by Poppy Dunne
Katie blows raspberries in reply, and both of us start laughing. I also show her where I’ve plugged in the bubble machine, which she clearly enjoys.
“Man, I’m so glad Claudia bailed,” she says, whistling as she takes in the place. “At least you get me.”
“Becky. That was your maid of honor’s name,” I drawl, heading into the living room to set up the cosmo cart. The glasses are going to be lined in pink rock sugar. Well, Katie’ll like that at least. Too bad they’re not Pop Rocks.
“Right, I keep forgetting. Becky with the salon hair. Thank god you’re Rollie’s sister, so I could actually have someone in the party I like.” She throws an arm around my shoulders and kisses me. Spiderweb tattoo on her ass or not, Katie’s a secret sweetheart. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I grab it out. Sure enough, another text from Ben:
Can I help?
I text back, Girls only right now. But later I could use a helping hand. Or two.
A minute passes, and I’m afraid he’ll think I’m brushing him off, but then:
;)
A winky emoticon. God, I never thought that’d get me so hot.
I practically sprawl on the carpeted floor just so I can stare at my phone and dissect all the secret, sexy meanings of the wink. It’s like going back in time to freaking high school, and I’m really enjoying it.
“Who’s that from? The sexy guy you were with at the drinks thing?” Katie says ‘drinks thing’ like she’s never heard of a cocktail party before. Mom’s sort of hijacked Katie’s wedding from her. Poor kid. I shut off my phone, hoping I’m not blushing as hard as I think I am.
“Maybe.” I wink and go get the chocolate bar set up.
Where the hell are the rest of Katie’s bridesmaids? Probably shopping and figuring out how to avoid the work part of being in a wedding party. They’re not bad women at all, but they don’t really know Katie. Again, most of the women standing by her side on her big day are cousins and cousins of friends and friends of cousins or mail order brides from Mom’s family.
Katie’s family just happens to come from Albuquerque, a lot of rodeo clowns and security guards among them. My favorite is Saul, her uncle, who actually is a rodeo clown security guard. I don’t understand his job, and I’m not sure I want to. The point is, they’re ‘loose cannons.’ Mom’s not taking any chances with having them actually contribute to their own family member’s wedding.
“Sorry about Todd,” Katie says, leaning against the wall with her hands jammed into her pockets. “He’s sort of the weirdo in the family, you know?”
Yep. Todd Beauman, king of the cashmere sweater and the golf club dinner dance, comes from Katie’s loud-living family. Mom kind of rues the day he and I started dating. Not because she thinks he’s a jerkass, although he clearly is, but because if it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t have taken that family trip to New Mexico. Rollie wouldn’t have gotten talking to Katie while she was working at that lumberjack-themed bar. They wouldn’t have pounded back all those shots of Jaeger with us before furiously making out underneath the table. This whole wedding wouldn’t be happening.
As far as I’m concerned, Rollie and Katie is the one good thing to come out of my past relationship.
“You can’t help inviting him,” I tell her. “He’s your cousin.” And they don’t even get along badly. I saw a pile of presents when I came in the door, one of them clearly labeled from Todd. He gave Katie a new electronic keyboard, the professional kind that lets you mix your own music. She’s wanted one for ages, and he remembered. Again, he’s a sort of combination of a douchenozzle and a thoughtful human being. You see my dilemma.
Katie tsks. “Look, I know he’s family, and he can be alright at the right time of day, usually before he’s awake. But your mom’s the one who called to invite him, not me. I probably would’ve had him sit this one out, for you.” Katie frowns and picks at a pink, fluffy fabric ribbon. I don’t think she knows what to do with it. Hell, I barely know what to do with all these decorations. Again, Mom trucked in a whole boatload of taffeta and white gauze and lights just to set up for this party. When I mentioned downstairs that she was overdoing it maybe just a tad, she said,
“This might be the closest I ever get to planning a daughter’s wedding. Let me enjoy it while I can.” Then she walked away, leaving me standing there feeling like an utter jackass.
Well, there’s nothing to be done about that now. Instead, I plug my iPod into the speaker on the bedside table and get a little Nirvana going. Katie closes her eyes, raises her arms over her head, and heaves a sigh of relief. “I love you. I’d screw you if I wasn’t marrying your brother.”
“It’d be incest anyway,” I say conversationally, then flop down on the bed. Well, if nothing else, this mattress is built like a freaking cloud. Easy to curl up and go to sleep, which I’m tempted to do right now. “Anyway, like I said, Todd’s a douche and doesn’t mean anything.”
“Seriously?” Katie crosses her arms. “Because I sometimes wonder if you’d like to get back together with him.” I harrumph. She cocks an eyebrow. “I’m just saying, you looked pretty flustered when you saw him at the drinks thing.”
“Hell no.” I shake my head. “I do not want to get back together with Todd freaking Beauman.” Mostly not. Sometimes not. Only occasionally when I want to hate fuck and have a fun, imaginary scenario where I walk over him in fabulous stiletto heels while he sobs uncontrollably on the carpet. Or when I want to take him back so we can work out all our problems and then have his babies.
I am in such a good spot emotionally.
“You sure?” Katie asks, clearly unconvinced.
“I’d say scout’s honor, but I was never a scout. Wilderness girl’s honor?”
Katie gives me a look that says she’ll accept my bullshit, then grabs a marshmallow and lights the fire under the chocolate fondue pot. My stomach ripples just getting a whiff of the melting chocolate. I get another text from Ben:
How many of the bridesmaids are named Muffy? I have a pool going at work.
I laugh, and must be grinning super hard, because Katie laughs in reply.
“That him?” she asks, eyes darting to the phone in my hand. “You’ve got to tell me about this guy, Alex. What’s he like?” She chews on a marshmallow, wriggling her eyebrows. “And I mean that in every possible way, especially the dirty kind.”
“He’s a total gentleman,” I say coyly. I mean, he is to a certain extent. When we got out of the Uber after our rendezvous, shall we say, I was all for him coming up to the room so that we could continue our exploration. In fact, I was fully prepared to jump his bones right there in the snow and hope to avoid frostbite. But he had to get across the park to his job. That was kind of a bummer, especially when I was afraid I’d made a mistake. You know, bit his lip, kicked him in the nuts, squawked like a sex-crazed parrot, normal dating stuff. But I wasn’t even back to the room when he started texting me. And we haven’t much stopped since.
Man, I hope he gets off early. You know, so I can get off. Not early.
“Shit, you’ve hit radioactive levels of blushing. You’re like a sexy Chernobyl,” Katie says, grinning.
“One of the worst disasters in history is a good analogy for my dating life. Until now,” I say, slipping the phone back in my pocket.
“You’ve got it bad. I’m so happy,” Katie says, kissing my cheek. “I hope he makes you come twice as hard as you’ve ever come before.”
Coming from Katie, that’s sweet sister talk.
“He’s kind of amazing. He doesn’t get fooled by all the big money bullshit.” I hang a garland of paper hearts that could’ve cost twenty bucks at Target, but instead had to be hand-made paper from Florence which cost Mom eight hundred. Man, this garland really symbolizes everlasting love. That and credit card debt. Exactly what I’m talking about with Ben. “He works hard.”
“At a hotel, right?” Katie’s the only person in the family, besides maybe Rollie, who wouldn’t give a shit about that. Hell, two of her cou
sins are currently behind bars in minimum security prison. A hotel’s a step up in the world. “Room service? You ever dial him up for a nice sex on the beach?” She waggles her eyebrows as she flops on top of the comforter.
Jesus, don’t I wish. I get off the bed and wander to the fondue pot. Hopefully, all the other girls will be on diets, so Katie and I can have this bad boy to ourselves.
“I’ve honestly never known anyone like Ben. He’s attentive. He’s casual. He doesn’t freak out when you get sauce on something.” I sit down next to the melting chocolate pot, resisting the urge to sigh dreamily and gaze into the distance thinking about Ben. And his incredible finger dexterity, don’t leave that out. That’s worthy of a mental footnote all its own.
And everything I’m saying is true. I keep mooning and angsting over Todd, but damn it if Ben isn’t a way better catch, from an emotional standpoint. You hear from a lot of women that kind men aren’t sexy, that you need the growling bad boys who treat you like crap. Well, I’d like to encourage those ladies to get a sample of Ben Williams and then tell me that kind doesn’t get you off. Try me. No, try him. Trying him is better.
Except if you do happen to try him, I’m going to be mad.
Okay, back to reality.
“So. You think this is serious?” Katie does that thing where she sticks her tongue out and performs cunnilingus on the air, giving the viewer a wonderful shot of her tongue stud. It’s got a little jeweled heart on it, even! I hope she doesn’t swallow it.
“I don’t know. We’ll see how it goes, I guess,” I say, going back into the living room to get the Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots set up. That was the one thing Katie wanted above everything: a party where she could metaphorically punch her bridesmaids in the face as they watched.
And as I get the little plastic fighters ready, I think about Ben. About how, hey, this is only for a weekend. Only a casual thing.
Except for the part where I told him nearly all of my deep dark secrets. And the part where he opened up to me about his life, his hardships, his mom, and his sister.
So yeah, it’s totally a casual thing. But it’s also starting to not feel casual.
7
“Darling! Darling, I’m blind. Do you hear that? I can no longer see because there’s fucking blood in my eyes because of the aneurysm I’m having,” Nigel shouts. He’s in my Bluetooth, riding alongside me like an angry, gay British angel while I type on my laptop with one hand and drink a latte with the other. Every modern career gal’s version of double fisting. I don’t have any idea what I’m going to do when my danish arrives. Invent a third hand so that I can feed myself, probably.
“Look, I tried Grace again. I’ve tried Grace every single day for the last two weeks. She pops into the office about fifteen minutes every month, and then she’s gone again. This time she’s on a plane somewhere in the Arctic Circle scouting out locations for the band’s next cover shoot.” From what I can tell, the next album’s going to show the band getting mauled to death by a Yeti dressed like a Republican. It’s not for everyone, but damn if it isn’t right for their target audience.
“Can’t you pack up your snow boots and go down there or something?” Nigel moans.
“Not that I don’t want to get all Mountains of Madness and wake some sleeping evil that’s been dormant since the dawn of time, but I’m at my brother’s wedding. I can’t exactly drop everything and go off on a wild goose chase.” Although, to be fair, there’s a whole lot of sleeping evil in the hotel rooms upstairs. Namely my extended family. Then again, I try never to wake them up either.
“Why is he getting married?” Nigel barks. “To a woman, that is.” He kind of growls that last part. Nigel has a definite crush on my brother.
“Last I checked, he was straight. Or at least a two on the Kinsey scale. Maybe.” Okay, stop questioning your brother’s sexuality before ten eastern time, please and thanks. That’s how you end up in awkward conversations.
The hotel coffee shop I’m working in is a little white-and-black tiled paradise, designed to look just like a snooty French café. They’ve even got the waiters pretending they don’t speak your language and then disdainfully bringing you Stevia when you asked for Splenda! Man, it’s just like study abroad all over again.
I’m down here at my little table, latte and danish accompanying me on my desperate travels through every person in my iPhone’s rolodex. I’ve called CAA, UTA, MIT, DUI, AT&T, and some guy named Jeff. I thought his name was Geffen for one minute. Sue me, I’m getting crazy.
Jeff was really nice, though. Until he asked me what I was wearing. Then I hung up on him.
“Look, Nigel, the point is that I’m really doing the best I can. I keep stealing away from family time to work. And I plan to stay full steam ahead on the call-stalking until I get ahold of Grace.” I try to make that sound like a sacrifice, even though it’s often a relief.
Nigel sighs.
“Promise you’ll update me the moment you hear from her.” Then he takes what sounds like his morning hit of cold brew absinthe. Don’t ask me how they make it, I don’t want to know. It’s available at all the trendiest brunch places these days. “If you have to fly to Antarctica and make a John Carpenter movie happen, by god I don’t care. Just get me that band!”
“Aw, you watched The Thing!” I’m about to recommend Big Trouble in Little China, but Nigel hangs up, and I yank the Bluetooth out of my ear. Scrolling through the document of all the names I haven’t called yet, I notice something disturbing. There are approximately twelve names left. That’s right, only twelve people left in the entire city of New York who can in any way help with the House of Jazz’s dilemma.
I wouldn’t take those odds in Vegas. Or bet the house. Or bet the dog. Or whatever, I don’t gamble.
I’m trying to wave down a waiter to get another hit of sweet, sweet caffeine, when I see something just as hot but not nearly as swallowable. Or is he?
Oh god, that came out wrong.
Ben strolls into the coffee shop, looking goddamn delectable as he unwinds his scarf and brushes snow from his hair. He’s dressed especially nice for this early in the morning, in a navy blue jacket with a white button-up shirt. He scans the area—is he looking for me? I find my entire body heating up fast at the intensity of his gaze, and the thought that he might have come here to find me. I mean, he knows my terrible coffee habit. He knows I work here around the clock when I’m not distracted by obligatory wedding mayhem. Maybe he’s here to throw me over his very sculpted shoulder, drag me upstairs, and throw me on the bed to engage in some healthy pre-workout cardio. Maybe—
I wave to him, shooting him my sexiest come-hither smile. And he waves back, smiles…and looks a little bit startled.
Okay, not looking for me. My libido pouts. But he’s coming over here now, looking happy to see me, so I’m going to take that little nugget and run with it. And by run with it, I mean hopefully hump its brains out.
“Hey, stranger. No room service this morning?” He pulls out a chair and sits. There’s nothing shy or awkward in his magnetic blue gaze. Nothing to indicate he’s embarrassed about getting me off in the backseat of a car.
That makes me very happy to see.
“I believe in holding out for the right waiter.” I hand him the menu. “The service around here just doesn’t do it for me.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says, leaning in to run his hand along my cheek…before tucking a tag back into my sweater. “That’s hanging out.”
Yes. Find hot man. Have hot man notice things my mother would notice. Clearly, I am doing this right.
“So what’re you up to? Coming in for a brioche?” I ask, noting how he scans the restaurant. “Unless you’ve got a business model lined up?”
He snaps to attention. “Business?”
“Yeah, where you work as a wedding escort for lonely women pushing thirty? Less sex, more jordan almonds?” His reaction is interesting, to say the least. Like he’s both about to laugh and frown at the sam
e time. I have that effect on people. “Or you’re a bagman for the mob,” I go on, trying to smooth things over. “I can’t make up my mind.”
“Can’t a person be both?” But is it my imagination, or does he look kind of relieved at my guess? Then again, it’s probably totally my imagination. It’s a nasty little bugger, never does what I tell it. Ever since the ‘imagine Smurfs in tantric positions’ thought debacle of ’12, I keep my mind on a tight leash.
Then—oh huzzah—I feel Ben’s hand trailing up my leg. Oh god, if only I weren’t wearing jeans. And sitting in a public restaurant.
“Are you ready for the bachelor party? You’re going, right?” I ask him, lightly running my fingers up his arm. He makes a pleased, rugged-man sound, which I think means he likes it. Good.
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Refresh my memory. That’s tonight?”
“Correct. The idea is, you and the guys go out, me and the girls go out, then we all meet back up and party together. Mom says it’s structured this way so that the ‘boys’ don’t get too many wacky ideas, a.k.a. go home with any strippers.” I roll my eyes. Knowing the women we’ve got in the bachelorette party, I’d be more worried about them doing something lecherous and filthy. “But really, it’s to make sure Katie doesn’t get too drunk and punch a cop, then end up in prison instead of at the altar.”
“There a history of that in your family?” He quirks the side of his mouth in a very delicious grin.
“No, hers. But hopefully they’ll adopt me.” Todd aside, if the Beaumans have any room for me on their pig and cattle ranch, I’ll be there tomorrow.
Ben laughs quietly, then sneaks another glance around the room. He really is looking for somebody who’s not me.
“Okay, now you really have to tell me. Who are you looking for?” I’m not jealous or possessive, pish posh. I just want to know his every move, especially when he’s naked. Is that so wrong?
It is? Well, screw you, I do what I want, invisible judge-y person.
“Your mother,” Ben says. I’m about to make a joke when, oh shit, he was just making an observation. Mom comes over to our table, trailing Dad behind her like a coat she’s half-forgotten to take off. Dad’s eyeing the pastries hungrily, though he won’t actually be able to have one. Mom keeps telling him he needs to manage his diet. He’s pre-pre-pre-possible diabetes, which means she’s taking no chances.
