by Knight, Jodi
A smug smile spreads over his face. “Meet Brittany and Kylie. They’re twins.”
Karl peers over his shoulder. “Great point of view footage. If your glittering career goes belly-up, be sure to give Spielberg a call.” He turns and whispers in my ear. “Pray tell me, how long do we have to babysit this baboon?”
“Two weeks, Karl. Two long fucking weeks.”
Raj wakes up with a jolt. Confused and intoxicated, he grabs the phone from Tyler. “Is that a carrot?”
And then she slides down the bar, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Thud.
Tyler grunts. “Is he for fucking real?”
Yep. Meet Raj Kapoor—probably the only guy in Manhattan naïve enough to mistake a dildo for a carrot. Parker scoops him from the ground and hoists him fireman-style over his shoulder. “Let’s get Cinderella home.”
Tyler busts a now-or-never move on Delphine and her friend, gesturing for me to join them. The party may be over for Raj, but for some of us it’s only just getting started.
***
It’s the morning after the night before.
“Uh, yeah … uh, yeah, uh, uh.”
Thud.
“Uh … uh … uh.”
Thud.
I’m back at my apartment, but I’m not alone. The orchestra of grunts coming from my bedroom has nothing to do with me.
I’m innocent.
Jockass thought it would be bad PR for him to be seen hooking up with a bartender, so he asked if he could bring Delphine back to my crib to fuck her senseless.
Before you beat me up for being a sexist asshole—those were his words, not mine. As I’m under strict instructions from Juliana to acquiesce to anything this jerk wants, I had no choice but to agree to his demand.
I feel like an extra on a goddamn porn flick.
“Stick it in there … fuck yeah … three, two, one, touchdown!”
I lay back and smile to myself.
Did you hear that? Jockass is a two-pump chump. He completely skipped the pre-match warm-up and went straight for the end zone. If Delphine had been lucky enough to hook me, you can bet your bottom dollar she’d still be bucking like a bronco right now.
“Touchdown!”
“Shhhh, Petie.”
I turn onto my side and pull a cushion over my head to try and block his wailing. I need some goddamn sleep. Not just because of Jockass, but every time I close my eyes, my mind races with dirty thoughts about Ella. I stare longingly at my kitchen countertop. I’m going frigging insane here.
I grab my cell.
Still nothing.
Now there’s a pounding at my door.
I groan and check my watch. It’s six-thirty in the morning.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” Yawning, I stomp over to the door and unchain the lock. When I open the door, I take a step back.
Look who’s here.
It’s Ella Bryant, harbinger of erections.
See, what did I tell you? I knew she’d be back.
I’d go straight in for the kill—her neck looks very tempting right now, but she’s scowling like she’s pre-menstrual. I casually brace an arm against the doorframe and flash one of my trademark smiles.
Her eyes rake over my disheveled appearance. The scruffy hair. The stubble. The raging boner that’s blossoming underneath my tighty-whities.
I yawn sleepily and rub my eyes. “Well, hello, Miss Bryant. You’re just in time for breakfast. I know a great place—”
“I’m here for Tyler.”
What the hell?
Her words hit me harder than a kick in the balls from a sensei. I’d respond, but I’ve been rendered temporarily speechless. I bet you didn’t think that was possible, did you?
She’s here for Tyler.
My Ella.
Except that she isn’t my Ella.
Ella is with Tyler?
It’s Tyler and Ella.
Ella and Tyler.
Holy shit.
They can’t be together. My beautiful Goddess and Jockass are knocking boots? My stomach twists in disbelief. I stand in the doorway, gaping like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead.
When I eventually speak, all I can say is. “Right.”
Pathetic, I know, but it’s all I’ve got.
Her voice is quiet when she explains. “He called me. He said he needed me to collect him.” She pauses for a second and looks at me blankly. “How do you two know—?”
We’re interrupted by a booming voice. “Babe, so glad you could come.” Tyler skirts past me and stoops down to plant a kiss on her forehead.
Get me a bucket. I want to gag. Now.
Did you hear that? Me neither. There’s not a shred of repentance in his voice.
I make eye contact with Ella, but she’s glaring at Tyler. And just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, my bedroom door creaks open.
Delphine emerges.
Shit.
The good news? She’s not naked.
But she is wearing my best Saint Laurent shirt—the very same I wore to dinner with Ella. Not that anyone’s checking the label with nipples like that on show. Delphine waves and settles down on my couch.
I close my eyes and say a silent prayer.
Let’s just pause here to examine the evidence.
I answered the door with a raging hard on. Then a semi-nude girl emerged from my bedroom wearing my shirt. Does this look suspicious? Does a bear shit in the woods?
Ella’s voice is cloaked in suspicion. “You guys look worse for wear.”
Tyler grunts and pulls on his brogues. “It was a heavy night. Slade is a demon with the cocktails.”
She zeroes in on me. “I can imagine. Actually, he’s my bachelor of the month.”
“Is that so?” Jockass looks entertained. He leans into Ella and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Take it from me, babe, he knows what he’s doing.”
I blink in horror.
Irony, thou art a cruel mistress. This is my longest dry spell since scout camp and now I’m a manwhore? If only that motherfucker knew I’d tongued his girl in this very room.
He gives me a conspiratorial wink as he spirits Ella out of my apartment. “Catch you later, Slade. I’ll let you know about that round of golf.”
They leave.
What the hell just happened?
You’re probably wondering why I went along with that charade rather than calling them both out?
Let me explain.
You’ve just witnessed the Guy Code in action. The Guy Code pertains to a guy’s interaction with his friends, especially when relating to their significant other.
Make no mistake about it; I don’t consider Tyler Strickland a friend. Not even close. I loathe that smarmy motherfucker with every inch of my body, but for the sake of my father’s business, I have to play nice.
If I don’t, our campaign will derail faster than an A.A. meeting in pub during happy hour.
Violation of the Guy Code is a serious infraction of male-male relations, with suitable punishments being a serious beating, followed by a rearrangement of facial features leading to hospitalization.
Do you want to know what these sacred rules are?
Sure you do.
Rule number one: never fuck a friend’s sister, girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend.
Ever.
You should probably add their mother to that list. And grandmother. Anyway, this rule stands even if she’s already halfway down your dick and begging for anal.
Unless it’s Parker’s mom—she’s smoking hot.
Rule number two: a man should never tell his friend's girlfriend if he finds out that his friend is fondling the lady goods of another. Do this and your mutual friends will beat your ass for being in violation of rule number three, which is;
Bro’s before hoes: friends and clients always, always come before women. Adhere to this rule and all violations of the guy code will be forgiven.
So, there you have it. The Guy Code.
Pretty simple, huh?
Of course, now I’m the scapegoat. The patsy. It’s like Watergate all over again, but with added sex.
And you remember what happened there, don’t you?
It’s not the crime that causes the biggest fallout.
It’s the cover up.
And that, my friends, is a lesson that I’m about to learn the hard way.
***
Later in the day …
My team and I are having lunch at our favorite Japanese restaurant. I’m relaying the sordid details of last night to the guys. Karl hands me an uramaki roll. I feel like a goddamn uramaki roll—inside out and the fucking wrong way around.
I poke it with a chopstick. “And then she rocks up at my crib this morning to pick him up. That shithead has balls of steel.”
Parker smirks. “I can’t say I blame him. I’d like to put Delphine in a glass and drink it. You’re just jealous he’s getting more pussy than you.”
Bullshit. I’m no saint, but believe it or not, I do have a certain code of ethics. Rules. As far as I’m concerned, a man who cheats on his woman will cheat in business.
Fact.
I shrug. “I have to tell her, guys. For the sake of the business, of course.”
Parker spits his food into a napkin and jabs my arm with a chopstick. “You are not telling her! Jeez, are you crazy? Stop thinking with your dick!”
Karl laughs. “Ella Bryant must be a spectacular lay. We’ll have the project wrapped up in two weeks—three at the max—then go knock yourself out. Although I’m sure Strickland will do that for you. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?”
I wrinkle my brow in confusion. “What?”
“She cheated, too, remember? With you. Or has your oxytocin-addled brain forgotten that already?”
I shake my head. I don’t believe that for a second. I know a lady player when I see one and it sure as hell isn’t Ella Bryant. I’ll get to the truth, one way or another.
Parker continues. “You’ve only known this chick a few days. Quit buggin’ out.”
Karl’s face turns from silly to serious. “Agreed. Say nothing. Do nothing. Keep your mouth closed and your zipper shut. The bonus I’ll get from the completion of this campaign is funding my trip to California.”
See how men and women differ?
For guys, this is a simple morality-versus-cash situation. If this were the Sister Code, you’d be sitting around in a circle, cackling like the witches from Macbeth, and discussing the best ways to exact revenge on his cheating ass.
Car tires? Slashed. Expensive suit? Ripped to shreds. Penis? Doesn’t bare thinking about.
Joking aside, it pains me to say that the guys have raised some valid points. I want to ‘fess up and let the wheels fall off Tyler Strickland’s locomotion of sin. Ella deserves to know the truth, but the guys are right. I can’t tell her. Not yet. Tyler would rearrange my face. I’d never walk, let alone fuck, again. We can kiss goodbye to the House of Aubrey account, and Cousin Timmy will wind up with my pot of gold.
And that’s not going to happen. Not on my watch.
I’m hornier than a ferret on meth, but I’ll play the long game. I’ll wait for two or three weeks. Then I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll make my move like a Grandmaster, and I’ll pound Ella Bryant’s ass so hard that she won’t be able to walk for a month.
Easy.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Nine
Variety is the spice of life. That’s why I have a harem. Forget winning an Olympic gold medal or hooking up with a lingerie model; having a bevy of attractive women, willing and available at the drop of a hat is the ultimate male fantasy.
It’s fun, but there are drawbacks. It’s a delicate scenario, and like spinning plates, the whole show can come crashing down at any moment. Each arrangement inevitably plays out in one of two scenarios. Either the lady winds up riding her way to pastures new; or she demands more commitment.
I’m a sexy guy—it’s normally the latter.
Don’t believe me?
Let me prove it to you.
Vermont. Viagra. Love potions. Shania Twain. What do they all have in common? Thanks to those sneaky algorithms that advertising companies employ to scan your private messages, these seemingly unrelated subjects tell me all I need to know about the contents of what I’m about the read.
From: Nicola Kaufman
To: Alexander Slade
Date: June 26 2013 20:58
Subject: Me & You in Vermont?
Hey handsome,
I managed to get the cottage for the weekend. Don’t forget those handcuffs …
Call me
N x
I’m not going to reply to Nicole, but don’t get all angry on my ass. Nicole just got herself hitched after a whirlwind romance with some boxer. Like I said, I do have morals.
I click the next mail.
From: Renée Morin
To: Alexander Slade
Date: June 26 2013 22:03
Subject: Friday
Alex,
You didn’t get back to me about those figures …
Are you still free to revise them on Friday evening? Shall we get take-out?
Renée
I sigh. Just so you know, ‘revising the figures’ is our secret code for fucking each other’s brains out. There’s no way around it—I have to cut her loose. I’ll deal with her later. I never end a relationship by e-mail.
I scroll to the next message and what I see next makes me spit coffee all over my screen. Paging Dr. Phil—we have a winner in the contest for the mother of all bat shit crazy electronic mails.
This one’s golden, worthy of a place on the team notice board.
Look who it’s from.
It’s Lisette, my level-seven clinger. I’m flirting with the idea of self-castration to make sure I never receive another one like it.
Ever.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then take a look at this:
From: Lisette Strevens To: Alexander Slade
Date: June 27 2013 00:34
Subject: <3
My darling Alex,
I miss you so much but I know we’ll be together and that you just need some time. I’m happy to give you that time, Alexander. I love you and that’s what people in love do. I know you love me too, Pumpkin.
I lit a candle for you. It sits on my bedside table and the flame is burning brightly. I like to think that it represents our love for each other, Alexander. I went to see an astrologer yesterday. Madam Xena drew up our birth chart. She said that the opposition of your Mars and my Pluto could be challenging, but not to worry! It’s just passion! We’ll fix you, Alex. Now I’m going to listen to our song.
Yours lovingly and forever, my sweet.
Lisette
XxXx
P.s. Turn over for a poem
Yep—she’s not only a fire hazard, she’s frigging insane. I’m going to spare you the poem; it’s already making me blush. For the record, there’s nothing romantic about her choice of song. Shania Twain was blasting from my car the night she gave me a blowie in Battery Park.
If proof was ever needed of my ability to attract the crazies, it’s right there in black and white.
And my father wonders why I never want to get hitched.
Speak of devil, and he doth appear via video call. Seems he’s been using his vacation time to sharpen his pitch fork and is keen for round two.
I answer and my father gets straight down to business.
“Therapy,” he announces.
I blink. “Excuse me? Therapy?”
He casually sips a Mai Tai and nods in the affirmative. “Therapy. There’s a sex addiction treatment center in Midtown. Your mother and I think you should attend.”
Sex therapy?
That escalated quickly.
“Dad, I’m not damaged,” I plead. “I’m just a regular red-blooded male.”
Whose balls are bluer than Heisenberg’s crystal
. Whose virginity is on the verge of growing back.
Don’t roll your eyes. I’m not weird, trust me.
Men crave sex.
It’s in our D.N.A.
Remember how I told you that men have an uncanny ability to compartmentalize their life? It’s true; with the exception of sex. Or, should I say, the lack of sex. Like an obese chick at fat camp craving cupcakes; it’s all we guys think about.
Anyway, back to the Lord of Darkness on line one. “Leonard Montgomery called me up yesterday. He wanted to know if all was well with you.”
I wrinkle my brow. “Who the hell is Leonard Montgomery?”
“You’ve met him, son. He’s a member of my business club. He came to our summer ball last year. He manages the Hotel Vermont.”
I rub my chin. Hotel Vermont … lobby … plant … Nina … oh … that Leonard Montgomery.
“Son, he asked if you’d be so kind as to replace the fern plant you debased.”
Christ, my father has spies everywhere. I grab the Aubrey contract and wave it in front of the camera as a hopeful distraction.
“Dad, umm … you know, we’ve had traction since you’ve been away. Huge developments. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Knock-knock.
My head snaps up to find Ella scrutinizing me from the doorway. Great timing. I flick the call off and give her my full attention. She looks fucking beautiful, doesn’t she? I take in her mussed blonde hair, and those long tanned legs. Now I’m drooling like a Mastiff at an osteology convention.
There’s hesitation in her voice when asks, “Do you have a minute?”
I shuffle some files around my desk. It’s all for show. But I’m not going to show her. I’m too interested. It’s a male pride thing.
“Well, I am kinda busy right now, but for you? Sure.”
She takes the seat opposite and crosses one of those endless legs over the other. “Busy organizing your little black book?”
Ouch. Seems we’re back to square one. Yep, she thinks I’m a man whore.
“Are you here to antagonize me, Ella?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Tyler thinks he left his wallet at your apartment. He asked me to drop by and collect it.”
