by Lauren Rowe
“Positive. He texted me. He said the cyborg’s still here if needed and you’ll take me to my hotel tonight.” She flashes me side-eye. “Barry put the fear of God in you if you touch me, huh?”
“In no uncertain terms.”
“Bastard!”
“But he didn’t need to say it. You’re The Package. It’s obvious.”
“Fucking Barry. Always trying to ruin my fun.” She pouts for a split-second before smiling wickedly again. “But let’s forget about him, shall we? He’s your boss, not mine. I can do whatever I like, with whomever I please.” Her green eyes darken with heat. “Now tell me a little bit about this Mr. Happy fellow you mentioned—the impressive dude who’s standing at full attention at the front your pants.”
“Not much to tell. He’s a happy fellow.”
“Yes, I’ve gathered that.”
“Aloha, I should put you down now. I’m being Bad Zander again, and this time I can’t blame alcohol or weed.”
“I like Bad Zander.”
“Aloha, seriously—”
“I command you not to put me down, bodyguard! My feet hurt. Ouch.”
I flash her a warning look.
“Oh. I mean, ‘Please don’t put me down, Mr. Bodyguard. My feet hurt.’ Now where were we? Oh, yes, you were about to tell me why you call your dick Mr. Happy.”
“It’s self-explanatory.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I want to hear you explain it in your own enthralling words.”
“No.”
“Is it because of that old joke: ‘Is that a pencil in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’”
“Basically.”
“Tell me specifically.”
“I’m gonna put you down now, Aloha. This has gone far enough. I’m fucking up.”
“Ouch! My feet!” She smiles. “Do you call him Mr. Happy because when he comes out to play he’s happy to be alive and free?”
My breathing hitches. She’s just pressed herself against my dick again, but this time in a way that’s sending pleasure shooting into my dick like a bullet. “That’s it. Yep.”
Aloha repeats her maneuver, apparently enjoying whatever expression it’s eliciting from me. “Is it that whenever Mr. Happy comes out to play, he makes whatever lucky lady feel happy, too? As a clam?” Her eyes ignite. She snickers. “Happy as a... bearded clam?”
I can’t help laughing. “How the hell do you know that slang? Girls aren’t supposed to know that one.”
Aloha giggles. “Oh, I’ve heard every slang term in existence for the ol’ ‘cock pocket.’ I’ve been around crews and musicians my whole life—some of whom weren’t aware there was a little girl in their midst with very big ears.” She chuckles and grinds into me again. “I tell you what, Mr. Bodyguard. If you tell me in your own words why you call your dick Mr. Happy, then I promise I’ll get down, despite my aching feet, if that’s truly what you want me to do.”
My dick is yearning. Throbbing. Wanting. I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t resist. I press my lips against Aloha’s ear and say, “I call my dick Mr. Happy because when I’m with my lucky lady, he always puts the penis in her happiness.”
Aloha guffaws and so do I. But then she presses her lips against my earlobe, right up against my diamond stud, like she’s gonna take it into her mouth, and purrs, “I could really use some happiness in my life, Zander.”
I clench my jaw and consciously force myself not to turn my head, not to claim her perfect, pouty mouth with mine. My brain knows I can’t kiss her—that it would be a huge, regrettable mistake for me to do it. But my lips, my dick, my skin, my nipples—they’re all telling my brain to take a little nap for a while.
I take a deep breath, trying to get a grip, just as a mob of Aloha’s friends descends upon us, shouting, “Shots, shots, shots!”
Thank you, Baby Jesus.
I shoot Aloha a smile that says, “Saved by the bell.” And she glares at me like it’s my fault these friends of hers just showed up. Sighing deeply, she unwraps her legs from my waist and slides down to her feet, rubbing herself against my aching bulge one last, delicious time, as she goes.
“Don’t stray too far, Mr. Bodyguard.” She pats my chest. “It’s gonna be your job to scrape me off the floor at the crack of dawn and get me to bed.” With that, she lets one of her dancer-friends lead her toward the kitchen. But just before she disappears around a corner, she turns around and shoots me a scorching look that says, in no uncertain terms, “You dodged a bullet this time, motherfucker. But next time, your ass is mine.”
Chapter 14
Zander
As the sun threatens to rise behind us, I scoop up Aloha’s slack body from the backseat of our hired car and carry her like a drunk-ass bride toward the sliding glass doors of the ritzy hotel. As I walk, Aloha slides her arms around my neck and rests her cheek against my shoulder. She’s alternately singing, whooping, babbling, and... yodeling? All the same stuff she was doing during the car ride. Dude, I gotta say, this Aloha chick is a very happy drunk. And that’s what I’m in the process of telling her when, out of nowhere, about thirty yards from the hotel entrance, a guy with a huge camera bounds toward us and starts snapping blinding flash photos.
“Whoa,” I say, my heart lurching at the sudden intrusion. “Back off, man.”
But Aloha is unfazed. “Hey, Yazeed!” she sings out as the guy trots alongside us, snapping his blinding photos. “How’s your brother?”
“Recovering nicely, thanks. Congrats on the new tour.”
“Thanks. Is this video yet, hon?”
“I’m switching to video now. And... go.”
Without missing a beat, Aloha waves at the camera. “Hi, everyone! Come see my ‘Pretty Girl’ tour in a city near you!” She blows an enthusiastic kiss to the camera. “I love youuuuu!”
The guy chuckles. “Okay, you got yours, now gimme mine. Who’s the guy? Is he your new—”
“Boy toy!” Aloha shouts.
“Aloha,” I chastise.
We’re mere yards from the hotel’s front entrance now, so I pick up my pace, hoping to launch myself through the automatic glass doors before the atomic bomb in my arms goes off.
“Well, that’s a first,” the guy says, chuckling. “Are you heading upstairs to have sex with your new ‘boy toy,’ Aloha?”
“Don’t answer him,” I say as I bound the last few feet toward the hotel entrance.
“Sex is most definitely the plan!” Aloha shouts over my shoulder, just as we cross the threshold of the hotel. “And it’s gonna be soooo gooood!”
The doors of the hotel close behind us, leaving the guy laughing outside.
“Aloha!” I chastise.
She grimaces. “Bad Aloha?”
“Very bad Aloha!”
Aloha bats her eyelashes. “Oops?”
I roll my eyes. “He didn’t know you were kidding.”
Aloha kicks her legs like she’s doing the backstroke in my arms. “Don’t worry, Shaggy Swaggy, the world won’t think you’re using sweet little virginal Aloha for sex. They’ll assume you’re deeply, madly in love with her. Which you are.”
“I’m not, actually. Especially not right now.”
“Well, give it a few days.”
“Keane told you about the bet, I take it?”
“Huh?”
“Keane told you about the...” I clamp my mouth shut. Aloha looks genuinely perplexed. But, then again, she’s shitfaced, so I’d imagine “perplexed” is her current default mode. “Never mind.” I step inside the elevator and swipe my keycard to gain access to our restricted-access floor.
“Oh, Zander,” Aloha sighs as the elevator ascends. She presses her cheek against my shoulder. “I’ve never been in love. But if I ever do fall in love, I hope it’s with someone as beautiful as you.”
I pat her drunk cheek. “I hope so, too. For your sake.”
She giggles.
Two minutes later, as I lay my drunk ward on top of her fluffy white bed, she moans pitif
ully.
“The room is spinning.”
“It’s not the room. It’s your head.”
“Make it stop.”
“You just have to ride it out like all those mortals who did way too many shots at a party before you.” I take off Aloha’s shoes and stand over her for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. If Aloha were my drunk little sister wearing that outfit—skin-tight black jeans and a beaded, sparkly gold top—I wouldn’t hesitate to get her into some soft clothes. If a little boobage peeked out while I was changing my drunk sister into pajamas, then I’d just look away. No big deal. But Aloha isn’t my drunk little sister. She’s the batfaced pop star I’ve been hired to protect. The woman who hypnotized Mr. Happy all night long at the party—even from afar—like a snake charmer. “How about I get you some pajamas and leave you to change?” I suggest. I turn on my heel and head toward Aloha’s suitcase across the room, but I’ve no sooner taken two steps than I hear Aloha behind me, making the exact sound every mammal makes immediately before vomiting. Fuck. I lurch to her, scoop her up, and whisk her into the bathroom, just in time for her to drop to her knees and unleash the entire fluid contents of her stomach into the bowl, filtered first through her dangling hair.
“Oh, God,” Aloha says pitifully, right before heaving again.
I pull back her long, sullied hair and rub her back as she empties herself. “Poor baby. That’s no fun.”
“I’m gonna die,” she whimpers.
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“No, honey, you’ll survive. But maybe this is your body’s way of telling you that, next time, you shouldn’t slam a truckload of tequila shots right after guzzling Jack outta the bottle like it was Evian.”
“There’s not gonna be a next time,” Aloha chokes out, her face still stuck in the toilet bowl. “I’m never gonna drink again.” Finally, when her heaves have turned dry, Aloha stands and looks at me with exhausted eyes. Her hair is stringy and barf-laden. She looks pale. But despite all that, she shoots me a dopey, droopy-ass grin and says, “Are you in love with me now?”
I chuckle. “No, I can honestly say in this moment: not even a little bit.”
She taps her finger against her wrist. “Tick tock. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Says the girl with puke in her hair. Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed to sleep this off, okay?”
“Kay.” Without warning, she yanks up her shirt, thereby flashing me her beautiful tits—two perfect scoops of light mocha gelato nestled into a black push-up bra. But her efforts to disrobe are in vain. Apparently, the neck opening of her beaded shirt is too small to slide over her noggin, which means the full length of her shirt is now plastered inside-out and upside-down over her head like some kind of fucked up feed bag. “Off!” Aloha commands from behind the beaded fabric of her shirt as she continues wrestling with it. “It smells like barf in here, Zander! Aaagh!”
I laugh, even though I probably shouldn’t. “Stop pulling on it. There’s gotta be buttons or a zipper in the back that’s holding things up. Aloha, stop. Pull your shirt down so I can figure out what’s going on.”
But she doesn’t listen to me. She continues vigorously tugging her shirt up, trying desperately to get it off.
My gaze involuntarily flickers to her jiggling breasts in her bra. They’re a perfect palmful each. Spectacular. Mouthwatering. And off-limits. I clear my throat. “Hey, why don’t we call Crystal to help you get cleaned up?”
“Crystal left the party with the cyborg! Leave that poor girl to her fuckery!”
I grab Aloha’s arm gently. “Aloha. Please let go of your shirt so I can pull it down and get it off.”
With an exasperated sigh, Aloha drops her arms to her sides, leaving her shirt draped over her head.
“Thank you.” I gently pull the blouse down, unfasten two buttons at the back, and pull the whole thing up and off past Aloha’s stringy, stinky hair. But when I return to Aloha after hanging her shirt on a towel rack, it suddenly dawns on me, full-force: this is a bit of a sticky situation. On my first day of employment, right after an entire party of people saw me dirty dancing with her, my beautiful, drunk ward is now standing before me shirtless. Is this the kind of “bonding” Barry was talking about? Probably not. “Hey, let’s figure out a female friend to help you get cleaned up and into pajamas.”
“No. You.”
“Any female at all. Maybe even a female hotel clerk? A maid? Anyone but me, basically.”
“You!”
“Hey, what about that backup dancer you danced with so much at the party? She seems like a close friend of yours.”
“Kiera?”
“Yeah. Let’s call Kiera and—”
“She left the party with Colin. Leave that poor girl to her fuckery!” She puts her hands on her hips like Wonder Woman, juts her rack at me, and smiles. “You’re stuck with the job, Z. And when I say ‘job’ I mean: staring at my bee-yoo-tiful boobs like you want to gobble them up!”
I quickly look away, my cheeks flashing with heat. Busted.
“Aw, you’re so sweet,” she says. “You’re stroking out because I’m in my bra? Ha! Z, don’t you know a bra is the same thing as a bikini? And the whole world’s seen me in one of those. I can’t even count the number of times gossip sites have posted photos of me ‘showing off’ my ‘hot bikini bod’ on vacation somewhere.” She scoffs. “Now help me get these jeans off, Mr. Bodyguard. The smell of barf in my hair is making me want to puke again.” She begins haphazardly peeling off her painted-on jeans, and I offer my arm to steady her. But she’s hopeless—incapable of getting her tight jeans all the way off without assistance—so I help her tug them down past her knees.
Finally, when Aloha’s jeans are at her ankles, she turns around and bends over, clumsily trying to extricate herself from the last entrapments of the tight denim. And that’s when I’m assaulted, in the best possible way, by the sight of the two hottest ass cheeks I’ve ever been so blessed to behold in my young life—two stunningly beautiful, smooth-as-silk, light mocha ass cheeks hugging the tiniest hint of a pink G-string. Holy fuck.
Her jeans finally off, Aloha straightens up and turns to face me... and when she sees whatever expression of unbridled lust is surely plastered across my face, she giggles, winks, and says, “Looks like my ass just put the ass in your happin-ass.”
I can’t help laughing.
“Oh, and now it looks like my tits are putting the tit in titillation for ya.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, averting my eyes from her two perfect tits. But there’s no safe place for my downcast eyes to wander. Every square inch of her is gorgeous. Her tight abs. Her cute little belly button. Her smooth, tight hips. My greedy gaze halts. There’s an angry, deep scratch vertically peeking out from the side-string of her tiny pink panties. I gesture to the mark. “What happened to you?”
Aloha flaps her lips together. “My father left when I was three and my mother has never loved me.”
“No, not that. Although I definitely want to hear that sad story another time.” I point to her marred hip. “That. How’d you get that scratch?”
Aloha looks down at the angry mark on her hip. “Oh.” But then she looks up at me blankly and says nothing more.
“What happened, Aloha?”
She opens and closes her mouth. And then shrugs. “I dunno.”
“You don’t know?”
She shrugs again.
Well, that can’t possibly be true. That’s a nasty-looking scratch and it looks pretty fresh. Surely, she remembers whatever caused it. But that’s a question for another day—a day when Aloha isn’t shitfaced and standing before me in nothing but her black push-up bra and practically non-existent pink panties.
I guide Aloha in her barely there undergarments into the shower, grab the handheld shower nozzle, and begin spraying her off like a naughty Labrador who’s rolled in mud—all the while trying my best not to peek too long at anything I shouldn’t.
“Can you wash your own hair?” I ask after I’ve thoroughly rinsed her smokin’ hot body.
“No. I need my shaggy swaggy to do it.”
Sighing, I squirt some shampoo into my palm and get to work on Aloha’s barf-laden mane—and the second I begin massaging Aloha’s scalp with slow, firm caresses, she closes her eyes and moans like I’ve just slid a lubed finger inside her. “Oh, yeah. Just like that. Yes.” She moans again, making my dick jolt, and purrs, “You’re my shaggy swaggy... shampooey.”
I chuckle.
Aloha takes a deep, heaving breath that draws my attention to her tits again and purrs, “You’re so good with your hands, Zandy Man. Ooooh, you’re a sexy, talented motherfucker.”
I take a deep breath, internally yell at Mr. Happy to pipe the fuck down, and say calmly, “Tilt your head back.”
Aloha complies and I begin rinsing the shampoo out of her hair with warm water.
“So gooood,” she purrs. “I think I’m in love with you, Zander Shaw. Are you in love with me yet?”
“Nope.”
She pouts. “That’s ’cause nobody but Barry loves me. That’s the way it’s always been and always will be.”
I scoff. “Aloha, everybody loves you. Like, literally, the entire world.”
“You wanna know a secret? Being loved by ‘everybody’ feels a whole lot like being loved by no one at all.”
My heart pangs. Not knowing how to respond, I press my lips together and wordlessly begin slathering Aloha’s long hair with conditioner.
“They don’t love me,” Aloha continues, her eyes closed. She’s hanging onto my bicep to steady herself. “They love their idea of me. But God forbid I don’t live up to what they want me to be. God forbid I’m not actually perfect like they expect me to be. They’d drop me like a bad habit.”
My chest tightens. “Nobody expects you to be perfect, Aloha. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Aloha Carmichael is.”
My heart in my throat, I rinse the conditioner out of Aloha’s thick hair, return the nozzle to its holder, and turn off the water. I’ve somehow managed to keep my pants almost completely dry through this process, but, crap, my shirt sleeves are soaking wet, probably thanks to the way Aloha’s been clinging to me. If Aloha were my little sister, Zahara, I’d think nothing of taking off my shirt and hanging it on a towel rack to dry. But there’s no way in hell I’m gonna do that with Aloha. One nearly naked person in this situation is bad enough.
