10
WHITLEY
Margaret was a riot, and she seemed to have no interest in getting married in a matter of days.
I’d met a lot of brides-to-be. I had sung at weddings in high school, had been a bridesmaid at any number of weddings for my sorority sisters and then as a guest for a lot of my LA clients. I knew a bride who was ready to tie her life to another. This girl seemed more like she was selling her soul to the devil for ten years of good fortune.
“Come on, Whit. One more dance,” Margaret said. She reached for my hand to try to steer me into the chair.
Margaret actually had hired strippers for the party. Or someone had. All the bridesmaids were laughing and dancing on the poles or getting lap dances. I’d been worried about karaoke for nothing. The machine had been discarded for shots an
