Tied (10 page)

Kate’s breathing picks up. The magazine falls from her hands. She half warns, “Drew . . .”

I whisper in her ear, “Just kiss me. That’s all I want, baby. Just one kiss.”

These are the famous last words spoken by teenage boys everywhere, in the backseat of their parents’ car. If there are any young females out there? Be warned—it’s never just one kiss. They don’t call it stealing bases for nothing. Before you know it, he’ll be rounding second, sliding into third, and a home run is just inches away.

Kate presses her mouth to mine—lets me seduce her with my tongue.
So warm. So wet.

So nice.

Hot, hard, real desire uncoils low in my gut, and my pants tighten predictably. I turn my attention to her earlobe—sucking and biting. Then I whisper tender, dirty, need-filled words that you don’t get to hear. About how much I want her, how beautiful she is, about all the things I want to do to her, and the detailed positions I want to do them in.

Kate’s hips move upward, searching for friction against the fingers that are now firmly stationed between her legs. When she’s primed and panting—right where I want her—I retract
my hands. And look into her eyes. “Let’s finish this in the other room.”

Kate bites her bottom lip. Her slightly dazed eyes dart left to right, making sure there are no witnesses. She’s just about to cave . . .

Until a foreign body plops down between us—half on both our laps. My eyes are covered with strawberry-blond hair. And the taste of hair spray fills my mouth.

God damn it.

“Hope you got a good night’s sleep last night, Katie. For what I have planned, you’re going to need lots of energy.”

Delores. As if there were any doubt.

She wiggles her ass off my thigh, forcing Kate and me to move over so she can squeeze in between us.

Kate recovers quickly. “Yep . . . um . . . you know me. I’m all about being well rested.”

My body crackles with unspent carnal energy. It makes me cranky. “Do you frigging mind? We were in the middle of something.”

Dee-Dee turns toward me with knowing disdain clear on her face. “Nope, don’t mind at all.” She shoos me away with her hand. “You can amscray—Kate and I have some catching up to do.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hello? This is a bachelorette party—and it starts now. You’re not invited. Go compare peckers with the boys, talk about the massive dump you took last night—or whatever it is you do when we’re not around.”

I grind my teeth. Clench my jaw. To keep from calling her the crusty crotch crack she’s acting like. Too much? My bad. Blame the good Dr. Seuss—we’ve been reading him a lot in my house.

I take a deep breath. Then I close my eyes and tilt my head
back. I’ll wait Dolores out. She’ll have to leave at some point. Or I can use the cum-stained complimentary pillow to smother her.

The thought makes me smile.

Dee-Dee and Kate talk. And talk. After a few minutes, the sounds blend together in my male ears like those of Charlie Brown’s faceless teacher. “ . . . wa wa wah wah wanh . . . Matthew’s birthday present . . . wa wa wanh . . . wasn’t sure . . . wah wah wa wa . . . came through last minute . . . wa wa wah wanh . . . see his face . . . wa wa wah . . . so surprised . . . wa wanh . . .”

Gifts are important to women. But what I’ve come to realize is—at least for some of them—it’s not the actual gift that matters. Or even how much cash you shelled out for it. It’s all about the effort. Symbolism. How much thought you put into getting it for them.

For instance, if I were to hunt down a napkin from the bar where Kate and I first met? Then, if I had it matted and framed and gave it to her as an anniversary present? I’m pretty sure she’d fuck me into a coma to show her gratitude.

It’s still just a napkin. But to Kate—it means so much more.

Last year for my birthday, she got my initials waxed into her bush. I was touched. Talk about a great gift—creative and practical. Anyway, with mild curiosity I open my eyes and ask Delores, “What are you giving him?”

She grins smugly. “Only the greatest gift a woman can give the man she loves.”

I take my best guess. “Anal?”

Kate covers her eyes.

Dee-Dee’s smile turns into a scowl. “No—pig. I’m giving him the gift of health. My acupuncturist cleared her schedule. She’s going to work on Matthew the whole day.”

I laugh. Because this explains so much.

“
That’s
your gift? Really? It’s the guy’s birthday and you’re gonna make him get needles stuck in his face all day? What are you gonna get him for Christmas—a colonoscopy?”

Kate clarifies, “Drew, the acupuncture is to get Matthew to stop smoking.”

Yep, Matthew’s a smoker. Statistically, if you don’t start by the age of eighteen, you never will. But my buddy’s the exception to this rule. His habit began in college—during a particularly stressful game of
Madden NFL
football.

Matthew’s kept it in the closet, however. His parents don’t know. Because Frank sucks back two packs a day—and like any smoker, he’d break every one of his kid’s fingers if he found out he was doing it too.

I put my hands up in surrender. “I take it back, Dee—it’s a stupendous gift. Anything to help Matthew kick the cancer sticks is a good thing.”

She practically pats herself on the back. “Thank you, Drew.”

“You’re welcome. Now that we’ve gotten that settled, could you please—and I mean this in the nicest way possible—go the fuck away?”

She’s not smiling anymore. “No. I told you—this is
my
time.
My
Kate time.”

Fast Times at Ridgemont High
appears in my head. “Whatever, Mr. Hand.”

Kate reaches over and touches my leg. “Drew, maybe you should just go hang out with the guys for the rest of the flight.”

I stamp my foot. And point at Dee-Dee. “How come
she
gets Kate time? Where’s
my
Kate time? I want Kate time too!”

Dee-Dee answers, “You’ll be getting a whole bunch of Kate time next week. It’s called a honeymoon, dumbass.”

I glare at her. “You suck.”

She rubs a finger over her lips lasciviously. “That I do. Frequently. Matthew doesn’t complain.”

I grimace. “Now I’m nauseous. Kate, will you rub my stomach?”

Kate smiles. Her voice takes on that motherly, condescending tone she gets when she’s asking James to behave. “Yes, Drew—I’ll rub your stomach, and any other body part you want me to . . . when we get to the hotel.”

I sigh and resign myself to not getting laid. Just as I start to sink into a deep depression, Jack’s voice echoes throughout the cabin.

“Dude! Check it out! I’ve got porn on my in-flight entertainment system!”

Someone yelling “porn” in an enclosed space is akin to an alarm’s going off in a firehouse at midnight. Four pairs of feet scramble in Jack’s direction, including mine. Maybe guy time won’t be so bad, after all.

I know what you’re thinking.
Stop wasting my time. Can we skip the bullshit and get to the good stuff already?

I’m working on it.

Besides, I think you should enjoy the good times while they last. I did. I have a feeling things are going to get real crazy—real quick—from here on out. ’Cause our next stop? That’s Vegas, baby. And there’s a reason it’s called Sin City.

W
hen it comes to swanky hotel rooms, you might think the penthouse is top-of-the-line. In most cases, you’d be right. But the Bellagio has something better. The villa. It’s the kind of place only royalty, heads of state, and highly overrated actors get to stay. Five bedrooms, formal dining room, office, library, and a huge kitchen—all trimmed in elegant woods and marbles—decked out with the finest appliances, accessories, and Italian fabrics. It even comes with a full-service maid and butler staff.

Money can’t buy happiness—but it makes it a hell of a lot easier to stay happy.

Since we’re the guests of honor, Kate and I get the master suite. Our adjoining bathroom has a steam shower and huge Jacuzzi that I definitely plan on putting to good use later. Steven and Alexandra, Delores and Matthew, each pair gets a room too—complete with fireplace and king-size bed. Erin claims a slightly smaller room with a queen, while Jack and Warren bunk together in the last room.

It’s a good thing their room has two double beds, because if there’s one thing a guy will never do, it’s share a bed with another dude. Sleeping naked on sharp gravel? Totally acceptable, when faced with the risk of waking up to a loaded rifle in your back.

After the butler—we’ll call him Mr. Belvedere—gives us the grand tour and the maids take our luggage to unpack, the nine of us relax in the living room, talking about the agenda for the day.

Sitting on the dark brown love seat, with Delores on his lap, Matthew goes first. “There’s a water-volleyball tournament down at the pool in twenty minutes. I figured we’d start there—get our burn on. And they’re having a pig-roast barbecue—you know how I love a good swine.”

All the guys nod their consent.

Dee-Dee begins, “Our goddess party starts at five. . . .”

Goddess parties . . . for guys they’re a dream—mythical. Like the fabled pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or the topless pillow fight at a sleepover. It’s pretty much a female-only sex party, minus the actual sex. Legend has it there’s a wide array of toys for sale—dildos, vibrators, bondage gear, and lingerie. And there are lessons—women are instructed on all kinds of acquired skills, such as deep throat, masturbation, pole dancing.

“. . . but before that, we ladies have appointments at the spa, to get beautified for tonight.”

I run my hand through Kate’s dark hair as she sits beside me on the couch. “That’s a waste of time,” I tell her. “You can’t improve perfection.”

She blushes slightly. Still
so
fucking adorable.

Dee-Dee counters, “You say that now—but wait until you see us after. We’re gonna get wrapped, waxed, plucked, and massaged. I swear, Kate—after Ricardo works you over? You’ll never be the same. It’s like being touched by an orgasm.”

My curiosity gets the best of me. “Who’s Ricardo?”

“Kate’s massage therapist.”

Huh.
“Ricardo’s a weird name for a woman.”

Delores rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, it would be—but Ricardo’s all man. He’s got the body of a Greek god, like Arnold Schwarzenegger in his steroid days. And he knows how to use it—especially his hands.”

Some guys would be okay with this situation. Men who are laid-back like Matthew or understanding like Steven. They’d kiss their lady on the cheek and say, “
Have a good time, honey
.” But—despite my emotional growth these last years—that’s just not how I roll.

So what I say is “Yeah, that’s not fucking happening.”

Kate puts her hand on my leg. “Drew, it’s just a massage.”

“I’m aware of that. Two words—
happy ending
. Two more words—
no way
.”

Alexandra tries to be helpful. “Relax, little brother. There’s no reason to be jealous.”

I open my arms wide. “Who’s jealous? I’m not jealous—’cause it’s not fucking happening.” I turn to Kate and explain calmly, “You really think I’m gonna be able to just sit here knowing you’re out there—with your goodies covered only by a thin cotton towel—while Ricardo-frigging-Montalbán has his hands all over you? Making you moan? Screw that. All your moans belong to me—they’re paid in full with that rock on your finger.”

Dee-Dee holds her hand out to Matthew. “I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it. Pay up.”

He pulls his wallet out and slaps a twenty in her palm. I shake my head in disappointment at him. “You thought I’d be okay with this?”

He shrugs.

My eyes narrow. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

“Ricardo’s awesome, man. His hands are magic. If I was gay, I would totally enter into a civil union with him.”

From the recliner, Steven joins the discussion. “You let a dude give you a rubdown? Have you considered the possibility that you’re already gay?”

“Blow me.”

Steven laughs. “See, that’s what I mean. These subliminal messages are tickling my gaydar.” He holds his finger out, pointing to each guy in the room. “Beep. Beep. Beep . . .” Then he points at Matthew. “Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.”

Billy and Jack crack up, and Steven gives them a high five. Matthew makes the jerk-off sign with his hand. Which doesn’t help his case much.

Kate brings us back on topic. “This is really a problem for you?”

I nod. “Absolutely. It’ll taint my memory of the entire weekend.”

She sighs. And turns toward Delores. “Switch my appointment.”

Dee-Dee looks appalled. “You’re not serious?” She throws her hands up in the air. “And so it begins. You’re not even married yet, and he’s already controlling you—dictating what you can and can’t do.”

I jump to Kate’s defense. “She’s respecting my goddamn feelings. That’s how a mature, healthy relationship works. You should try it sometime.”

“I’m extremely considerate of Matthew’s feelings!”

Kate jumps in. “Dee, we’re here to have fun, not torture my fiancé.”