by Max Monroe
Thatch just made everything better.
Which was crazy. He should have made things worse. He was loud and obnoxious and couldn’t stay serious for more than a minute. He made a career out of bugging the hell out of me and spent most of his day sending me texts requesting tit pics.
But damn, that man.
That crazy fucking lunatic.
I liked him.
I tapped the last number in my call log, and it rang two times before his husky voice filled my ear.
“What are you doing, Crazy?” Thatch was smiling. I could hear it in his voice.
“Just finished having lunch with a few strippers from Spearmint Rhino, and now I’m about to head into a brothel. You know, the usual Vegas shit.”
“Just fitting in a little sightseeing, then?”
“Yeah, you know that saying, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’”
“Unless you get chlamydia,” he pointed out. “That won’t stay in Vegas. That comes home with you.”
“I’ll make sure my hooker wears a dental dam, then.”
He chuckled. “You’re a smart woman. Putting your sexual health above all things.”
I wanted to laugh, but my mood just wasn’t feeling it. “You know me, safe sex and all that jazz,” I muttered halfheartedly.
“You okay, honey?” His tone had changed from teasing to concerned in the span of a heartbeat.
“No,” I answered as I rested my head against the window. “It’s been a shit trip.”
“What happened?”
“My assistant, who also happens to be the cunt I was kind enough to mentor, is doing her best to ruin everything. She can choke on a big fat dick while sitting on a parking cone.”
“Did you fire her?”
“No,” I mumbled. “Which is ridiculous. I mean, I found out that she had commandeered half of my professional contacts list and reached out to them for work. For herself. Which, obviously, makes me look really bad. Talk about an asshole move, right?” I sighed, long and deep. “I’ve done nothing but bend over backward for that chick. I’ve taught her everything I know. Normally, I wouldn’t tolerate one second of the bullshit she’s been pulling. Normally, I would have given her the boot.”
“Why isn’t this ‘normally’?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “It’s all so unlike me. What’s wrong with me, T?”
“It sounds like she hurt your feelings, honey. You two were obviously close.”
“That’s what these are? Feelings?” I questioned in feigned shock. “I don’t like these fuckers. They’re killing my Vegas buzz.”
He chuckled softly into the phone. “You want some advice?”
“Please,” I responded and sat down on the chaise beside the window.
“Even though I think this chick deserves the whole fat-dick-and-parking-cone scenario, I think you need to approach this professionally.”
God, could he have suggested anything more unnatural? “And how do I go about that?”
“Find out who she reached out to, and contact them. Let them know the situation, without the use of f-bombs or cunt sentiments. I’d also probably leave out the parking cone and dick sucking, too. Then, tell her to pack her tube tops and glittery eye shadow and take a fucking hike.”
A small laugh escaped my lips. “Glittery eye shadow and tube tops?”
“Only one type of woman would pull a dick move like that, and she ain’t doing it while wearing Louboutins.”
“What about a guy who would pull that kind of shit? What’s he wearing?”
“Tommy Hilfiger.”
“Thatchastasia is a bit of a fashionista. I had no idea.”
He chuckled. “I’ll let you spank me later.”
Normally, I’d toss back another snappy retort, but I was finding my humor to still be miles away. “Awesome,” I replied, lacking any sort of enthusiasm.
“I don’t like when you’re sad, honey.”
“I’m not sad,” I lied.
“Hey, I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to run,” he said.
“Okay, bye,” I answered and couldn’t hide my irrational irritation.
“Now, wait a minute, sassy pants. Before I go, I’m adding a new rule. Number forty-five. No moping while in Vegas.”
A sharp laugh escaped my lungs. “Yeah, I’ll do my best to get right on that rule, even though I’d rather curl up in the fetal position and watch reruns of The Office from my hotel bed.”
“I mean it, honey. No moping.”
“You’re not the boss of me, T.”
“We’ll see about that, Crazy.”
“Number forty-six. Take a hot bath and a nap.”
“Stop adding rules,” I demanded. “And that’s a weird rule.”
“Everything feels better after a hot bath.”
“I forgot bubble baths are one of your and Oprah’s favorite things.”
He laughed. “When you’re in them, they are. But I can’t speak for Oprah. I’m not sure what she digs.”
“All right. Consider me naked and in the bath, then,” I teased.
“Consider me hard and annoyed that I’m not there.”
Six hours later, I had taken a hot bath—twice—and charged eighty bucks’ worth of room service and movies to my room. Nothing was making me feel better. Not even the phone call I’d made to Olivia to tell her she was no longer my assistant.
That should have been an awesome call. I should have savored every second of telling her she’d been blacklisted from everyone she’d attempted to contact behind my back and she no longer had a job. But it didn’t make me feel better.
I felt worse.
I hated that someone I had considered a close friend had screwed me over and forced my hand like that. If I was being honest, I had enjoyed mentoring her. I’d wanted to see her succeed, and if she had handled things the right way, I would have done everything in my power to get her foot in the right doors.
But greed and power and success made people do stupid things. The world was filled with good people who had genuine intentions, but it was also filled with manipulative users like Olivia.
Good riddance, asshole.
The sun was starting to set, and my mood was no better than it had been prior to calling Thatch.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and sent him a quick text.
Me: Rules #45 & #46 suck. I want to remove them from the list.
Thatch: Rule #47. See Britney in concert whenever you’re in Vegas.
Me: Stop adding rules!
Thatch: Rule #48. Answer the door.
Me: Huh?
Three soft knocks sounded from the door, but instead of getting out of bed to answer it, I sent him another text.
Me: Did your cock send me more roses?
Thatch: Rule #49. Always, ALWAYS follow rule #48 when I tell you to.
Two hard knocks on the door spurred me into action. I hopped off the bed and padded toward the entry. “Who is it?” I asked.
“Housekeeping,” a male voice mimicking a tiny female’s voice replied back.
I grinned. “I don’t need housekeeping.”
“Do you need towels?”
“Nope.”
“Toilet paper?”
“Nope.”
“Pillow mints?” He continued the charade.
I fought my laugh as I peeked through the peephole and found Thatch standing on the other side of the black metal barrier. “Nope.”
He smirked. “What about a massage? Do you like happy endings?”
“Sure. Okay,” I finally agreed as I swung open the door.
And there he was, standing in front of me in all of his handsome glory. His brown eyes gazed into mine as a giant grin consumed his face. I had the overwhelming compulsion to burst into tears and maniacal laughter at the same time.
“You flew all the way from L.A. to give me a massage?”
He shook his head. “I drove, actually. There weren’t any last-minute Vegas flights availabl
e.”
“You drove?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice dropping to an even sexier level. “I drove all the way here to cheer you up. So, are you going to invite me in?”
I launched myself at him and wrapped my arms and legs around his body like a little monkey. I buried my face in the crook of his neck and savored the smell of his cologne and the inherent scent that was only Thatch.
God, I hadn’t known how much I wanted him to be here until he was actually here.
“What about your meetings?” I mumbled into his skin, unwilling to let go of the hold I had on him.
He squeezed his arms tighter. “I only really needed to be there for the walk-through I did this morning. I can work on the rest from home.”
“You’re fucking insane,” I whispered into his ear. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome, honey.” He held me tight and carried us inside my hotel suite. “Did you take a hot bath and get a nap?” he asked as his long legs crossed the room. He sat down on the bed and adjusted me so that I was straddling his lap, making my hotel robe fall open slightly.
I nodded. “Two baths, actually.”
He smirked and ran a finger along the swells of my breasts. “Did you fire your assistant?”
I nodded and breathed a little faster.
“Are you ready to have some fun with me in Vegas?”
I shrugged as my fingers found the nape of his neck and played with the edges of his hair. “Depends on what you have in mind.”
My eyes followed his as he glanced down at his T-shirt.
It’s Britney, bitch.
He winked. “Rule number forty-seven.”
Fuck, I haven’t had time to enter all of these into my phone. I struggled to remember for two seconds before it clicked.
“You’re taking me to see Britney?” I shouted and hopped off his lap. “Don’t fuck with me, Thatcher. Don’t you dare fuck with me right now.” I pointed an accusing finger in his direction.
He laughed and slid his hand into his back pocket to pull out two tickets. He held them up for my excited eyes.
I snatched them out of his hand and made sure they were real. “Holy shit! These are like front-row seats!” I exclaimed as I danced around the suite. “How in the hell did you manage these?”
“I’ve got friends in high places,” he said with a boyish grin. “Good surprise?”
“Fantastic surprise!” I threw myself at him, forcing us to fall back onto the bed in a tumble. “You’re so getting laid tonight!”
His playful eyes met mine as his hands slid into my hair and pulled my mouth in for a soft kiss. The kiss turned heated, and it was Thatch who pulled away with a groan.
“I hate what I’m about to say, but we’ll have to take a rain check on the sex,” he said as he lifted me to a standing position. “You’ve got thirty minutes to get dressed.” He turned my body toward the bathroom and spanked my ass into motion. “So get that sexy ass moving, Crazy. We can’t miss Britney.”
Planet Hollywood was unreal. So many shops filled the glitter-floor-lined hallways that led to the actual theater within the hotel. After buying me a matching It’s Britney, bitch T-shirt, Thatch carried me into the venue on his giant shoulders, shouting random things like, “I hope she plays Hit Me Baby One More Time,” until we reached our seats.
Women stared. I laughed. And the giant ogre never faltered in his ability to not give a single fuck what anyone thought of us.
We were a pair. A loud, outrageous-as-fuck pair.
It was awesome.
Fans screamed around me, and I joined in relentlessly. I was in my element with all the other diehards, watching Britney Spears shake her little ass and hypnotize the audience on stage with her sexy dance moves and catchy lyrics. As she finished up a hot rendition of “I Wanna Go,” I glanced up at Thatch, who appeared to be enjoying himself as much as I was.
He looked outrageous, sticking out like a sore thumb. His large frame—still clad in a Britney tee—towered over everyone in the audience. He was one of the few male attendants for the night, but in true Thatch fashion, he didn’t care. He sang when he knew the lyrics, and he danced like a lunatic during each song, often grabbing my hips and grinding against me playfully.
God, he made things fun. So much fun.
The neon lights glittered and gleamed across the stage as Britney seductively sang the opening lyrics to “I’m a Slave 4 U.” She moved down the stage, rotating her hips in hypnotic motions, and I watched on in amazement.
Thatch wrapped his arms around my shoulders and tugged me back against his chest. And as Brit sang, he sang directly into my ear, swaying us back and forth to the addictive beat.
“I’m having fun with you,” he whispered in my ear between lyrics.
I leaned my head against his chest and looked up at him. His eyes met mine, smirking down at me as he continued to serenade me with the help of Britney herself.
I smiled. “I’m having fun with you too.”
“Good.” My heart jumped as he leaned down and pressed his mouth to mine for a sweet kiss. “It doesn’t sit well with me when you’re sad.”
I turned in his arms and stood on tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for cheering me up, Thatcher.” It felt completely natural to admit how much he meant to me. “You’re starting to become one of my favorite people.”
He smirked. “Likewise, honey.”
“Vegas! Let me hear you!” Britney’s voice filled the venue, and I turned back toward the stage and hooted and hollered with the rest of the crowd. “I need a volunteer. Who’s willing to help me get a little freaky?” She smiled at the audience and started to search through the numerous hands waving frantically.
Thatch watched on with amusement until I abruptly grabbed his hand and threw it roughly into the air. “This guy!” I called toward the pop goddess at an ear-splitting decibel. “He loves to get freaky!”
He chuckled in response, but then his eyes went wide as Britney pointed directly at him and started to walk across the stage until she was standing in front of us.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered.
“Don’t be shy.” She giggled into the mic. “Come up here, big guy. I need your help,” Britney instructed him.
Thatch started to shake his head, but it was too late; two security guys were already beside him. “You owe me, Crazy,” he growled into my ear before he let them lead him stage right and up the steps.
And there he was, standing tall and proud in his It’s Britney, bitch T-shirt, in front of an entire audience of Britney Army. Women catcalled and screamed for him to look in their direction. I couldn’t blame them. Hell, I even joined in, wolf-whistling and shouting, “Take off your pants!” as loud as my voice could manage.
“Whoa, you’re big,” Britney said once he was standing beside her and her entourage of talented dancers. “What’s your name?”
“Thatch, and I hear that a lot,” he responded without missing a beat.
She laughed. “Well, Thatch, who are you here with tonight, baby?”
“That crazy woman right there.” He pointed directly at me and smirked like the devil as he added, “My girlfriend, Cassie.”
Girlfriend? If I hadn’t been so fucking mesmerized that Britney Spears was within touching distance, I probably would have had the foresight to flip him off.
Sure, that’s exactly why your not contesting that sentiment. Keep telling yourself that.
But seriously, was that him trying to one-up me?
Or was it him trying to tell me something?
I didn’t know what I was to him. Fuck, I didn’t even know what he was to me. But I was certain of two things: the lines of our relationship were starting to become more blurred and confusing by the second, and I didn’t want anything to change. I wanted him all up in my space.
I wanted his jokes and surprises and uncanny ability to raise the stakes.
Britney’s gaze met mine and she grinned. “Damn, girl, you’r
e gorgeous too! What’s with all of the beautiful people in Vegas tonight?”
The crowd shouted their approval.
“So, Thatch,” she said as her dancers moved around him and started sliding something over his neck. “Would Cassie say you’re a naughty boy?”
Where most guys would have been dying from embarrassment, standing up on stage while wearing a shirt with Britney’s face, Thatch did the complete opposite. He just chuckled and answered, “She sure as hell wouldn’t say I’m nice.”
I bit my lip as the crowd lost their fucking minds, shouting proposals and innuendos so loud I had to cover my ears to dull the roar.
Britney laughed as Thatch met my eyes and shrugged at the attention.
“Let’s get freaky, Vegas!” Britney shouted as the beat of “Freakshow” pounded from the speakers.
My gaze followed the dancers as they crowded around the sexy ogre in the center of the stage. They rocked it out, dancing in sync with one another with gyrations and short flicks of their arms and hair to the sexy beat.
I slid my phone out of my back pocket and started to record every second of this perfect, blackmail-worthy moment.
A giant grin consumed my face as Thatcher Kelly became a prop at a Britney Spears concert. I wolf-whistled as the dancers led him by a harness-leash across the stage and he followed on his motherfucking hands and knees, crawling across the stage until his leash was handed off to the pop diva herself. Britney led him down the center platform, and he followed without an ounce of shame or embarrassment on his face.
He was urged to his feet by the dancers and moved toward the center of their freestyle circle.
And that’s when Thatch got freaky as fuck. My cheeks threatened to cover my eyes as I watched him grind and move with seriously impressive moves.
Goddamn. Channing who?
For a guy his size, he could get down, and I decided I’d need to test his reaction to “Pony” at some point in the future. His body moved in sync with the seductive beat, and every woman in attendance was screaming her excitement. He even obliged the woman stage left who screamed for him to “Take it off, hot stuff!”
