything is going according to plan.

Except of course, that Ronald seems to be savoring this—whatever this encounter is.

No sooner do I have the thought than he shudders. He grips the top of the waitress’s head and shoves himself in her mouth to the hilt. He emits out a sound that’s a cross between the honk of a goose and the bleat of a baby goat.

Christ. It’s about goddamn time. He wipes himself down with her shirt, zips up, and heads to the lavish bathroom connected to his office. Stumbling to stand, knees rubbed raw, she wipes the edges of her mouth and follows him. She uses her hands to cup water into her mouth, then leans over the porcelain sink and spits the last bit of Ronald Morgan down the drain.

At forty, his hair is still going strong and black and full. He marches into the office and grabs his jacket from the chaise, like he’s suddenly remembered it’s an important day. I see a peony tucked in his lapel.

He pulls his arms through the sleeves, straightens his cuffs in the bathroom mirror. “Was it good?” he asks.

The waitress says nothing, and he grips her wrist. “Yeah, it was so good.” She adds tone at the end, trying to sound confident.

“You know it was. I’m a fucking musical, baby.” He slaps her ass. “Off you go. I’ll see you after the honeymoon. ”

She nods and smiles, but it’s all hard and thin and fake. The door to the office shuts, and finally I’m alone with the groom. There’s a metal cord in my pocket, rolled up like a snake. With my fingers, I unravel it, tighten it around my wrists the way Mother taught me.

Read Dearly Beloved here.