by Pippa Grant
“Levi Wilson,” a male voice interrupts. Gracie goes from star-struck to mute with terror, and I don’t have to turn around to know why.
I can feel two mountains standing at my back, and a quick glance in one of the gilded mirrors confirms—holy shit.
It’s like a tan-skinned Hulk brought a pink-wigged, bearded Hulkette in hot pink Spandex that will probably be big enough and permanently stretched out enough to serve as a four-person tent whenever the giant’s done with it.
I know exactly who these two are, and they’d better not be planning on trying anything with my sister, or I will end their hockey careers faster than a comet ended the dinosaurs, except with way more pain.
And more comets.
The two men with them are also taller than me, and because I’m here for work and my sister and business partner are both naïvely optimistic that I’m capable of talking rich people out of their money if I know who they are, I recognize both.
Chase Jett, the dark-haired, chin-dimpled, rags-to-riches billionaire is on one end. Manning Frey, the brownish-reddish-haired, bearded prince of Stölland on loan to Copper Valley’s NHL hockey team is on the other.
There’s so much testosterone radiating through the air we’re all about to keel over from penis poisoning.
Especially from the twin dressed like an overgrown hooker troll.
“My girlfriend’s your biggest fan,” Chase Jett tells Levi.
“You wish I was your girlfriend,” the Hulkette in heels says. He winks at me. “I’m flying solo tonight. You can call me Zeusette.”
“You wish I was your boyfriend,” Jett replies easily. “And I won’t say in mixed company what I usually call you.”
The manly twin—these two are so freaking huge that I actually feel a twinge of sympathy in my vagina for their mother, and my vagina typically weeps for no woman—grunts at both of them.
“Are those coconuts?” Gracie asks.
“Fuck, yeah,” Zeusette says. “Good eye. Wanna feel?”
“I used to stuff my bra with cabbages. Much less rough on your skin,” she says. “The baby cabbages we grew in our garden, I mean. Not the ones you get in a store that are like eight inches wide, because once you get over about four inches in diameter, you’re overcompensating. Plus, it’s hard to get past the cleavage police.” She hooks a thumb at me. “Unless you’re, well, built like a brick shithouse like you are.”
I grip her by the arm and silently vow to kill my business partner for both backing out of this at the last minute and for sending Gracie along to help and keep me in line. Like it was her fault her grandmother had that accident. I know. I know.
I fucking hate these schmoozefests.
“Time for dinner,” I tell Gracie. I point to a server across the room carrying a tray of what looks like mini wieners wrapped in bacon.
Gracie follows my finger and grimaces. “Before or after you threaten all of them with castration too?”
“If you’re in the mood to cut someone’s balls off, I volunteer the royal sheep-lover.” Zeusette gives Prince Manning a slap on the shoulder. A normal man would’ve collapsed like an accordion, but the prince barely wobbles. “He’s been making inappropriate moves on me.”
“I merely acquiesced to your request that I fondle your bosom, madam. It’s entirely not my fault you enjoyed it so much.”
Gracie’s smiling too big at Knuckleheads One, Two, and Three. And I only exclude Chase Jett because I know he has a serious girlfriend.
Case in point, he’s ignoring his companions and talking to Levi about her. “My girlfriend really is a huge fan.”
“Chase sleeps under a blanket with your face on it,” Zeusette adds.
Ares grins while Levi laughs.
Jett gives Zeusette a so what? shrug. “You should see what your sister does under that blanket.”
Both twins switch from snickers to scowls.
“Mr. Berger.” The club manager—a slender man with glasses, a receding hairline, and the well-modulated tones of a dumbass who makes a living picking the shit off richer men’s boots—steps into our weird-ass group.
Zeus elbows Ares—apparently a reminder of who the Mr. Berger is tonight—and Ares grunts out a “What?”
“This Mr. Berger,” the manager says, pointing at Mr. Fake Boobs. “We have a dress code.”
“What? I’m in a dress.”
“Men are required to wear suits and ties.”
Everyone looks at Ares, who’s in jeans and a T-shirt sporting a cartoon of a platypus saying Eat My Bannana—yes, spelled exactly like that, and no, I don’t get the platypus thing at all—then back to Zeus.
“You saying just because I feel like a woman today, I can’t dress like one?” Zeus demands. I’ve seen highlights of him playing hockey a time or two, and I recognize the I will rip your head off, stick my hand down your throat hole, and pull out your heart to mount as a trophy on my wall glare that even the most hardened sportscasters discuss with undisguised reverence.
I might’ve tried to mimic the look a time or two on Gracie’s boyfriends, because she has ridiculously horrible taste. She says I have unrealistic standards.
Zeus puffs his coconuts higher. “Or are you discriminating against ugly women?”
“Mr. Berger—”
“That’s Ms. Berger to you tonight. Do your bosses know you’re a twatapotamus?” He hops on one leg and pulls off a heel that would fit a Sasquatch, and I hope Gracie’s not getting a view of Zeus down under, because while I’m fairly certain I could take him down, I’d prefer to not waste my energy fighting the brute. “Do I need to throw a shoe through your window to make my point about your discriminatory rules?”
“Put your loafer back on,” Jett tells him.
“Friendly wager,” the prince chimes in with his accent that’s not quite British, but not quite not. I don’t like the way Gracie’s practically swooning every time he opens his pie hole. “All in the name of charity.”
“Yeah, charity to not beat your ass,” Zeus growls at the manager. “We need to arm wrestle this out?”
Ares rubs his beefy fist into his palm. The manager’s going pale, and I can’t help wondering if this is about Zeus getting his way, or if he’s trying to make a statement about our society at large.
Coming up at ten, the Berger Twins, best known for throwing ice statues at each other amidst a friendly neighborhood snowball fight, take an unexpected stand in an unorthodox manner for the LGBTQ community at a fundraiser for underprivileged dyslexic kids.
Most likely, Zeus just wants some attention and his own way, and he’s one of those lucky bastards whose shit always smells like roses.
“Afraid to wrestle a girl?” Zeus continues.
The manager blanches two shades whiter.
“That’s right,” Zeus growls. “Get outta my face before we call in the ACL-fucking-U.”
While I might not appreciate the testosterone show, I do have serious admiration for the placement of that f-bomb. The manager slinks away—probably looking for security backup, good luck with that—and the twins share a fist bump.
“Gracie, you ever meet a prince?” Levi says.
“She’s met Prince John, and that’s as close to royalty as she’s coming,” I say.
Levi grins while the royal member of the Testosterone Squad bends over my sister’s hand and plants a kiss on her knuckles, clearly unaware of just how much danger he’s putting himself in by flirting with her. “Prince Manning of Stölland, my lady, at your service. Might I show you to the food table?”
Yep, I’m going to tear his nuts off and serve them to him on a bloody platter if he tries anything with Gracie, and no, I don’t care that his royal bodyguard is almost as big as each of the Berger twins, because no one touches my sister.
She looks at me, some Ohmygod, the coolest people are here lighting her dark eyes. “Hit him in the crown jewels if he gets handsy. And remember that other trick I taught you.”
She rolls her eyes. “He’s not
going to defile my honor on the cheese platter with all these witnesses.”
The prince—poor man, still ignorantly unaware that I’ll know every one of his dirty secrets before midnight tonight if he so much as looks at her wrong—gallantly gestures her ahead of him. “Right this way, lovely Gracie.”
I move to go with her, but she shoots me another look. A Gracie special. Chill out, I can’t get pregnant by eating appetizers with the man, and you are NOT going ruin this for me too. Besides, I’ll network better for you than you can yourself.
She has a point.
A mountain of a man dressed as a woman steps into my view of my sister. “Stuffy crowd,” Zeus Berger says to me. “No appreciation of the ladies. I missed your name. Can I borrow your lipstick?”
He’s sporting a fucking beard and asking to borrow lipstick.
He grins.
I refuse to grin back. I’ve had enough blowhard dicks in my life—tonight especially, and we’ve only been here thirty minutes—to easily squelch the urge. “Call me Fireball. I don’t wear lipstick.”
“Damn, girl, could’ve fooled me. Think I need to know your secret.”
“I eat my enemies for breakfast and wear their blood the rest of the day.”
All of the men laugh. Except Zeus, whom I don’t include as a man both because I’m not sure he wants to be counted among the men, and also because he’s not laughing.
No, he’s zeroing in on me as though he wants to know if I’m threatening to eat him for breakfast, and if I’m woman enough for the task.
“You arm wrestle?” he asks me.
“I’d hate to break one of your nails.”
That’s all it usually takes. One little yeah, I can be just as big of an asshole as you can tossed their way, and they decide a woman with a spine isn’t worth the hassle.
Not Zeus Berger though. His grin goes wider, his eyes bluer, and if we were back in my hometown, he’d be pulling a hold my beer and watch this shit move.
And even though I know better, there’s still a coil of interest stirring in my lady balls.
“Mud wrestle?” he asks.
“And ruin that pretty dress?”
“Could do it naked.”
I eyeball the coconuts on his chest, which are impossible to look at without acknowledging that his shoulders are almost as wide as the wingspan of my plane, and yeah, there’s some more loin-throbbing going on.
Rather unusual.
Show me a souped-up gunship ready for battle or a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier, and yeah, I’m gonna get hot and bothered. Strap me into a spaceship and give me a lift to the International Space Station, I’ll probably orgasm on the spot. Sometimes a thick, juicy bacon cheeseburger makes me pop a lady boner.
What? I like food.
But in my experience—between working my ass off in high school to get a good scholarship, spending four years in engineering and ROTC classes, and then several more surrounded by blowhard pilots in the military—men tend to be all talk and no follow-through. If they bother to try to get in my pants in the first place.
My special lady cave?
It’s like outer space. Few have tried to get there, none have succeeded. And not for lack of willingness on my part.
It’s only natural that my body would eventually quit reacting to men at all.
Until this giant of a man in a hot pink dress and matching troll doll wig.
Dog help me. Clearly I have issues.
“The proper order of female friendship levels is face masks, pajama pillow fights, and then naked mud wrestling,” I tell Zeus, as if I’m an actual expert on such things.
“You can’t skip the pillow fights,” Jett agrees, nodding in mock seriousness.
“Shut up, glitter chin,” Zeus says.
Levi’s rocking back on his heels, clearly enjoying the show. “They don’t know who you are, do they?” he asks me.
“Hard to stand out in this crowd,” I reply.
Zeus’s bright blue eyes are trained on me again. Not quite predatory, but not benign either.
More like I’m being weighed, measured, and evaluated as a worthy competitor.
Always did like the chase better. He wants to play a game, he’s gonna find out I’m no cream puff.
He damn well better not be either.
“Who are you?” Jett asks me.
“Just a little ol’ vomit comet pilot,” I reply. Both because it’s fucking fun to say, and also to see if the word vomit will make Zeus Berger blink.
It doesn’t.
Excellent.
“Weightless?” Jett asks, and I have to give him credit for not only knowing about my company, but also for recognizing the code word for my plane and for not looking surprised when he asks the question.
So few people expect a woman to pilot the coolest airplane on the planet, much less own her own flight adventure company.
I incline my head.
He grins. “You got the plane here?”
Ah, a boy with too much money and a new toy. Exactly what I’m supposed to be here shopping for. I let my lips lift a fraction of an inch, because an investment from Chase Jett in Weightless would take my commercial zero-gravity flight company from a mom-and-pop operation—figuratively speaking, since I run it with my college best friend, whose name doesn’t even appear on our website because everyone always underestimates a Peach—to a serious contender for NASA and SpaceX contracts, along with expanding commercial tourist operations.
If he proves he can agree to our terms, because we’re not having any man tell us how to run our planes, which is the only reason we haven’t secured private investors yet. Or even looked very hard.
That, and because I’m apparently notoriously hard to work with.
What’s with all these people having trouble with standards?
“My crew’s bringing it out tomorrow,” I tell him.
“She’ll make you toss your cookies,” Levi says to Jett.
“Can always use a few more notches in my cockpit,” I agree.
Chase nudges Ares. “Think you or Zeus would puke first in the vomit comet?”
“I don’t puke,” Ares says.
“I like comets.” Zeus wiggles his brows at me.
“You don’t have a comet, Zeusette,” Jett reminds him.
“Shut up, jackass. Playing the part here.” Zeus winks at me again. “Apologies for his crudeness, Fireball. He was raised by horny monkeys.”
“Grew up with us,” Ares says with an eyeball aimed at his brother that suggests he doesn’t like being called a horny monkey.
“Some of us are more evolved now.”
“Total feminist, hm? Planning on burning your bra?” I ask him.
“Fuck, no. I’m putting this shit up on eBay. I name these coconuts Athena and Aphrodite, sign ‘em, wrap ‘em in a bow, and some dumbass’ll pay a few grand to put ‘em on his trophy wall.”
He’s an egotistical ass, and yet it’s impossible to not like him.
If I pulled the same shit, I’d be—
Huh.
Pretty much, I’d just be me. I’m pretty fucking badass. Just happened to be trapped in a body with tits, ovaries, and an ass, so nobody appreciates me the way they appreciate him.
Fuckers.
A server pauses next to us with a tray of canapés. “Cordon bleu bites?”
All of us stare at the tray. And if I’m thinking those would be more appropriately called Cordon Bleu Balls, I can only imagine what’s about to come out of Zeusette’s mouth.
“It’s food,” Jett interrupts before the Berger twins speak.
“If you’re a fucking bird,” Zeus replies.
“Want meat,” Ares says.
Levi, who’s been eyeballing somebody across the room, waves in that direction then nudges me. “Don’t let them fool you. They’re harmless. Heard they go to knitting circle every Saturday night.”
“Heard? You fucking made my gramma a doily when you were with us last weekend,” Zeus counters
.
Jett hands Levi a card. “Seriously, my girl plays your songs every Saturday night at a juice bar in New York. Name your charity, I’ll fund it for a year if you crash one of her performances.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Levi claps me on the shoulder. “Make ‘em all toss their cookies. I want pictures. You bringing your sister to the tournament tomorrow?”
“She’s allergic to golf.”
“Tell her I’m keeping that beer bottle forever.”
“Touch my sister and die.”
He grins, leaves us, and I angle a glance around until I spot Gracie.
Ah, there she is. By the food with the prince. Surrounded by a group of guys who include a rock star, three normal-sized professional athletes, and a late night show host, hands waving wildly about as she tells a story. Or possibly gushes about how much she loves every one of them.
I’m glad she’s enjoying herself, but I will personally rip all their arms off, starting with their fingers and working my way up, if any one of them tries to get in her pants.
Is Gracie allowed to date?
She’s a fucking adult and a successful bakery owner. Yeah, she can date.
But her life experience is limited to our dinky hometown on the border between Alabama and Tennessee. This reception is a cesspool of snooty, over-macho arrogance handed down from generation to generation, much like most of the wealth in this room, and I’m not having any of these fuckers think her innocent Southern charm makes her ripe for picking and throwing away.
“Lovely to meet you all,” I lie to the Testosterone Squad, fully intent on excusing myself too, but Zeus is looking at me again—through me almost, which is about as disconcerting as having a wooly mammoth trying to peer into your soul.
If said wooly mammoth had piercing blue eyes that seem to suggest some intelligence hiding behind the hooded brow and some twisted kind of sex appeal.
“What’s a vomit comet?” he asks.
I could go into specifics, all about the aircraft and the physics of parabolic flight, but that’s rarely what anyone wants to hear about. After one last glance to make sure no one’s getting handsy with Gracie, I look back at him. “It’s a plane that can simulate zero gravitational pull,” I tell him. “Basically, riding the vomit comet lets you feel like you’re floating in space.”
