If it wouldn’t hurt so much, I think I’d roll my fucking eyes at her.
“I don’t understand―” I start, but Sammi gets me to shut up.
She’s got a pen from somewhere and a serviette in front of her.
“Let’s write down all the facts.”
Sammi is a sucker for lists. Whenever there’s a problem, she’d make a list. To make a decision about something, she’d make a list. It is definitely just like her to make a list now.
In a few minutes, she has written down what has happened, including the incident Liam told me about.
I stare at her neat handwriting.
Her letters are beautiful. My own is fucking atrocious. Whenever I have to write anything, I can never read it again.
Not so with Sammi. The words glare at me, dare me to believe them.
Dan cheated on me.
Actually, it was so much worse. There is so much hidden in those words, stuff not written on Sammi’s list, screaming at me. I block my ears―I don’t want to fucking hear it.
Not only did Dan allegedly cheat on me, he fucking lied to me, strung me along from beginning to fucking end.
“The facts speak for themselves, baby.” Sammi points at her list.
I shake my head.
“I don’t know all the facts, though,” I insist and feel a bit mulish. “I can’t remember the bit about Dan. It’s a fucking blank.”
Maybe I’m being a bit too stubborn about this. Or was it something else?
Deep down, there’s a flicker of recognition.
I try and blow it out. I don’t want to fucking go there.
Go away.
But it grows.
Of course I know why I’m being stubborn about this. Accepting what Liam told me means I have to accept Dan for what he is.
Accepting the story Liam told me means I need to reevaluate Dan and my relationship and with him and my entire fucking life.
Maybe I’m just not ready to do this yet.
I sigh.
“If I could remember,” I start and look at no one in particular, “I could―” But I’m interrupted by Percy who’s blowing a huge ring of smoke into my face and grins.
“Did Liam say you went at Dan with a fucking fire poker?”
I nod. The smoke brings tears to my eyes and catches in the back of my throat. I cough. I really wish Percy would stop smoking that fucking cigar. So what if the thing was free?
“I know. It’s too fucking bizarre for words, isn’t it?” I reach for the glass of champagne someone has put it front of me when my coughing fit subsides. May as well continue my current fucking diet of alcohol, the occasional cup of coffee, and then more fucking alcohol.
Briefly, I wonder how long you can survive on this kind of crap, before stopping the thought. Who gives a fuck?
“Holy shit,” shouts Percy. “I think I gave it you.”
Slowly, I turn my head to look at her.
“You what?” For some fucking reason my brain cells seem to be taking extra fucking long to work lately. It is as if they’ve gone on a long vacation and abandoned me in my hour of fucking need.
“I gave you the fire poker,” Percy says, grinning like an idiot. “I put it right there in your hand. Holy shit, I remember now.”
Open-mouthed, I stare at Percy and a cocktail of fucking emotions erupts inside of me.
“Tell the story,” I say.
Percy smiles and blows a smoke ring. “Well, it all started with me sitting on the face of a Cuban masseuse…”
Chapter 38
Percy
7:35 PM WEDNESDAY
“Mffffmbpm,” moans the hot-ass male masseuse that, yeah, I’m totally getting head from right now.
“OMG, I knooooow,” I moan back. “I don’t think invading Russia in the winter has ever been a good idea either, dude, but what else was Napoleon supposed to do?”
God, I love a man who can talk geopolitical history while he eats cunt. Don’t you?
So like, here’s the 411: me, Becks, Mysti May, Sams, and this dude are all riding the big glass elevator back up to that bomb-ass motherfucking bridal suite Dan the Man booked for us.
People in the lobby are looking up and staring at us like, “Whuuuuut?” because I’m kind of like, half-dressed in a spa robe, draining a bottle of champagne, and grinding clit on this dude’s mouth right now.
And I’m just like, “Come on, whatever, like you’ve never seen a BBW get her pussy licked while she chugs Salon Blanc de Blancs before?!”
Fucking tourists, man.
“Do you have to do that here?” Becky says, because Becky is being a snore right now. I don’t think she’s even drunk. Laaaame. “Come on, Perce—Rule number three, remember?”
I bend over against the elevator’s control panel, pushing all the buttons, while the masseuse kneels behind me and spreads me open like a grilled cheese sandwich.
“Kinda,” I tell her while I booty clap the masseuse’ face. “Since we got kicked out of the spa and all.”
“And the bar,” Sammi slurs. “Can’t go back there again.”
She lets out a volcano crack of a burp as she pours out another shot of tequila, tosses it over her shoulder, and drinks straight from the bottle instead.
We high-five. Atta girl.
And I’m still riding this dude’s face. I mean, you know how it is. You say, Yeah, okay, we’ll have one drink and call it good. But then one drink turns into two.
Then two drinks turns into getting into a fistfight with a Thai pedicurist because she wanted to trim your cuticles like a fucking animal instead of just pushing them back.
And then all of a sudden, you’re getting kicked out of the day spa. Then out of the hotel bar. Then, you’ve got a Cuban masseuse making out with your muff while you ride the glass elevator all the way to Pleasure Town.
Typical fucking Wednesday.
“Y’all, I can totally see down those showgirls’ tops,” Mysti May says, pressing her face up against the elevator’s glass. When she pulls away, she leaves a makeup print of her face where her cheeks were.
“Yeah, I bet you can,” I say, because like, come on. I bet that Colombian husband of hers has to tuck his peen between his legs just to get her to lick his nips.
“No,” Becks says, wheeling around on Mysti and giving her the no-no finger. “No showgirls.”
She snatches Sammi’s bottle of tequila from her and scrunches her eyebrows together like they’re two sexy caterpillars about to touch tips.
“No more drinking,” Becks declares.
I make a point of emptying the rest of my champagne down my throat then and there, because like, I’m not about that life.
“And no more rim jobs from Cuban masseuses!” Becky says, because, yeah—this dude totally eats ass too.
“Becky,” Sammi pleads, “come on. What Dan the Man doesn’t know—”
“Is irrelevant,” Becky cuts her off. “I’m getting married on Saturday, guys. And you’re my best friends. Can’t we just like, dial shit back? Chill the fuck out and just respect my fucking boundaries for once? Pleeeease?”
The look on her face is so sweet and so sad that, like, if I didn’t have the tongue of a Cuban masseuse up my asshole right now, I would so agree to her terms.
But my plans for the night are pretty much to raid the fridge, pre-game for Celine Dion and, at this point, get as much peen as my slutty mouth can handle…at least, until Becks dialed up those pretty green puppy dog eyes of hers to eleven.
“Ughhhhhh,” I moan, and not just because this masseuse is giving me the anal orgasm of a lifetime. My thighs are clapping against this dude’s chin like they’re begging for an encore, but when I’m done, I relent.
“Okay, okay,” I tell Becky. “No more tongue up my ass. That’s…fine. I’m fine with that.”
I’m not fine with that, obviously. In my opinion, I ought to be getting as much hot man-tongue up my no-no hole as I can, right?
But this is Becky’s
party, and I don’t want to make her cry—even if she wants to.
So I remove myself from the masseuse's face and, bemoaning the fact that I’m not going to get a taste of his big fat Cuban cigar, resign myself to having a chill couple of days of knitting, macramé, and trying to avoid the temptation to blow everyone in sight.
That’s how much Becky means to me, I guess.
“We’ll behave,” Mysti May says forlornly, pressing her hand against the glass and gazing wistfully down at the showgirls in the lobby.
“Right after I hurl,” Sammi agrees. She goes rushing out of the elevator doors as soon as they open on our floor, and luckily, the door to our bitchin’-ass suite is already open.
Wait—what the fuck?
We definitely locked this place up before we left, but as we go after Sammi through the door…
The first thing I hear is Motley Crue blaring from the suite’s speakers, which is fucking gross because everyone knows that Def Leppard is the superior band. Vince Neil is singing about girls, girls, girls while Tommy Lee wails on a drum set so loud I bet even Mysti May’s coveted showgirls in the lobby are rocking out right now.
The second thing I hear is the moaning: male, female, and gender not otherwise specified. Fuck noises, too: the wet squelching of an asshole that’s been filled to the brim with lube and the slap of silicone balls against human flesh.
And the third thing I hear is a sound I haven’t heard since I went on that bender in Tijuana during spring break of sophomore year.
Someone is in our bridal suite right now, listening to 80s rock music, using a strap-on, and snorting a whole fuckload of cocaine.
We tumble in after Sammi. The next thing I hear is the sick splatter of her hurling all over something that she shouldn’t have.
Inside the bridal suite, the scene laid out before us is so wicked―so depraved, so downright bad―that I barely even notice that Sammi just tossed the lunch monkey all over the Banksy painting in the foyer. Looks like red wine, smells like tequila—but yeah, that’s vomit all right.
It doesn’t even matter, though, because the next thing I hear is Becky screaming.
Like, I don’t even blame her.
Because―okay. Ignore the prostitutes currently having a half-naked pillow fight while Dan the Man’s groomsmen masturbate on the couch, smoking weed. Ignore the cigarette butts and beer bottles that they’ve discarded on the floor.
Ignore the cocaine that they’ve piled around the apartment, willy-nilly―if you can.
Right there, standing in front of my BFF Becky, is her very own fiancé. Dan the Motherfuckin’Man.
Unfortunately, he’s bare-ass naked and on all fours, taking it up the ass from a prostitute wielding a strap-on dildo the same size as her thigh.
I don’t even have time for this shit.
“Wedding’s off,” I announce, striding across the room and trying not to slip on lube.
“Damn right it is,” Becky shrieks.
“Oh god,” Dan the Man moans, oblivious. “That’s it―right there―fuck my prostate, baby―uhhhhhghghghhg!”
It’s at that point that I do what any reasonable, self-respecting maid of honor would do.
I grab a fire poker from the fireplace, walk back over to my blossoming bridezilla, and I put it right there in her pretty little hand.
“I think you know what to do with this,” I say, and Becky nods.
“You bet I do,” Becky growls.
At that, Dan the Man looks up from the pile of cocaine he’s had his face buried in and realizes for the first time that his bride-to-be is standing right there.
“Oh, shit,” he says.
Oh, shit, indeed.
As the prostitute withdraws the dildo from his ass, it releases the longest anal queef I’ve ever heard in my life—or hell, it might have been a fart.
“Becky-beans…honey…p-please don’t hurt me,” Dan the Man whimpers.
“Oh, I’ll do worse than that,” Becky threatens. “Way worse. Sammi? You have your phone handy?”
As I truck back out into the hall to give that masseuse my number, Sammi staggers past me, phone in hand.
“W-what are you going to do?” Dan stammers.
I can hear the fucking malice in Becky’s voice. “It’s fucking simple, Dan. I’m calling your asshole step-brother.”
Chapter 39
Becky
8:55 PM THURSDAY
It takes a few minutes for the story I just heard to fucking sink in. As much as I don’t want to fucking believe it, I know Percy would never lie to me.
I guess I should have felt the same way about Liam, but look—I just married him last night. We hardly even know each other.
Sighing, I realize that if you really don’t want to hear something, you’re prepared to go to any length not to hear it.
But Percy wouldn’t lie to me. Not about something like that. Even as she tells the story, I can almost feel the weight of the fire poker in my hands.
Which means that Liam didn’t lie to me either.
It feels good that my new husband hasn’t lied to me, I guess.
But my fiancé—no, ex-fiancé—cheated on me. And that doesn’t feel good at all.
I pick up my champagne flute and empty it in one fucking go. It’s slightly lukewarm, and the once bouncy bubbles are a little flat. But I need something wet to tip down my parched fucking throat.
Of course it makes no difference. My mouth and throat feel as if I’ve been walking through the desert for a year without food or water―well maybe not a year, but a very long time anyway.
All four of us sit silently, taking in the gravity of what we just heard.
“Fuck that motherfucker,” I say suddenly, and then I do the only rational thing to do just then:
I throw my fucking champagne flute against the wall.
“Go girl!” Sammi high fives Percy, and I watch their palms meet mid-air. Percy has a grin of victory all over her face.
“Are you glad you know?” Mysti May looks at me like she’s concerned.
I guess maybe she should be.
Could anyone be happy to hear their fucking fiancé cheated on them? No, of course not. And if you really think about it, it’s way more than Dan cheating on me.
The man was a fucking hypocrite, that’s what he was―no, that’s who he is. He’s a hypocrite.
I can still hear his monologues in my ear about my past and how bad I was for enjoying being a party girl.
Now, Becky, he would say. There’s more to life than partying all the time. I wouldn’t brag about how many nightclubs you and your friends visit in one night or how you beat anyone at the rumba if you’ve had enough to drink. In fact, in my circles, this sort of behavior is frowned upon. When you meet insert-name-of-boring-person, I would not talk about such mindless things. Try and think of something a little more interesting.
On and fucking on he would go about it.
With the rose-colored glasses now well and truly knocked off my face, I can see what sort of a person he really is.
How dare he criticize me when he’s no fucking better? The more I dwell on it, the worse I realize he’s been.
At least I’ve always owned who I am. I may not be the smartest, wisest, or most educated bitch around, but I stand by who I am. I’m a real person and not some fake ass hypocrite like Dan.
And boy, have I fucking tried to please him. I can’t fucking believe the sacrifices and changes I made for him.
He probably never loved me.
The more I think on it, the more I realize what he must truly have been during the relationship.
He was just a big, fat fake. Obviously, when he was ‘away on business’, he was fucking about and partying. He was not holier than me at all. On the contrary, I was the better person all along.
I tried to make it work for real and turn into the person he wanted me to be…which I’m not quite sure anymore who that was meant to be.
I grab the bottl
e Sammi had used to fill up my glass and take a big swig from it. My head is still hurting, and I need to rally my thoughts.
There’s no repressing going on here anymore, nope.
Finally, I see Dan the man for who the fuck he is: a real shit.
Liam.
My thoughts turn to Liam. My husband.
Shit.
He’s actually my husband.
Just thinking about him brings a smile to my face. Liam, through all of this, has been fucking fantastic. I replay some of the highlights of the last few days and realize how much fun he and I have had.
There was the strip club, the fucking amazing sex, and not to mention his gentle side and the wedding.
That wedding was something else: me in my SLUT tiara, Liam in an Elvis costume. And a fucking good-looking Elvis Liam was.
Then there was the―no. Best not to think of all the fucking fun we did. Right now, it’s suddenly a bit too painful since he stormed out.
Where was he now? Argh. Why had I been so stupid and pushed him away when I had asked for his help in the first place?
From the first time he met me, he had done his very best to be there for me.
Fucking stupid. That’s what I’ve really been all this time. Especially when it came to Liam.
I need to find Liam. I need to speak to him. I need to let him know―wait, what do I need to let him know?
My eyes find the green velvet box he gave me. With a shaking hand, I open it.
At first, I only stare at the contents. My heart beats a little faster, and for a few seconds, everything becomes a little fuzzy. I blink the tears away.
He told me he loves me.
He married me the night he fucking met me.
And I’ve been a total bitch to him.
This whole fucking time. Even though all he’s done is try to help.
And now—holy shit. He’s given me a ring.
I need to tell him I love him, too.
I’m still staring at the one-of-a-kind emerald ring in the box, which I find fits perfectly. Fucking fuck. It’s the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen in my life.
Frantically, I look for my phone. I need to call Liam. I need to tell him now.
When I have it, I’m in such a hurry I accidentally press Dan’s mobile number.
The Other Brother_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 22
