“Whatever. You’re proving my point.” I pulled up Google translate on my phone.
When we moved to Miami, we had vowed to learn Spanish. I’d bought Rosetta Stone, and spent a good weekend hunched over the computer, sounding out the vowels. But then I’d started a new audiobook, and then baseball had started, and then we started trying for a baby, and learning Spanish was quietly slid to the bottom of a very tall pile, which included a lot of more interesting things.
“Ha! It is orange.” I turned my screen to show him. He paused, halfway out of backing down the driveway and looked at the proof.
“You didn’t change the second language. It’s displaying English to English.”
“Oh.” Deflated, I edited the fields, then watched as naranja populated. “Crap. It’s naranja. I was way off.”
“It’s okay, love. I love you for so much more than your brain.” He patted my knee in support.
“You’re funny,” I sniped, closing down the browser. “Besides, you don’t have to love me for my brain. You can love me for the three offers I have on the Olive Line Trail house.” I beamed at him.
“I still can’t believe you already have offers.”
“I told you it would go quick. Assuming they accept one of them.” The De Lucas should. Our best was over list price, with a fifteen day close and no financing contingency. Assuming they didn’t freak out over the control room, or find asbestos in the walls, it was virtually guaranteed.
“When will you know?”
“They said they’d let me know by morning.” I refreshed my email for the third time, hoping they had made an early decision. Nothing. I switched over to Facebook.
I scrolled past a cat meme and at least four posts with people at the beer festival. “Everyone is at that beer thing. Look, Amy and Aleja look like they’re back together.” I showed him the photo. “We should have gone. We still could. We have the tickets.”
“I thought you were trying to lie low from Chelsea.”
“I am.” I scratched at an itchy spot on the inside of my knee. Pedicant Entertainment was the main sponsor of the beer festival, which was how I originally landed two VIP tickets. Last year, we’d gone as a group—fourteen of us holding down a VIP balcony just off the stage and chugging beers every time the cannon fired. This year we’d had similar plans, our tickets and calendars set months ago.
I hadn’t officially been uninvited, but considering the last text I’d gotten from Chelsea called me a cunty dickwaffle, it probably wasn’t a good idea to show up at the VIP tent and flash my tickets. While I wasn’t exactly sure what a cunty dickwaffle was, it had cunt and dick in it, so it probably wasn’t good. Though, as Easton had so supportably pointed out, it also had waffle in it, and who doesn’t love waffles?
“Well, you need to make up with her fast,” Easton said. “The Katy Perry concert is next weekend. I know you’re willing to miss out on beer, but don’t tell me you’re skipping the musical event of the decade.”
“Don’t make fun,” I snapped at him. “You know how much I love Katy. And… I don’t know. A lot can happen in a week. She could forgive me or kill me, and I honestly don’t know which is more likely.”
A reminder flashed across my screen, interrupting my view of an abandoned baby elephant cuddling up to a German shepherd.
Kurt in town
I turned toward Easton, watching as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, bobbing his head slightly to the music. “That, uh, guy from the website is in town tonight.”
“The guy you sent me screenshots of?”
“Yeah. He offered to meet us for a drink, if we wanted to.”
He looked over at me. “Do we want to?”
“I don’t know.” I sat back against the headrest. “I feel like we have so much going on right now.” A month ago, I was researching how to make my own face masks. Now, I had Chelsea pissed at me, had landed a major client, hooked up with said client, and was trying to fit in drinks with a complete stranger who was willing to be my husband and my sexual guinea pig.
“Are you attracted to the guy? What’s his name? Ken?”
“Kurt.” I pulled up the swinger website and logged in. “Let me show you his picture.”
The page was slow to load, and I eyed a hooker on the corner eye our Range Rover, her hand lifting to shyly wave at Easton with super-long red fingernails. “Not happening,” I muttered, scrolling down and clicking on OrlandoC11’s album.
Easton chuckled. “Didn’t even consider it.”
“This is him.” I passed over the phone. Easton glanced up at the red light, then swiped through his photos. “None of his dick?”
“Nope. Should I have asked him for one?”
“Maybe.” He handed back the phone. “Considering that we’re potentially meeting him for sex, I think it’s probably the norm.”
I had thought about asking Kurt, had prepped myself for it with each email communication, but then chickened out each time. It just felt tacky. Too aggressive. Wouldn’t he have offered pictures of his dick if he felt comfortable sharing them?
“Ask him for one.” Easton moved into the left turn lane. “Panera or Subway?”
“Uh, Panera. You want me to ask him for one right now?”
“Either you can ask him, or I can ask him, and I feel like it’s going to be hella awkward coming from me.”
“Yeah.” I pulled up his latest email.
Hey Rachel. Just landed at MIA. If you guys want to grab drinks tonight, lmk.
I hit the REPLY button and stalled. This was the same issue I had had before.
Sounds great. We’re still figuring out our plans. Btw—I never saw a photo of you naked. Do you have one?
It sounded ridiculous. I read it aloud to E, and he shrugged. “Great. Send it.”
I backspaced over the last two sentences.
You don’t have any nude pics in your profile. Do you have any?
I hit send before I chickened out, then blew out a big breath. “Done.”
“It’s cute how stressed out you get over stuff like that.” He pulled into a front spot and put the SUV into park.
“It’s not cute, and you’re annoying. Just for that, no bakery item for you.”
He snorted. “Right.”
“I’m serious. I’m gonna tell Tina you’re not allowed to have one.” I opened the door and got out, narrowly missing a clump of pigeon poo.
He met me at the front of the Rover and threw an arm around my shoulder. “Tina loves me. She’ll sneak one in with my sandwich.”
“Tina loves my Yelp review,” I informed him, waiting as he held open the door for me. “Yelp reviews trump sex appeal.”
“We’ll see.” He grinned down at me as I stepped past him and through the doors.
The double chocolate-chip cookie that Tina (horny bitch) had given E was gone, a crumble of it stuck in his facial hair, a swipe of chocolate smeared across one finger. I picked up his hand and licked the evidence away and he gave me the sort of cocky grin that made me horny as hell.
Outside, a Rolls pulled up and parked, the driver stepping out and coming to stand in line. E nodded to the car, visible through the wall of plate glass windows. “Bet that’s Kurt there. Getting his chicken and rice bowl to go.”
I grinned. “Chicken and rice, huh? Couldn’t have given him a more manly meal?”
“It’s Panera. I think they make you check your balls at the door in exchange for a cookie. Why do you think he sent that guy in?” He nodded to the driver, who was gazing up at the menu.
“It’s a little sexist, assuming that it’s a guy in the car. Maybe it’s a woman.”
“Fair point.” He leaned back against the booth and threw one arm over its length. “I think Nicole had a Rolls.”
I picked up my chip bag and yanked it open with a wee bit more force than necessary.
“No—” He shook his head. “It was a Bentley.”
“Oh good,” I said. “I was worried it was something ostentati
ous.”
“Hey now, we looked at Bentleys once. Remember that white convertible you test drove?”
I bit a barbecue chip in half and nodded. “It had terrible gas mileage.”
“Horrible,” he agreed. “Plus, the body style was”—he held his palm flat and tilted it from side to side—“okay. Nothing compared to your car.”
“I didn’t want to point that out, but I agree completely. And the personal concierge service was so annoying. I mean, who wants a complete stranger offering to help them find things or book dinner reservations?”
“Or call an ambulance if you’re in an accident,” Easton added.
“Exactly!” I threw my hand in the air. “Way too pushy.”
The driver took a to-go cup from Tina and walked down to the drink fountain, giving us a polite nod as he passed. I waited until he passed and then stuffed another chip into my mouth.
“Did the guy email back?”
I checked my phone, my pulse quickening as I saw the new email. “Yeah. And…”—I looked up at E—“there’s an attachment.” No message, just an attachment. I clicked on the icon and waited for it to download. Under the table, my heel began to shimmy. “I’m nervous,” I confessed to E. “It’s like—”
I was going to say that it’s like waiting until Christmas, but then the image loaded and I completely lost that thought process.
27
The man with the biggest dick either of us had ever seen sat at a four-top in the bar, his enormous dong tucked into a pair of dark green jeans. I double-checked the color and notated the white high-top Nikes, which was an interesting choice when paired with the red plaid flannel top. Flannel. In Miami. In September.
“You look like your pictures.” Kurt smiled. “That’s good. Most people don’t. Or they do, but it’s an old pic and they’re forty pounds heavier or with way more miles, if ya know what I mean.” He had a Wisconsin accent, the lilt similar to a sorority sister I’d had who’d chewed a lot of gum and wore a fanny pack, despite strict instructions from our social chair to burn that thing to hell. “I don’t get it,” he continued. “You’s a good-looking couple. Why don’t you just find friends in Miami? Why get on the site?”
I stared at him, fascinated by the fact that this guy belonged to the polite emails and the gigantic penis. GI-GAN-TIC. I’m talking about circus freak. Must-be-surgically-enhanced big.
Easton’s knee nudged mine and I had no idea what I was supposed to say. “We’re new to all of this,” he said. “And…” He looked at me quizzically, and I realized he’d forgotten my fake name.
“Rachel,” I provided.
“Right, Rachel doesn’t want to go to a club.”
“Fair enough. You should learn her name though.” Kurt grinned, and a mouthful of veneers were exposed.
“Is your dick naturally that big?” I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. Beside me, Easton let out a cough. “I mean, I just don’t understand how it—”
“I know, right?” He grinned. “It’s surprising, because I got small hands. And everyone says the hand and the dick size have to do with each other, but they don’t. And yeah, it’s all me. Granted, I do stretch it.”
“You what?” Easton, who was mid-bite into a cheese stick, paused. “You stretch it? What does that mean?”
“Penile traction device,” he responded, sounding out each syllable as if we were wanting to write it down. “You got to go to a doctor to get it. I, myself, I use Andropenis, but there are lots of options out there.” He pointed to E. “Do your research. You need to find one you feel comfortable with and that fits into your schedule.”
“What do you mean, fits into his schedule?” I moved my stool closer to the table.
“Well, you know. These things take time. It’s not just bim-bam-boom, you got a big dick.”
“How much time?” I pressed.
“Well”—he glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening—“they say six hours a day. But I think nine hours is the sweet spot. Nine hours is…”—he held up his thumb and forefinger in an okay sign—“BAM. Good to go.”
“I’m sorry, did you say nine hours a day?” Easton squinted at him.
“Ideally.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“Oh, not long. That’s the beauty of it. Four months. Four months, and you get anywhere from two to three centimeters in length—that’s what the doctors say—but I got a full inch and a half.” He beamed.
“I’m sorry, how can you fit nine hours of this in every day?”
“Well, you can do other stuff while wearing it. I’m an accountant. Every tax return I filed last year?” He paused and winked at me. “Prepped it while in the device. Honestly, it cleared my mind a little.”
“Yeah…” Easton said slowly.
“So you had a big penis already? And you got an extra inch and a half by using the traction thing?” I asked.
“Well…. and the injections.”
“Holy shit,” Easton muttered.
“The injections are just for girth. I added two and a half inches in circumference over the course of two years. It’s actually an acid they’re injecting. Hyaluronic acid. I can email you that. I know it’s a bitch to remember.”
“That’s okay.” Easton waved off the offer. “No one’s putting a needle anywhere near my dick.”
“Elle?” The high-pitched voice came from behind me. “Elle Ribbenham, is that you?”
Oh shit. I slowly turned, wincing at the sight of Keri McIntyre, our pledge class president who—last I’d heard—was in New York working in finance and dating some Saudi oil heir. “Keri,” I said carefully. “What are you doing here?” Seriously. I chose a shithole bar in Model City for the express purpose of not running into anyone I knew.
“Oh, I’m just in town for the night.” She still had the thick Southern accent. “And Easton North, look at you!” She reached out her arms and flung them around his neck, squeezing him tight. I looked behind her, half expecting to see our entire executive team, but she was alone. “That’s right, I forgot you two got married! So, you’re actually Elle North now. Just like that Kardashian baby!”
Thanks, Keri. Got my social security number and address handy? I’m sure this guy with his penile traction device and farm-boy fashion sense would love to have that too.
“Oh, I’m Keri.” She turned her attention on Kurt and panic erupted in my chest. “I’m sorry to interrupt you guys, I just haven’t seen Elle since college! Of course she looks exactly the same.”
“Oh, stop.” I watched in desperation as she took the stool next to Kurt.
“No, really. Elle, you look exactly the same. It’s your skin. You’ve got such great skin.” She clamped a hand on Kurt’s arm and peered at him. “How old are you?”
“Keri—” I protested.
“Forty-two,” he supplied, treating us all to another bright show of his teeth. I opened my wallet and fished out two twenties.
“Now, see. I never would have known it. You moisturize, don’t you?”
“We should be going.” I eased off the stool and placed the cash on the table. “Kurt, I’m sorry to rush off, but thank you so much for, ahh, helping us with our accounting questions.”
“Happy to help,” he said, smiling broadly. “Email me anytime.”
“Oooh, are you an accountant?” Keri leaned in closer to him, seemingly unconcerned with our departure. I watched her hand settle on his thigh and wondered how far from the mystery meat it was located.
“It was good to—”
I cut Easton’s goodbye off at the knees, pushing him toward the door. “Go,” I mumbled. “Just go.”
“Wow.” I held Easton’s hand as we moved through the crowded parking lot. It had rained while we were in the bar, the cling of moisture still thick and muggy in the air. We paused to let a pregnant woman with a Winn-Dixie cart pass. I was momentarily distracted from Kurt as I realized how little I had thought about a baby recently. Even with taking the hormone pills,
I just… hadn’t.
Easton stepped over a puddle, keeping his boots clean. “Yeah. What are the chances Keri would be there?”
“I know. And why did she stay behind at our table? I think she was into him!” I headed to my side but Easton followed, trapping me against the SUV as he leaned into me.
“I love you so much.” His voice was husky, his eyes warm. He cupped my face and stared down at me, then lowered his mouth to mine for a kiss. I surged into it, clutching at his shoulder as I rose to my toes for better access. From somewhere to our left, someone let out a wolf whistle, then laughed. Easton’s arms tightened around me, then he reached to the side and opened my door. “Careful,” he warned. “The sidestep is slick.”
I navigated past the not-so-slick sidestep and up into his Range Rover. He closed the door and gave me that smirk—the same one he flashed the first night we met, in a dark side street of a bar, when he’d offered a ride to me and a vomiting Chelsea. It still had the same effect—a warm rush of exhilaration and attraction.
“So.” Easton pulled out of the lot. “I take it that you’re not interested in giant penis guy.”
“Kurt,” I clarified. “And no. Definitely no.” The photo he had sent me had looked like a fat sausage—the shaft jutting out almost a foot from his skinny body. I had opened the photo up three times during our ride to the bar, unsure if I was afraid or interested in the disproportionate appendage. After hearing Kurt’s enthusiasm for genital mutilation—and meeting him in general—I could safely say that I was not interested in seeing, touching, or interacting in any way with it.
Easton took the ramp for the 441. “What do you think he’s telling Keri about us?”
“No idea.” He glanced over at me. “You worried about it?”
I chewed on the end of one fingernail. “Not really. I probably should be.” I could remember a time when my social heartbeat rose and fell around what Keri thought of me. Now, with everything going on, the concept that Kurt might tell her something… I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to handle another concern. Maybe that was why I hadn’t been hyper-focused on a baby. Not enough time or energy.
Twisted Marriage (Filthy Vows Book 2) Page 17
