Someone for Me

by Addison Moore

  I chase Professor Curl-Your-Toes down before he can hit the men’s room—just the act of chasing a man who isn’t Cruise down these halls makes me a little sad. He and I have been known to fornicate freely here—well, everywhere, come to think of it.

  “Sorry to stalk you like this,” I pant, glancing briefly over my shoulder in case Cruise thought my abrupt exit was an invitation.

  “Not a problem. Can I help you?” He leans in, inspecting my disheveled state. I probably should have run a brush through my hair on the way over.

  I grab him by the sweater and yank him in. “I beg of you to keep the assignment I’m working on in class private.”

  His eyes enlarge as he takes in my fists balled up on his chest, so I relent and smooth him back to normal.

  “You see, my fiancé isn’t quite aware of it just yet.”

  His forehead wrinkles with confusion.

  “We’re getting married in a couple months and the whole thing is sort of a wedding gift.” Ha! I guess it could be, although I’m pretty sure shoving a tell-all book in his face isn’t the first thing I want to do as his new bride.

  “Interesting.” He frowns at me as if he smells a rat.

  “I’ll have the next chapter done next Tuesday. Do you think you can get the edits back to me by Thursday?”

  “If it’s just as short, I don’t see why not. In fact, if you like—”

  Cruise comes barreling down the hall, so I spin around and duck into the ladies’ room before poor Kurt can finish his sentence. I take up residency in a stall for a small eternity, just killing time before we can leave this damn place. I hope to God that Kurt got the message loud and clear. Kitten sex is off the list of topics for sparkling dinner conversation. I splash some water on my face and head back, only to smack into one of my favorite hard bodies, Cruise Elton himself.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” I give a wry smile.

  “Are you okay?” He looks genuinely concerned, and now I feel bad for texting Lauren and Ally for the past ten minutes while he was busy out in the hall worrying about my intestinal health.

  “I’m fine.” I swipe my finger over his cheek. “I promise.”

  “Come here.” He pulls me back behind a dark velvet curtain where we’ve been known to instigate some quick coital activity and wraps his arms around me lovingly instead. “I just want to hold you a second.”

  There’s a sadness in him, like he’s got the weight of the entire universe on his shoulders and all he wants is a nice firm hug. Come to think of it, so do I.

  “Everything okay?” I whisper, almost afraid to ask.

  “Let’s see. I just got arrested for trespassing on my own property, which, embarrassingly, I did. I inadvertently mooned an officer while he threatened to pump lead in my ass, and I made my bride-to-be sick to her stomach while trying to make love to her on bastardized jungle gym equipment. I’ll leave out the part about my sister getting felt up by her creative writing teacher in front of me. It’s about all I can take for now.”

  I pull back and drink in his gloriously blessed features. Cruise Elton is a god among men.

  “I’m sorry.” I give his shoulders a tiny massage before dropping my arms around his waist again. “It’s all going to work out—I just know it is. Sort of like we did.”

  He dots my nose with a kiss.

  “I want to hear all about your book when we get a chance.”

  My stomach clenches and reenacting my earlier vomit incident feels like a real possibility.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” He tucks his head back a notch. “You’re the most important thing in the world to me, and I want to encourage and support you in whatever you want to do. And if writing about kittens makes you happy, then that’s what I want you to do.”

  “Aww! You just melted me, you know that?” I push him in by way of his bottom. “And what if it’s hard-core kitty porn?” I give his buns of steel a squeeze, but to no avail—Cruise is hard as granite.

  He pushes out a dry laugh. “I’d love you even more.” He touches his lips to my forehead. “As long as you’re not starring in any kitten porn, I’m fine with it.”

  I swallow hard.

  He doesn’t really mean that. In fact, I will give him my book as a wedding present—as soon as we come back from our honeymoon.

  No reason to rock the boat during a perfectly good epilogue.

  As soon as we get home, Cruise hits the shower and I hit eBay. I’ve got about another ten minutes and, last I checked on the drive home, I was still the highest bidder. Sadly, this, too, is another tidbit I’m keeping from Cruise but I don’t feel too bad. Everybody knows it’s rotten luck for the groom to see the bride-to-be in her wedding gown, and I can only assume that means him gawking at her eBay purchase of said dress as well.

  I log in, only to be met with Sorry, you’ve been outbid!

  Crap.

  I click on the picture again. The dress is a perfect size six. Technically I’m an eight, but everyone knows you can get those things adjusted. Plus I plan on cutting out the lattes and mixing in a few salads the closer it gets to the wedding. Although I sort of need to feed my Starbucks addiction at the moment because it just so happens to be the only thing keeping me sane.

  I zoom in on the image. The dress sits neatly tucked into a box, with a clear view from the neckline to the waist. Next to it is a picture of a runway model wearing it. It has a sweetheart neckline and a clean hourglass waist that sweeps out in layers of delectable sheer fabric, luscious as buttercream. It looks like one big delicious fairy tale ready to unfold. The retail price of $7,000 has a giant red X through it, and just below, the bid reads $200. Of course it’s at $221 at the moment because some skinny bitch thinks she’s about to outbid me. Little does she know I’ve got my Visa out and I’m not afraid to use it. I frown a little at the idea. I don’t exactly have the means to pay it off all at once. But it’s not like I sit around nightly, outbidding people on designer dresses. This whole financial fiasco is sort of a one-off. I type in $250 and hit “Place Bid.” There.

  Cruise comes into the kitchen and I’m quick to close the laptop.

  “What’s up?” He nods at the computer while grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

  “Just checking my emails. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  He comes over and kisses me on the top of my head.

  “I love you.” He tucks a tiny grin in his cheek. He’s showered and smells like mountain spring soap, mouthwash, and the slightest hint of his seductive cologne, which calls forth all kinds of erotic memories. “Don’t ever feel like you need to hide anything from me. I promise I’d never read your emails.”

  “And I’d never read yours,” I purr as he heads off to the bedroom.

  I open my laptop in haste, and it takes a minute for the damn thing to blink to life.

  Outbid! And only three minutes left.

  Shit!

  Molly saunters over, oblivious to my real-world worries because she’s been floating on cloud nine ever since Professor Curl-Your-Toes gave her a rather warm and intimate embrace good night when he dropped the three of us off. Cruise nearly had a vomiting session of his own at the sight.

  Crap. It’s up to $251. Who in the hell is this whore who thinks she’s about to swipe my Vera?

  “Back off, bitch,” I whisper, typing as fast my fingers will fly—$280.

  “That’s not enough.” Molly pipes up from behind, and I jump in my seat. “If you really want it, put in some outlandish number to ensure the win. Are you really going to let ‘crazyeights’ steal your wedding dress?”

  She’s got a point.

  “Hell-fucking-no.” My fingers glide across the keyboard—$5,001—and I place the bid.

  There.

  “Holy shit.” Molly belts out a laugh. “You’d better hope crazyeights is as insane as you are or—”

  Congratulations, you’re the highest bidder!

  “Ha!” I hold out my hand, just waiting for Molly to slap me some
skin but she doesn’t. Instead, we both stare dumbfounded at the idiotic number I’ve managed to conjure up on the screen. “Five thousand dollars?” I croak weakly. “Actually, five thousand and one.”

  “God, Kendall”—Molly staggers backward—“you’ve just spent more money than Cruise has made in his entire life.”

  “Crap. Just crap. What am I going to do now?” I bite down so hard on my lower lip, I’m about to draw blood, and I wish to God I would. I should start stabbing myself with a pen and pulling my hair out in clumps, running around eating artificial houseplants because, unless I plead insanity, I’ll never in a million years be able to pay off this wedding dress.

  “Wow.” Molly leans in. “Do you see the shipping on that thing?”

  “What’s this?” I scroll down. “Five hundred dollars to ship?”

  “Congratulations, Kendall, you’ve just been fiscally screwed. There’s no way it costs that much to ship something. I mean, where are they sending it from, Siberia?”

  I swallow hard and scroll a little farther down.

  “Patagonia.” That’s like Siberia’s cousin.

  Fuck.

  “Estimated arrival January third? What the hell . . . Is she walking it over?” I shake my head at the insanity of it all. “Screw it. I won’t pay. I’ll just say my child did it. You hear about toddlers running up their parents’ phone bill into the thousands all the time on the news, and everyone laughs it off.”

  Molly raises a brow in amusement. “Only you don’t have a child unless, of course, you’re counting yourself.” That hint of sarcasm in her voice lets me know she’s enjoying this on some level.

  “I’m counting you, Miss ‘If you really want it, put in some outlandish number to ensure the win.’ This is all your fault.” Not really, but it feels good to spread the blame.

  She averts her eyes toward the ceiling. “Well, you have to pay them or they can take you to court.” She squints into some invisible horizon and a devious smile tugs at her lips. “But you can always turn around and tell your credit card company that your card was stolen, and—ta-da!” Her eyes narrow in on mine and she looks eerily like Cruise’s evil twin. “You’re suddenly free of a five thousand–dollar mistake that’s better off in Patagonia where it belongs. And, sadly for them, they’ll still send you the dress. It’s made of win—a devious win.”

  I gasp. Is this what it’s come down to? Internet fraud? God. I clasp my chest. I’m going to land myself in prison for some stupid bridal crime that Molly dragged me into.

  “Lauren was right,” I whisper. “This dress is rife with all kinds of bad juju. I guess I’ll just contact the seller and explain the entire thing was a mistake. I’m sure she’ll be reasonable.”

  I waste no time before diving into a psychotic manifesto that depicts my ill state of mind after vomiting on a sex swing, when what I wanted to say was: I wasn’t thinking straight, because who pays five thousand fucking dollars for a used dress when I can buy a perfectly new Vera for as low as twenty-five hundred? But instead I round it out with: Please excuse my three-year-old daughter, Molly, who accidentally bid on your beautiful wedding dress. She has a bad habit of landing herself in places she doesn’t belong. I wish you much luck with finding a buyer!

  Less than five minutes later: Congratulations on your purchase of an original Verra Wang designer wedding dress! Please complete payment promptly to ensure this case does not continue to the resolution center. If a prompt payment is not made, due diligence will be made to legally pursue the collection of funds. You have entered into a legal and binding contract and will be pursued to the fullest extent of the law to fulfill your financial agreement. The item you have purchased will be sent to you upon payment.

  The message may as well have read: Congratulations on your new dress, sucker! I read it over again and balk at her misspelling of Vera. It doesn’t matter. She’s got me right where she wants me. She could spell it with just dollar signs, and it wouldn’t change the fact I’m a fool.

  It’s like she’s going to come after me and my future children as well. Cruise will probably lose the bed-and-breakfast because we’ll be sued into oblivion, and it’ll be all my fault.

  “Screw it.”

  I whip out my Visa and pay for the damn thing.

  I think my credit card is about to get stolen.

  And, much to my mortification, I just may have my wedding dress—albeit two weeks too late.

  Cruise

  A few days go by and bodies start filtering in and out of the bed-and-breakfast at all hours—girls in ultrashort skirts and bare-chested guys with their shirts wrapped around their necks, their boxers hanging out the back of their pants. I’ve effectively turned my grandfather’s sweet little lodge into a full-fledged brothel. Not to mention that a cash transaction has yet to take place.

  The Plague has arrived in full force and is ready to have one hell of a good time on the sexual playground they’ve turned my nest egg into. Mom called yesterday and I assured her I have everything under control, because I didn’t have the guts to say otherwise. She mentioned Grandma was still in need of her help, so that took some pressure off. She asked about the beauty parlor, which is on autopilot thanks to a competent staff. I did promise to drive by sometime to make sure it’s still standing.

  Late in the afternoon, Kenny and I decide to head to the gym.

  She pulls me in just shy of the weight room. “I think I’ll hit hot yoga,” Kenny purrs while pointing across the way.

  “Save some of your hot moves for me, will you?” I wrap my arm around her and drop it low until I’m cupping her ass. She heads off in the other direction, and I stride into the weight room, where I find Morgan with a disapproving smirk on his face. Great—just what I need: a little grief from my soon-to-be brother-in-law. I head over and take a seat on the bench next to him.

  “Ho hey,” he says unenthusiastically as he slaps his weights on the bar. “Rumor has it you nearly landed my sister in the big house the other night. Care to explain?” He wipes the sweat off his brow with his heavily tatted up arm.

  I’m not sure what Kenny told him, or if he got wind of what happened by way of Ally. Either way, he might know more than I want him to.

  “Misunderstanding.” For a second I consider bolting and running laps on the track outside. I like my balls right where they are, and Morgan seems to be in the mood to do some anatomical rearranging.

  “Ally mentioned there was a breaking and entering charge.”

  “It was at the bed-and-breakfast. It’s not like we broke in.” That was easy enough. I lean in to adjust the weights.

  “And a fuck swing,” he deadpans.

  Shit.

  I shoot him a look just as Molly comes up and lands a nice fresh towel across his shoulders.

  “And how are you this fine day?” She bats those baby blues at him and my stomach turns. On second thought, I’d rather be discussing a “fuck swing” and contemplating the ways he might disembowel me rather than watching Molly try to lure him into bed.

  “Why fine, thank you.” He buries his face in the towel for a second. “And since I’m not the one who was taken downtown for performing an indecent act on private property, I guess I’m really fine, thanks for asking.” He has the nerve to smile up at her.

  “It was my property,” I hear myself say, and I can’t believe I fell for that.

  “So you admit it.” He glares at me.

  “Anyway”—Molly runs her hand across his shoulders like she’s dusting him off—“I just want you to know I’m in a committed relationship now, and things are moving pretty quickly. If you want to have any chance with me at all, I suggest you act fast before I’m out of your arms forever.”

  Again, I’d rather be discussing perverse playground equipment than listening to my sister sell herself as a blue-light special.

  “You’re very sweet, you know that?” Morgan looks up at her. “I’m happy for you, Molly. I’m really glad you found someone special. Make sure he trea
ts you right, or I’m going to have to come after him.” He brings his fist to his palm playfully, and Molly’s lips twist into a reluctant smile.

  “And you’re really a nice guy, Morgan. I can’t wait for you to meet Kurt. But don’t go scaring him with your muscles. Okay?”

  “Deal.”

  She skips off, content with his gentle kiss-off.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I agree with Molly. You really are a nice guy.”

  “I’m not that nice.” That look of annoyance returns to his face as his features harden. “You get my sister thrown in jail again, and yours will be the only ass I’m interested in kicking.” He leans in. “I roomed with you for the last three months—I know you’re a sick fuck,” he says, serious as shit. “Kendall is a good girl. And for whatever reason, she’s drawn to you.” His fingers flick through the air as if he can’t find the right words to actually describe the dung that sits before him. “Treat her right. If you have to indulge in that shit, keep it in your own damn house. But breaking into other people’s bedrooms to entertain yourselves is flat-out wrong, Cruise. You got that? It’s fucking wrong. So if it’s some new fetish you’re into, I suggest you cross it off your wish list. My sister’s not some prop you can drag around from place to place to get your rocks off.”

  “Look, I don’t make it a habit of breaking into other people’s bedrooms,” I say. “It was a onetime thing, and it’ll never happen again.” And why the hell do I suddenly feel the need to justify my actions to Morgan?

  “‘Onetime thing’?” His chin dips as if I’m shitting him, and that night at his housewarming party comes back to me.

  “That night at your place was something totally different. We’ve never done that before.” Had we? An entire montage of places and spaces that Kenny and I have defiled runs through my head.

  “What about that night you took Ally and me to that uptight Italian restaurant? If I remember correctly, you and Kenny took a little potty break together. Was that a fluke, too? Or what about the time you screwed your way around campus and got thrown out of the graduate program? You going to tell me that was some unfortunate quirk?”