Tied (9 page)

James giggles. To the casual observer, it might seem that my son is actually fond of the fuckface. But I know better. Animals can sense when a person’s a few cards shy of a full deck. When they’re on the lower end of the bell curve. Kids can do that too. James doesn’t like Warren—he pities him. Because he knows that, even at two years old, he’s smarter than Jackass can ever hope to be.

As the small talk builds to a crescendo, Kate and I look over
the seating chart one more time. I put my arm around her just because she’s mine. Her eyes are soft and her voice is velvet as she sighs, “Seven more days. About this time next week, I’ll be putting my dress on.”

It’s the one thing that’s been kept confidential. Strictly off-limits. “Can’t I have a hint? Will there be cleavage? Is it satin? Lace?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Latex?”

She shakes her head.

“Just tell me you didn’t pick some old-fashioned, frilly getup that makes you look like a yeti.”

She chuckles. “I’ll never tell. But . . . feel free to try and torture the information out of me. By any means necessary.”

Several ideas come to mind. Each with the potential of earning me a front-row seat in hell. Possibly a jail cell. “God, I love the way you think.”

My sister’s voice drags me from my sinful musings. “Oh—I’ve been meaning to tell you two—we have a problem with table forty-five. A guest hasn’t responded yet.”

She picks up her trusty clipboard. “He’s . . . Brandon Mitchell . . . Delores’s stepbrother. He may or may not be bringing a plus one.”

Delores’s mother got married last summer to some cop from their hometown. It figures that only a man professionally trained in firearms and self-defense would be brave enough to tie the knot with Amelia Warren.

I turn on Delores. “Again with your fucking family. What is it with you people? You’re like King Midas in reverse—everything you touch turns to shit.”

She argues, “Brandon is not my family.”

For once my sister and I are on the same page. She waves her finger in Dee-Dee’s face. “Oh, yes, he is. His father married your
mother—that makes him yours. If we have to claim Great-Aunt Clara, you have to own up to this Mitchell clown.”

Great-Aunt Clara is my grandmother’s stepsister, on my mother’s side. She’s like a thousand years old. The kind of relative we only wheel out of the nursing home once or twice a year for big events. Clara loves to dance, and even for an ancient she can move pretty well.

The things is—since she was born a century ago, when women couldn’t vote or show ankle skin—Clara’s a big fan of women’s liberation. So she refuses to wear a bra.

Ever.

And her breasts are massively huge. Heavy—like dry-cement-stuffed balloons. They should be classified as deadly weapons.

At James’s christening? Clara was getting down on the dance floor to the latest Rihanna song. She lifts her arms, spins around . . . and nails my best client’s teenage son in the head with her left tit.

The kid was out cold for ten minutes. Thankfully, his parents chose not to sue.

Kate steps between us, hands up, into the line of fire. “Okay, everyone, let’s just all take a step back. Dee, call your mom and have her lean on Brandon.”

Delores does as she’s told. But I go on, “Yeah—lean on him hard. Or he’ll be eating dinner in the parking lot with the valets.”

Kate’s hand snakes around my back, tracing soothing lines under my T-shirt. “Relax, Drew. It’s not that big a deal.”

Her touch is soft—skin on skin. It feels like a double dose of Valium: instantly calming. My voice holds considerably less heat as I tell her, “This day is going to be goddamn magical. No way I’m letting an honorary Warren mess with it—even if it’s just the seating arrangement.”

She turns into me, and her arms climb up around my neck. “Are you going to show up at the church?”

I tilt my head back so I can look in her eyes. “Wild lions couldn’t keep me away.”

“And . . . at some point . . . will we become husband and wife?”

“That’s the plan.”

She reaches up on her toes and brushes her lips with mine. Once. Twice. “Then it’ll be perfect.”

Dee-Dee closes her cell and announces, “My mother says Brandon’s coming, but he’s not bringing a date.”

Alexandra amends her list and removes the question-mark chair from the model. Then she beams. “There. Crisis averted. I just need to adjust the number of favors and we’re good to go.”

Dee’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She rummages around in her shiny metallic shoulder bag, then raises her arms in victory. “Party favors!”

Fisted in Delores’s hands are a dozen lollipops. Each about ten inches long.

In the shape of a dick.

She hands a few to my mother. “Here you go, Anne. Just because you’re not partaking in the festivities doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a treat.” Then she adds with a wink, “Vanilla and chocolate. Yum.”

My mother turns the confection around with a mischievous smile and playful glint in her eyes. Then she puts it on the counter. “Thank you, Dee-Dee. I’ll save these for after dinner.”

My father grins. Broadly.

Great.
Now I’m stuck with the image of my sweet, saintly mother sucking down a cock-pop while my old man watches. There’s an excellent chance I’ll never get a boner again.

Fucking Delores.

Okay, the boner thing is an exaggeration, but still—do you see why I can’t stand her? Her and her whole demon family tree. My best friend couldn’t marry a normal girl, could he? No—he had to fall for the Bride of Chucky incarnate.

The phone rings. It’s the doorman letting us know the limo’s here. Everyone files out the door as my parents spread around the hugs and well-wishing.

I snatch James back from Warren for a final farewell.

We’re lucky—James is not one of those clingy, whiny little bastards who lose their mind when Mommy walks out the door. Even so—good-byes are never fun.

Kate kisses his cheek and pushes his hair back from his eyes. “We love you, baby. We’ll be home soon.”

I kiss his head. Then I ask the stupidest question ever. “Are you gonna be good for Grandma and Pop?”

He looks at me sideways. And grins. “No.”

I shrug toward Kate. “Well, at least he’s honest.”

I
’m not a big fan of air travel. For several reasons. First, there’s the pilot. You can never be sure he knows what the hell he’s doing. Maybe he got his license from a Cracker Jack box. Maybe his daddy made a generous donation to his flight school.

If I want to put my life in jeopardy? I’ll ask my sister if she’s gained weight.

Then there’s the charade of it. No matter how many people those security agents feel up, no matter how many bags those former McDonald’s employees search? If somebody really wants to do some damage? Eventually, he will. The airlines should be up-front about it. Like those
SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK
signs at the beach. When the desk agent hands you the boarding pass, he or she should say, “Hold on, pray your ass doesn’t get blown up, have a nice flight.”

Would that really be so bad?

Finally, there’s the doom-and-gloom certainty that if something—even accidentally—does go wrong? You’re toast. I know what the statistics say—that you’re more likely to get into a car
accident, blah, blah¸ blah. But here’s the thing—lots of people who’ve had auto collisions have walked away without a scratch. Now tell me how many people you know who’ve gotten out of a plane wreck unscathed?

Exactly.

Still—I don’t let those worries interfere with my life. They don’t get in the way. At all. Because fear doesn’t make a coward—actions do. I’m a lot of things, but a chickenshit isn’t one of them. And I have to admit, even though it’s not my favorite thing to do, there used to be benefits to flying.

Meaning the veritable smorgasbord of available women that can be found in airports and planes. There’s the oh-so-lonely housewife, the overworked businesswoman, the carefree graduate student looking to let loose . . . the flight attendant.

In recent years, quality control on that last one has gone majorly downhill. Once upon a time, sex appeal was in the job description. That’s no longer the case. But I find the airlines tend to schedule at least one screwable female on every flight. Back in my free-man days, they were the easiest pickings. Always so eager to be of service.

One time, on a business trip to Singapore, three stunning flight attendants were ready, willing, and able to show me the all sights worth seeing—inside their hotel room. We had quite the layover. That’s what I call some friendly skies.

Speaking of which, one’s headed our way now. She’s attractive—slim, tall, long dark hair pulled back at the sides, and deep blue eyes with an exotic slant. Her hands are manicured—delicate—the perfect size for a decent jerking-off.

Yes—guys notice things like that.

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to keep your seat belt buckled until the captain turns the sign off.”

I look down at the belt in question, then back up. “Right.
’Cause if we nose-dive from twenty thousand feet, this little piece of fabric is gonna stand between me and certain death?”

Like I said—hypocrites.

She laughs. And the yellow seat-belt sign goes out with a ding.

I grin. “Guess he heard me.”

Full, pink lips smile. “Guess so.”

Blue eyes glance around the first-class cabin. “A little birdie told me you’re all headed to Vegas for a prewedding party—and you’re the groom.”

“That I am.”

She hands me a mimosa. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

She hands Kate a glass as well, then her attention reverts back to me. “So . . . where are you staying?”

I take a sip of the orange concoction. “The Bellagio.”

“Nice.” She leans over a little—close enough that I can smell her cheap, too-sweet perfume—and drops the bomb. “I’m off the clock once we land in Nevada. I’m staying with friends. . . . Maybe we’ll stop by the Bellagio casino tonight? You look like you’d be in the high rollers’ section?”

My friends and I aren’t flashy about our money—most people who have it aren’t. But the signs are there if you know what you’re looking for—quality luggage, Rolex watches, classic but expensive brand clothing.

And yes—this chick just stepped over the line. Her words sounded like a proposition, because they were. Which is pretty fucking disrespectful, considering my fiancée is within earshot.

But I’m not surprised. Even though men are supposed to be the bold pursuers? Women can be so much worse. They’re brazen. Shameless. They’ll stab each other in the back faster than Jason freaking Voorhees.

Just ask Steven. When he and Alexandra were dating? Practically every one of her so-called friends offered to climb on his face and take it for a test ride. Because they were petty. Jealous. Because they wanted what Alexandra had.

Some guys, such as Jack, would welcome crap like this with open arms, always wanting to keep their options open. But not me—not anymore. I play it gracious but firm. Reverently, I pick up Kate’s hand and kiss her knuckles, making sure the ring is in sight. “We’re going to be pretty busy tonight. Thanks anyway.”

She backs off with an offended shrug. “Suit yourself.”

It’s not the first time this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. Kate handles it well, even though deep down I know it bugs the shit out of her.

I’m not above using that to my advantage, of course. See that devil on my shoulder? Yeah—he’s ready to get busy. Watch.

I lean toward Kate. “So . . . you’re just going to let her get away with that?”

She continues to stare at her magazine, turning the pages harshly. “Get away with what?”

“With that Hail Mary pass she just threw. Trying to eat off your plate. If a guy came on to you like that in front of me? He’d be eating sidewalk.”

“I’m not a teenager, Drew. My days of fighting over a boy are over.”

What I wouldn’t give to have seen those days. With Jell-O on top.

“I’m not saying you should yank her hair out or rip each other’s clothes off”—I chuckle—“though that would be
awesome
. I just think you should teach her a lesson. Show her who I belong to.”

Kate closes the magazine, shaking her head slightly. Her eyes are shiny with amusement. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re just trying to get me to have sex with you in the bathroom.”

Busted.
“A blow job will work too. You’re really good at those.”

She reopens the magazine. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Evans. Least of all into my pants.”

I whine, “Why not?”

“Because all of our friends are here.”

“So what?”

“So they’ll hear us.”

I lie, “No, they won’t.”

“They might.”

“I’ll stuff your panties in your mouth—they won’t hear a thing.”

She snorts. And stays strong. “Sounds romantic. Still . . . not happening.”

It’s
so
happening. But I admit—this banter? The sexual tension? Having to work for it once in a while? It’s still fun. Exciting. It keeps my skills razor sharp.

Knowing I’ll eventually get my way? That helps too.

I try a different tactic. Guilt. “It’s tradition, Kate. Like tapping the mascot symbol when you exit the locker room before a football game. It’s bad luck to break tradition—something terrible could happen. How will you feel if this plane crashes and burns, all because you didn’t want to give it up?”

“I think I’ll take my chances.”

I look forward and sigh. This is a five-hour flight. There’s no way Kate can hold out that long. Because, when you know how to strum a guitar the right way? That sucker plays.

I give it a few minutes, until her guard is down. Then I turn
sideways in my seat. And start off slow. Subtle. One hand on her thigh, drawing leisurely circles. Eventually my other hand joins in, stroking her arm, then her shoulder—relaxing her. Overwhelming her senses.

Notice, she’s not pushing me away. Because even though one set of lips is saying no? The other set is always up for a good time.

I lean over and my mouth lightly caresses her cheek, moving gently across her jawline to her neck. My hand creeps down and covers one breast—squeezing and rubbing. Sliding and teasing.