Wedding Crashers

“Cheers to Mr. and Mrs. Van Hoefster!”

The crowd whoops and hollers as we drink to the best man’s wedding toast. The same crowd clinks their glasses urging the newlyweds to kiss, to which they happily oblige. I smile, noting that they really do make a beautiful couple. Old money, both of them. It’s what allowed this grand affair to take place in the Grecian Isles on the cusp of summer—gorgeous sprawling hills overlooking vineyards and the ocean not far below. It was the perfect place for a wedding.

A wedding that I had not been invited to.

I sigh, swirling my near-empty glass, debating if I should grab another drink but then I decide against it. I should stay sharp.

Scott Van Hoefster and Elissa Dandridge-now-Van Hoefster were just two young and wealthy people with many young and wealthy connections. A wedding like theirs drew out every big name in every industry from tech to entertainment. Or so at least I was told during the mission brief two weeks ago.

It was a bit stuffy for my taste with tall white columns and billowing drapes everywhere. Made this place feel like I was in some romantic labyrinth. But the food was good and tonight gave me the excuse to pull out all the stops with my cover. I needed to blend in as much as possible, so I wore a stunning golden floor-length backless number that brought out the best in my deep complexion. But there still wasn’t anything I could do to soothe the growing pit in my stomach. This was my first solo mission, and I was desperate to prove myself.

“Play it cool, Jordan. You got this.” I mutter. “Get your man and get out.”

I start to feel hot in this stuffy ballroom, so I head out to the balcony with a fresh drink in hand for air. The breezy sunset helps soothe my frazzled nerves and I feel clear-headed enough to head back in. But when I leave, I bump into a real guest and spill my drink all over him.

“Woah!” he chuckles lightheartedly, wiping his drenched lapel. “I prefer it in me, not on me.”

Oh no. He’s cute. Okay, focus, Jordan.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I set my drink aside and clumsily try to help him.

“No worries, it won’t stain if that’s what you’re worried about.” He flashes me a charming smile, cocking his head to the side in a way that highlights the curve of his jaw.

“Still,” I apologize, “This is probably a good sign to stop.”

“It’s good to know when.” He says, offering me a hand. “I’m Tristan.”

“Jordan.”

He pulls out a napkin from his coat and gently dabs when he asks me, “So, bride or groom?”

Let me think. I practiced for this. Although it was in front of a mirror and not a pair of striking blue eyes.

The groom:

· Scott Thomas Van Hoefster

· Aged 32

· 5’9” although he’ll tell everyone 6’1”

· Allergic to shellfish

Then there’s the bride:

· Elissa Vivienne Dandridge

· Aged 27

· Hotel heiress

· Not a natural blonde

· Horse-riding scar above the left ankle

“Bride,” I say. “You?”

“Groom.” He replies coolly. “We were roommates back in the day. Gotta admit, I don’t think we ever saw this day coming.”

To my surprise that makes me laugh. He was surprisingly easy to talk to and before I knew it, we had spent nearly half an hour together. The last rays of sunlight dipped over the horizon while I built my nerves by chatting up a handsome stranger like I was a normal guest.

Like me, he’s only in town for the event. No siblings, easy office job, loves dogs. Any other time I’d give him my number in a heartbeat. But unlike me, he doesn’t have a mission to finish before the night is through.

“So,” Tristan asks, “I never heard but how do you know Elissa?”

I know this. I prepared for this. But something about him makes me forget myself.

“I’m her…sister.”

Why did I say that? He raises an eyebrow at me. Most likely because Elissa’s long blonde hair and green eyes are a far cry from my kinky coiled bun and dark skin.

“Half-sister.” I correct quickly. “Different moms. It’s complicated.”

“Ah,” He nods understandingly then, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I was going to blow my cover with this guy. One wrong word and security would have me hauled out in a second.

“I should go,” I say turning to leave. The night wouldn’t last forever and my man was still out there.

“Oh, wait. I’m sorry, didn’t mean to pry,” He starts.

“No, it’s not that.” I explain, “It’s uh…I just…I need to be alone tonight. And you’re…”

He smiles, speaking softly. “I get it. Well, hey if you’re ever ready to not be alone…you know where to find me.”

With that he quietly leaves and I take a deep breath to recenter myself. I head back into the ballroom and am flooded by a sea of dancing couples. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find my mark. If I don’t then I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. Tonight has to be a success, so I can’t give up yet.

I slink through the crowd, carefully maneuvering in a dance of my own as I try to spot my target. The band picks up playing pop cover songs and couples filter out to the floor. I try to move but a tug on my arm holds me back. Someone’s drunk uncle has my wrist firm in his grip asking me to dance. But before I have a chance to put a smooth sleeper hold on him, Tristan is by my side in an instant.

“Ah, there you are sweetheart. Care to dance?” I turn surprised before he adds, “Unless Uncle Horace here is more your speed.”

The man reeked and was already sweating, wiping his greasy combover with his corduroy sleeve. It would’ve been too easy to knock him out. He’s so drunk no one would suspect a thing. I shudder, and decide against it, looking back at Tristan. “I’m all yours.”

Tristan takes my hand and we dance, twirling far away into our own pleasant abyss. Of course, he’s a good dancer too. As if that made tonight any easier.  As the song ends, he dips me, and my stomach flutters. I can’t remember the last time anyone dipped me. Ever. When he pulls me up it’s almost enough to make me forget my name.

“You’ve got nice moves,” he croons softly.

“I could say the same,” I blush.

Blushing? What is wrong with me? Get it together, girl.

Then I do, because at that moment, just over Tristan’s shoulder, I spot my man. The man in green. A.K.A. Winchell Verimax of Vericorp, an organization developing a bio-nuclear weapon that could destroy the world, who just so happens to be the bride’s uncle.

I need an excuse to leave, but before I find one Tristan beats me to it.

“I’m so sorry about this but, I need to go. Thank you for the dance.”

Oh…

I don’t know why but something about it hurt.

Tristan leaves quickly and I’m left standing in the middle of the floor before shaking my brain back into focus. Verimax was getting away. I slip through the crowd and tail after him. He sneaks away from the reception toward the outer gardens where the guests first arrived. It’s dark now at least, so I stay hidden in the shadows, slowly closing the gap between him and me. I don’t need to kill him, just knock him out and take him to HQ. They’ll handle it from there, and honestly the less questions the better.

I see Verimax standing alone in the moonlight, taking a long swig from a flask. My prize is there. All I have to do is reach out and grab it.

Slowly, I creep out of the darkness preparing to strike. I’m like a cat, poised and ready to pounce but someone else has the same idea. Out of nowhere, a dark figure falls on top of Verimax, knocking him down like a sack of bricks.

I gasp from the sheer shock of it. No one else should be here. Not unless they’re another agent trying to poach this prize before I could. I can’t believe someone else would try to steal this away from me. There’s no way in hell I was letting that happen. So acting purely on impulse, adrenaline, and two martinis, I jump to take out the competition.

There’s a tussle and a mess of arms and legs before I realize the person I’m fighting suddenly looks strikingly familiar. Those eyes…

“Tristan?”

“Jordan?”

My skin goes crimson as I realize I have him pinned beneath me and Winchell Verimax coughing and gagging to our left.

“What are you doing?” I shriek at him.

“What are you doing??” he shrieks back, struggling to get up.

Verimax regains a bit of his senses and chokes out. “Do you two know each other?”

“No!” we shout simultaneously.

Verimax laughs seeing the two of us fumble over each other. “Oh, that’s rich. So what? You’re here to tag team?”

“Spies don’t tag-team.” I retort. Then I look back at Tristan, swatting his muscular chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a spy?”

He fumbles for his words, trying to keep some semblance of composure. “You didn’t know? I clocked you the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Well, that’s a real mood booster.

“Well it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Verimax teases. “You two will be proton dust in about five minutes anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” Tristan asks, snapping his attention back to him.

“Weddings always bring out the best in people, don’t they? For example, my niece and her new beau have grown tired of all their friends…so I’ve offered to help as a gift.”

It takes all my strength to not smack some sense into that man.

“Speak English.” I bark.

Verimax laughs, rubbing his purpling cheek. “The weapon you two are after. It’s already been detonated and will go off in five minutes. As soon as my niece tosses that bouquet it’s lights out for everyone except her and her new hubby, and hello Tuscany.”

My heart sinks. This whole thing…this wedding is a trap. A trap that’ll end with–

“The bridal toss? Are you kidding me?”

HQ did not prepare me for this.

Tristan grabs the man’s collar, tugging him up in one smooth and surprisingly attractive motion. “How do we stop it?”

Verimax is silent as a wall. So, Tristan threatens him, showing him a nerve inhibitor. They render the target paralyzed and replace all sensation with blinding pain. I gasp when I see it. Those things are brand new, and I don’t have one.

“Fingerprints!” Verimax shouts. “The code’s in my fingerprints.”

I got this. I snatch Verimax’s hand and graph his biometric code to my hands and Tristan’s. “There. Got it.”

“Jordan,” Tristan sounds even more like a stranger to me than before. “You stay with Verimax. I’ll go get that bouquet.”

I cross my arms, looking at him sideways. “You can’t be serious. What man catches a bouquet?”

He tilts his head to the side, like I insulted him, “a very modern one, thank you very much. I doubt I’ll ruffle any feathers sneaking in.”

“Dream on, pal. This is mine. You stay with Verimax, and I’ll get the bouquet.”

Meanwhile, Verimax is relaxing on the pavement watching us bicker like an old-married couple. “Tick-tock….”

Ugh, he’s right.

“Okay, new deal,” I say, cuffing Verimax to a column. “What if we did tag-team this? Y’know, use our combined strengths?”

“So what are you gonna do?” Tristan scoffs, “Spill your drink on the bride?”

I massage my temples, grunting in frustration. “No! Here’s what we’ll do…”

With time ticking away Tristan and I split up knowing that Verimax ain’t going anywhere. I use the grappling hook in my heels to climb the building and get an eagle-eye view of the reception. The glass ceiling allows me to see inside the reception and I spot the bride whispering to her groom.

Then she gets up, tosses her hair and gives some grand speech before announcing she’s going to do the bridal toss. I also spot Tristan, carefully weaving his way through the crowd. He looks up at me and gives a small nod before moving in deeper. I hate to admit it, but he’s still kinda cute from this angle.

Focus Jordan.

On Tristan’s cue, a plume of green smoke erupts from the dance floor and its chaos. Screams and drinks everywhere. People are confused and bumping into each other. The bride screams in a way that would burst any eardrum, then realizing time is short, goes for her bouquet and gets ready to toss it. Tristan’s too far away and there’s too much chaos. If we’re going to do this it’s now or never.

I fling myself into the ceiling and come crashing down in a golden blaze of fury. I always wondered what it would be like falling through a glass ceiling. Honestly, not my vibe, and very sharp. 6/10.

I land on the bride just when she’s tossed the bouquet. It’s like everything’s in slow motion. Orchids, baby’s breath, and white roses fly through the air into a cloud of noxious smoke and panicked guests. If it lands on the ground or in the wrong hands we’re toast. The flowers disappear into the smoke and I prepare for the worst.

Then I see a hand pop up from the billowing smoke. Tristan’s hand.

“I got it!” He shouts with glee. The biometrics coded to his hand disable the weapon instantly and soon the bouquet is just a bunch of flowers.

As the smoke clears, several bridesmaids realize that they missed the toss and lunge for Tristan with the fury of a rabid horde. I struggle to stifle my laugh at seeing him be trampled and torn apart as a determined brunette wrenches the florals from him and waves them around in victory.

The police arrive in time to haul away Verimax and make sure the bride and groom spend their honeymoon locked away for the next 35 to 50 years.

Meanwhile, guests leave shaken and battered and I find myself back on the same verandah feeling incredibly exhausted.

“Hey stranger,” says Tristan behind me. I turn around and see him holding two very strong-looking drinks. He shrugs, offering one to me. “It was an open bar.”

I take it, still keeping an eye on him. “So Tristan…is that your real name?”

“It is,” he chuckles. “And, in case it wasn’t completely obvious, I believe we have more in common than we first thought.”

I scrunch my nose, taking a sip. “You could say that.” I pause, “You could also say we made a pretty decent team today.”

“Yeah, you could. We got the guy, got the weapon.”

“Is that it?” I smirk. “Did you get anything else?”

“Depends,” he says slyly. “What else is there?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. My eyes meet his for a brief moment. “But I’m open to finding out.”