Tied (3 page)

The groom is expected to gorge himself on all the stuff he supposedly won’t be getting anymore, once he slips that ring on his bride’s pretty little finger.

Of course, Kate is not the average bride. And because our relationship—and our sex life—is better now than it’s ever been, at first I didn’t want a party. I just didn’t see the point.

For a few men, such as me, once you’re in love, all the other tits and asses in the world just sort of . . . blend together. It’s like . . . cars in the city—the honking, the revving, the screech of tires on blacktop. I hear them, I know they’re there, but I just don’t give a shit. I don’t glance their way, don’t stop to look. Not anymore—because I’ve got a top-of-the-line classic in my garage, just waiting for me to come home and ride her.

She’s the only one I want.

But eventually, the guys convinced me. Jack, Matthew, and Steven cornered me in the conference room and explained that the bachelor party wasn’t really for me. It was for all the other guys, who actually had to work to get laid.

Meaning the single guys and . . . you know . . . the ones who are already married.

After hearing them plead their case, I was on board. Between work, Kate, and the adorable little dictator that is our son, I haven’t had a lot of quality time with the boys. I figured it would be a good time—a night of bonding—a way to make some lifelong memories with my closest friends.

So when Kate asks if the guys have told me what the plan is, I answer, “Not really.” Matthew’s exact words were
“The less you know, the better. Plausible deniability.”
But I don’t want to tell Kate that. It’ll just make her worry.

She doesn’t let it go, however. “Well, if you had to guess, what do you think you’ll do?”

I shrug again. “Steak dinner, casino, drinking . . .”

“Strippers?”

Did you hear the change in her voice? The preemptive anger? The bite?

My eyebrows rise. “A visit to a strip club will probably be on the itinerary, yeah.”

She scoffs. In that you’re-such-a-prick kind of way. Then she sits up and crosses her arms. “Of course. Figures. Because you haven’t spent enough time in the company of strippers—you have to squeeze in another night’s worth before our wedding.”

Have you ever heard of the Missile Defense System—the MDS? Started by Reagan in the eighties, its sole purpose is to defend against another country’s attack. To destroy their missiles before impact. To deflect damage. The system doesn’t analyze the opposition’s argument. It doesn’t take the time to consider that maybe they have a valid
reason
for attacking. It simply reacts. Immediately. Defensively.

“Don’t get pissy—it’s a bachelor party. Are you trying to tell me Dee-Dee’s not gonna have a guy . . . or ten . . . shaking their junk in your face?”

Did I not mention that the girls will be coming along on our weekend adventure? They are. Delores thought it’d be fun to make it a group excursion, then split up for our separate nights of debauchery. I thought it was a fabulous suggestion—made me
almost
like Dee.

“That’s different and you know it,” Kate argues.

“Except it’s really not.”

“Will it bother you if Dee hired strippers?”

For years, Sister B told us there were no stupid questions. Boy, was she full of shit.

The mere thought of a half-naked guy who isn’t me grinding on Kate? It makes me want to destroy something—like a face. Go all
Fight Club
and break someone into mangled, bloody pieces until he’ll never resemble a human being again.

Maybe it’s caveman. Maybe it’s irrational and sexist and unfair. But that’s just how I am.

“Of course it’ll fucking bother me!”

“Dee-Dee says what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“Matthew needs to learn how to muzzle his fucking gander.”

“Like you muzzle me?”

I can be biting too. “No, sweetheart—I enjoy your mouth way too much to muzzle it. I prefer it wide-open and waiting.”

Kate gasps, and I expect her to come back at me, guns blazing. Because this is what we do. You’ve been around long enough—you know the drill. It’s foreplay, afterplay, it’s jabs and zingers. They’re just words—a way to vent our frustrations or turn each other on.

They don’t mean jack shit. Only on rare occasions is there any real anger or hurt feelings behind them. And this isn’t one of those times.

Only . . . apparently it is.

“See—this is exactly what I was afraid of. We haven’t even left yet, and you’re already being a bastard. I
knew
this would happen again.”

Kate turns slightly away from me, shaking her head stiffly. That’s when I see them. Tears. Welling in her eyes, ready to fall, being held back by her sheer stubbornness alone.

I’m surprised. And aching. Like I got shot in the heart with a rock-size rubber bullet.

Kate throws the sheets off and moves to get out of bed. But
I’m faster—Flash Gordon can eat my dust. Before her feet hit the floor, I’m in front of her, hands up. Remorseful and apologetic.

And naked.

When you’re trying to plead your case? Being naked doesn’t hurt.

“Kate . . . wait . . . just slow down. Back up a minute.” I grab for her wrist.

But she pulls away. “Stop touching me!”

Right—like
that’s
gonna happen.

But I don’t get a chance to tell her that. A dreaded sound echoes across the room and halts all action, grabbing our full attention. Because it’s coming from the baby monitor.

It’s a rustling, the sound of cotton rubbing cotton. Like snipers in the jungle, we don’t move a muscle. We don’t say a word. We wait. Until the rustling stops. And all is quiet again.

That was a warning sign—a shot across our bow. A “shut the hell up.”

We don’t have to be told twice.

What ensues next is a comical soundless argument only true parents will understand. It’s all mouthing and miming, facial expression and hand flailing. Until eventually, Kate flips me the finger.

Then I smile. And mouth, “Okay.”

I mean, if she’s ready for round two, who am I to deny her?

I tackle her. We roll around on the bed for a minute until I pin her down—sitting on her waist—trapping her hands over her head. The physical exertion defuses some of the tension, and Kate looks a little less devastated. When I’m sure she won’t try to escape, I grab the comforter and pull it over both of us, so we’re shielded in a conversation-muting cocoon.

I flop down on my side facing Kate, and in a half-whispered
tone I get right to the point. “If the idea of strippers being part of the entertainment bothers you so much, why the hell did you say it was okay to have my bachelor party in Las Vegas?”

Strippers in Las Vegas are like corn in Iowa. They’re kind of what the city is known for.

Kate squirms. Then she sighs. “Because everyone was so excited about going to Las Vegas. I didn’t want to be the downer. Bachelor and bachelorette parties in Vegas are like . . . tradition, right?”

Not too long ago, sacrificing goats was a tradition too. Doesn’t make it a good idea.

“Not all traditions have to be followed. If you’re really that uncomfortable about it, I’ll tell the guys no. We’ll stick to gambling, cigars, and alcohol.”

She pauses a moment—thinking. “You would do that for me?”

I chuckle. Because by now, how can she not know? “Of course I would.”

Kate tucks her hands under her cheek. It makes her look young, vulnerable. My chest tightens with the desire to protect her. From anything—everything—that could cause her pain.

Including my own tongue.

“I don’t really care about the strippers, Drew.”

Now I’m confused. “Are you saying that because you really don’t care—or because you think that’s what I want you to say?”

I have to ask, because in my experience, women will tell you to do something and then slit your fucking throat when you actually do it. Since you were supposed to know they didn’t
really
want you to do it. That they don’t
really
mean what they say.

Except for the times when they do.

It’s like an undiscovered form of schizophrenia. God gave you a mouth for a reason, ladies. Well . . . several reasons actually.

But the point is—use it. Be up-front. It’ll save us all a lot of time and energy.

“No—I’m being honest. Now that I know you don’t want to go to a strip club, it doesn’t bother me so much if you do.”

“Then why were you upset?”

“I think, deep down, I’m just . . . afraid.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

Ouch.
Gotta say, that one kind of hurts. Like an old knee injury that acts up so infrequently, you almost forget it’s there. Until it reminds you. And you’re bedridden for a week.

Kate sees my expression and elaborates. “I’m afraid you’re going to do something . . . that you’re going to see something, or hear something, and that you’ll take it the wrong way. That there’ll be a misunderstanding, and you’ll react . . . badly.”

I rub my eyes. And sigh. “I thought we were past all that, Kate.”

She grabs my hand and squeezes. “We
are
past it. We forgave each other, and we’re so good now. But . . . you have to admit . . . there’s a pattern.”

Rose Kennedy once declared,
“It has been said, ‘Time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”

Preaching to the choir, Rosie. Preaching to the choir . . .

My hand trails out and cups Kate’s cheek to reassure her. “I’m not that guy anymore, Kate.”

Okay, you’re right: deep down I
am
still that guy. But I’m smarter now.
More.
I’m a father. In a week, I’ll be a husband. And
I would cut my dick off before I would ever hurt Kate like that again.

I’ve grown, God damn it.

“I love you, Kate. And I trust you. I trust us. We talk about things—I don’t just react now. So I’m not gonna screw this up. Not this weekend; not ever again.”

Oh, irony
. You ugly bitch.

Kate’s hand covers mine. She stares into my eyes, looking for truth or sincerity or I don’t know what. Whatever it is, she finds it. Because she smiles. And kisses me softly. “I believe you.”

Then she pulls back and asks, “Would you feel better if I tell Dee to cancel any stripper plans she may have made for us?”

Yes.

“No.”

Hell yes.

“Well . . . maybe.”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

“No. No. I want you to have fun with the girls. You know, do what ganders do.”

See?
If that’s not evidence of fucking growth, I don’t know what the hell is. Besides, male strippers aren’t that big a deal. Because most of them are aspiring dancers. And we all know what that means. . . .

Anyway, no girl wants to bang a guy in a banana hammock. I don’t care if you’re built like a brick shithouse and hung like a freaking horse—if you’re wearing a man-thong? You look like a tool.

As we sit up, Kate tells me, “Watching a greased-up guy shaking his ass is not really my idea of fun, Drew.” She wiggles her eyebrows my way. “Now,
you
greased up and dancing, on the other hand, that sounds like a good time.”

This is why I love her.

“You’re the perfect woman.”

I pull her in for a kiss—longer than the last one. But just as our tongues come out to play, a small voice chirps out from the monitor.

“Mummy? Daaaddy? Up-o. Up-o.”

I pull back. “The beast has risen. You shower first, I’ll get him.”

“Okay.”

I slide on a pair of sweats as Kate pulls some clothes from the drawer.

“Daaddy! Mummy! Up-o. Up-o. Up-o!”

My son is not a big fan of patience. Wonder where he gets that from?

“Oh, and Drew?”

I turn toward Kate. “Yeah?”

“My grandmother used to say, ‘Look with your eyes, not with your hands.’ When you’re at that strip bar? Make sure you do that.”

I nod. “Got it, boss.” I stride forward and grab her chin, freeing her lip from her teeth’s grip. Then I kiss it better—making her just a little dazed and confused. “Stop fucking worrying. We’re gonna have a great time with our friends this weekend. Nothing bad is gonna happen. I promise.”

Famous last words, right? How’s that for a jinx?
Idiot.

I spin her back around and slap both cheeks with one hand. “Now get that ass in the shower before I decide to tap it again.”

Kate laughs, ’cause she thinks I’m kidding. Only—

“Daaadddyyy! Up-o! Up-o!”

Right. Duty calls. Kate heads for the bathroom, and I go to spring James from his cage.

So that’s how it started. Everything was awesome. We were talking. Laughing. Communicating.

Fucking.

It was like a fairy tale, for Christ’s sake.

Did you ever notice how fairy tales all start off great? The beautiful princess, the happy kingdom? Then it all turns to shit. One minute Hansel’s feeling no pain, chomping on a window made of sugar, and the next minute some old hag is trying to shove his ass in an oven.