Anything but Love (Wingmen #3)

by Daisy Prescott

  Ashley’s tagged me in a post.

  NSFW Erik Kelso, totally thought this was you!

  Her not suitable for work warning makes me laugh. I pretty much work alone most of the time. I leave the customer service and people interactions to her brother and our baristas.

  I click the link expecting it to be some sort of coffee meme or business article. Instead it opens a famous gossip site run by a snarky guy in LA.

  The headline reads, “Pop Star denies the World’s Most Perfect Ass Is His.”

  Ew.

  I don’t want to see some guy’s naked butt. My attention is caught by the word Cabo in the article’s text.

  Pop icon Justice Booker took to his Twitter account to break a million hearts today. No, the heartthrob doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  It’s much worse.

  The glorious perfection captured in the pics from Cabo floating around the interwebs isn’t his.

  ::sobbing::

  According to Justice, he’s been in a recording studio in remote Quebec for the past month. On one hand, more songs to scream about, crazy fangirls (and fanboys). On the other hand, the man in the pic is now a mystery. Hot Ass Guy, if you’re out there, give me the exclusive!

  #whoisassguy

  #reallifedavid

  #bunsofperfection

  If you’ve been living under a rock or you’re also in a remote location in Quebec, and haven’t seen the glory of Hot Ass Guy, click the link for the scrumptiousness. NSFW or prudes.

  Until next time.

  oxo

  Or maybe that should be OiO.

  (Lawd, I crack myself up!)

  Smooches,

  Gomez

  MY FINGER HOVERS above the link. What’s the actual possibility that he’s talking about me and my ass?

  Infinitesimal, right?

  If that’s the case, why is my heart racing and my palms sweating?

  I attempt to take a deep breath, but can’t.

  I start to hyperventilate.

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  I try to remember the coping techniques my coach taught me in high school. Before track meets, I’d freak out to the point of panic attacks. Not during trainings. Only at meets. Basically I had performance anxiety. Which is never a good thing.

  I close my mouth and inhale through my nose, slow and steady.

  Counting back from ten, I hold my breath.

  At five I push the air out of my lungs and gasp for breath.

  I stand, shaking out my hands. Too much adrenaline courses through my system. I need to move. The living room is small. I cross it in about ten steps and turn. Pacing helps.

  My shin bumps the corner of the coffee table.

  “Fuck!” My voice echoes around the room. The pain distracts me from thinking I can’t breathe.

  Dad startles in his recliner and his snoring snorts to a stop. “What? What’s going on?”

  Mom rushes into the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel resting on her shoulder. “What happened? Is your dad okay?”

  Of course he’s her first priority.

  My world is imploding, but I can’t tell either of them about it.

  I push my glasses up my forehead, then press the heels of my palms into my eye sockets.

  Mom is fussing over Dad, asking if he’s hungry. “I can bring you a pop, if you’re thirsty.”

  I fight the urge to scream. The pain in my shin radiates up my leg, distracting me from what’s on the other side of that link.

  I’m almost sure Ashley’s wrong about the pic being of me.

  I was only naked for like ten minutes.

  All I know is I need to get out of here. I’m not opening anything with my mom in the room.

  “I forgot something at the warehouse. I . . . um . . .” I’m halfway to the front door, my hands fumbling for my keys in my jacket pocket. “I’m sorry. Gotta go.”

  I catch my parents’ confused faces when I close the door.

  I bet I’ll be seeing those expressions a lot if this isn’t a crazy nightmare.

  All we have in our house is beer. I know because we haven’t restocked since Cabo. Given our dad has a key, we don’t keep liquor at our house unless we hide it.

  Tonight requires strength and fortitude. I stop at the liquor store by Red Apple for bourbon. I don’t need fancy, barrel aged, heritage corn bourbon. Jack will do perfectly fine tonight.

  I duck my head when I see Connie at the front of the store. She’s with Sandy. They’re chatting up Charleen behind the counter. All three of them burst into girlish giggles over something on Connie’s phone.

  I don’t want to know. Not after Connie’s weirdness earlier today.

  I speed down the aisles to the whiskey section. Passing the shelf of tequila, I throw some shade at the bottles. They’re partially responsible for everything dumb I did in Mexico.

  The store is quiet and I can easily hear the ladies’ conversation up front over the soft rock playing.

  “I haven’t seen a man butt this glorious since the David. It looks very . . . biteable,” Connie comments.

  No way.

  What is going on in the universe and space-time continuum today? Is today National Butt Day? There are so many holidays now. Pancake Day, Steak and Blowjob Day—it’s in March—Sex Outside Day—May 8th—Donut Day . . . I’m pretty sure there’s a day for everything.

  Maybe there’s an Ass Day and today’s the day?

  I’m tempted to ask Siri about it. Given how empty the store is, other than the giggling perverts and me, they’d probably hear me if I start talking to my phone about asses. Honestly, I feel like Siri’s been extra snarky with me ever since I harassed her to rap.

  “I wonder if the other brother has the same ass. You know, genetics and all that.” That’s Sally speaking.

  Brother? Genetics?

  Wait, is she talking about me? My man butt?

  I need to get out of here. I turn to retrace my steps around the outer perimeter of the shop as stealthily as possible. Instead, my hip checks the shelving, sending the bottles rattling around on the metal.

  “Shit.” I straighten the bottles to stop them from rattling. Too late. I can feel three pairs of eyes staring at my back.

  My ass to be specific.

  I glance behind me.

  Six pupils are focused on my jeans. Maybe these women have super X-ray vision. Maybe “the change” older women talk about involves super powers as well as hot flashes and mustaches.

  “Excuse me.” I shift and stuff my hands in the back pockets of my jeans, protecting myself from their probing stares.

  “Hi, Erik. How’s your brother doing?” Sandy’s expression tells me full well she knows I probably heard her and doesn’t care.

  Connie giggles. Charleen has the decency to turn around, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

  Deciding on a full liter, I lift a bottle of Jack off the shelf. Giving them all a little side eye, I walk to the register at the opposite end of the counter. “Carter’s good. I’ll let him know you asked about him.”

  “How was your trip to Cabo?” Sally asks, barely able to control her schoolgirl giggles. “Get lots of sun?”

  “Great.” I nod politely.

  “I bet it kicked ass,” Charleen spits out and then clamps her hand over her mouth while the other two hoot and holler.

  After grabbing my change, I rush out of the store.

  That’s all the confirmation I need.

  Confirmation my life is over.

  Not only is my ass viral, people are figuring out its mine.

  Thanks, Justice.

  Carter’s truck is in his spot when I arrive home.

  “Baby bro,” he greets me from his horizontal spot on the sectional. A bowl of chocolate milk and soggy cereal sits on the coffee table.

  I mumble something and head directly to the kitchen to find a glass.

  Screw the glass. I drink from the bottle.

  “Whoa,” Carter says when I set down
the Jack. “Tough day roasting beans?”

  I scowl, flip him the bird, and take another swig.

  “Oh, shit. Is Dad okay?”

  For some reason, his comment enrages me. “I’m so fucking tired of picking up after Dad and protecting his ass. You know what? Let him get another DUI and lose his license again. He can take the fucking bus.”

  I slam down the bottle on the wood surface.

  Carter sits up straighter, eyeing me warily.

  With a sigh, I rub my temples.

  Silently, I chant I love my family, I love my family, I love my family in my head.

  “You’re kind of scaring me, bro. What’s up?”

  I open one eye and then the other. “I really need you to not say I told you so about something. Can you promise me that?”

  “Shit. Did you not wear a condom and get a girl pregnant? Do you have a secret baby you just found out about?”

  I close my eyes again and shake my head. The bourbon works its way into my blood, mixing with the dread and embarrassment already coursing through my veins.

  This time I pour a couple of fingers worth of liquor into the glasses I brought with me. “You’re going to want some, too.”

  “Are we celebrating something and you’re just fucking with me? Like that time you acted like you got cut from JV track, but your smug ass made Varsity as a freshman?”

  I wish.

  “You promise not to give me shit?” I swallow another mouthful of brown liquor.

  He pauses and studies me. “Okay, it must be bad.”

  “It could be epically bad.”

  Instead of telling him, I pull out my phone and open my browser. Gomez Jeffries’ website loads again.

  He takes my phone and laughs. “Oh yeah, Justice was the topic of conversation last week at work. He’ll do anything for attention.”

  Carter tries to hand the phone back to me.

  “Did you look at any of the pictures?”

  He jumps away. “Dude, no way. Gross.”

  “Read the headline and open the link.”

  “I love you like a brother, but if I want to see a fine example of a man’s ass, I’ll look in a mirror.” He chucks the phone on the cushions between us.

  “Fine.” I finish the liquid in my glass before reading him the headline.

  His eyebrows lift and furrow. “If it wasn’t Booker, some other blond idi—oh shit.”

  Grabbing the phone, he swipes the screen and clicks the link.

  I hold my breath. Hoping against all evidence that it’s some other fool’s ass online. I can’t be the first or last guy to go pantless in public in Cabo.

  The gang of middle-aged women at the store weren’t wearing their reading glasses. Maybe the ass is some other dumb blond guy’s ass.

  Carter is frozen. His eyes widen and his exhale comes out a whistle through the “o” formed by his open mouth.

  I’m so screwed.

  I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees.

  “You’re fucked. I told—”

  “No, you don’t get to say it. You promised you wouldn’t.” I don’t bother lifting my head. Instead, I remove my glasses and set them on the table.

  Carter shifts and his hand presses between my shoulder blades. “Nobody is going to recognize you.”

  “Ashley’s the one who tagged me on Facebook about it.”

  His finger jabs my back. “How does she know what your ass looks like?”

  “Hold your fire. She doesn’t. Not naked anyway.”

  He glares at me.

  “Dude, I run and cycle. She’s seen me in bike shorts. I’m sure she can use her imagination.” I wish these two would finally figure out that they’ve liked each other since middle school and get on with it. “Stop with the death stare.”

  He grumbles and takes a swig from his glass. “Okay, we’re not going to figure this out in the bottom of a bottle.”

  I know what he’s not saying out loud. Neither of us ever wants to turn out like our dad—working odd jobs, getting our sorry asses fired, pickling ourselves in beer, and always barely scraping by through the grace of others. In Dad’s case, that would be Mom. He’s luckier than he deserves to have her love.

  I pour two more glasses. “True, but until we do, I’m going to try to forget my ass is being discussed all over the Internet.”

  “First we need to figure out the source for the photo.” He starts clicking around on my phone. “I’m going to need the laptop.”

  He brings back his computer and opens the Gomez article and the link. We follow the links from Gomez, to another blogger, to Reddit, to Tumblr, to a variety of naked celebrity and porn sites before finally hitting the potential source: an Instagram account.

  Oh yes. Me in all my glory is on hotmanasscandy.com as well as other porn sites dedicated to the admiration of man asses. I don’t know if I should feel proud while Carter reads off a list of them from his search on Google.

  “The good news is most of the porn sites have cropped the image to only be of your ass. No face. Aren’t you glad you never got that tramp stamp tattoo?”

  “I was never going to get a tramp stamp.” No identifying marks make the ass porn sites easier to deny.

  “Anyone looking at it would have to be intimately familiar with your crack to know it’s you. Given your dating history, you should be safe. What are we talking about? Two? Three? Four women at most?”

  I roughly run my hands over my head. “Now is not the time to be making fun of my lack of women.”

  Truth is, I talk a big game. We both do.

  He knows I had one girlfriend in high school, two girlfriends in college, and only one relationship longer than a month since. That one ended over a year ago. Or has it been two? I do the math. Shit. Two years.

  Our search only takes us about twenty minutes and a lot of staring at my naked backside.

  The good news is we didn’t come across other versions of the pic. That means only one went viral. Not a literal boatload.

  The bad news? The Instagram account is locked. All we can see is the name and an avi pic.

  “Do you recognize the name or picture?”

  I lift the computer to peer at the small, round avi. It’s a woman in profile with the sun behind her. “Nope, not from this.”

  He taps the screen. “Does Caribou Caldwell ring a bell?”

  Caribou Caldwell loves the sun, traveling, champers, and isn’t too proud to admit she loves Justice Booker according to her brief bio. The complete lack of originality surprises me. Whoever named her Caribou must be disappointed she’s turned out so cliché.

  “I’d remember meeting a woman named Caribou who likes ‘champers’.”

  Ignoring me, Carter types the name into Google. A bunch of random results show up. He ignores them and selects images only.

  I recognize one immediately. “Holy shit.”

  “I’d say. Are those furries?” He points at two people dressed as purple caribous standing next to a rainbow turtle.

  “How do you know about furries? Wait, that’s not the point. That’s her.” I point to a familiar face in the first row of results.

  WELL, HELLO THERE, Cari.

  We meet again.

  I recognize her face in a couple of the pictures. The hair is different. Lighter and blond in some of the images. No purple.

  “You know her?”

  “That’s the woman whose jerkoff boyfriend gave me the bruised jaw in Cabo.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as being the most liked image on hotmanasscandy.com this week.”

  He blinks at me before snorting. “This is so messed up.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.”

  “Let me understand this. The woman who you picked up in Cabo had a boyfriend? He punched you in the face? She’s the person who posted a pic of you naked on her Instagram?”

  “I didn’t pick her up. We danced to half a song and did two shots of tequila.” I scowl at the memory of our encou
nter. “You left out the part about her picture of me going viral and everyone thinking it was Justice Booker’s ass¸ but otherwise, yes.”

  “You should take it as a compliment. Maybe you can be his butt double in his next music video.”

  I groan. “It was much better when it was some celebrity’s ass all over the worldwide web.”

  I’m starting to have mixed feelings about Justice getting credit for my ass. I hate that pop star pretty boy. Now I’m thinking about his butt. Could be the bourbon talking, but I bet he has no ass at all. He should’ve kept his mouth quiet and claimed mine.

  I am not saying he should “claim” my ass. I don’t mean it that way. At all.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that. If you’re gay. Or into pegging. Or Deadpool.

  Okay, definitely feeling the bourbon.

  Carter has the smart idea to ask to follow Caribou Cari on Instagram.

  We’ll start there and hope someone famous gets papped full frontal this week. Or Lenny Kravitz rips his pants again while crouching.

  I’ve seen a lot of things online tonight I can never unsee.

  The dancing dream returns.

  Only this time no one is a wizard.

  There isn’t really any dancing.

  Unless horizontal, loud, naked sex counts as dancing.

  When I wake up hard and frustrated, I punch my pillow and throw it across the room.

  Caribou Cari needs to get out of my head and my life.

  Okay, here’s the thing.

  I have no hang-ups or insecurities about my body.

  I don’t.

  I’m not ashamed of my ass.

  Or diving naked into the Pacific Ocean.

  Because that was fierce.

  However, having a bunch of strangers discussing the merits and flaws of my ass is not something I signed on for. Not only strangers, but apparently people like Connie and Sally. People who I have to interact with on a semi-regular basis. People who will now be thinking of the two dimples I have right at the base of my spine every time I try to be polite and say hello.

  I like my privacy.

  Did I mention I work in the woods at odd hours and alone?

  I love quiet and hard work.

  This is beginning to sound like a profile I had on a dating website last year.