Surprise, Baby!

by Lex Martin

  I shoot him a glare and walk away.

  2

  Drew

  Ignoring the shot of lust that spikes through me from her eat-shit-and-die scowl, I focus on not getting a big, fat boner in the middle of a hotel lobby.

  Yeah, I’m a little fucked in the head. Why else would a woman’s ire give me a hard-on?

  But I’d need a whole room of shrinks to untangle my feelings for this girl.

  I blow out a breath.

  That was interesting.

  Not the three pairs of thongs lodged in my jeans pocket. I call that phenomenon “Friday.” But seeing Kendall Greer, the princess who’s dissed me for years, in the sumptuous hall of the Huntington Hotel, early Saturday morning wearing a sexy short skirt—that incidentally showed off her fantastic toned legs—and fuck-me shoes…

  Fancy meeting you here, Your Highness.

  I thought she’d break an ankle upstairs, she was trying to escape so fast. Talk about dine and dash. While I didn’t realize who I’d rescued from getting up close and personal with the carpet, I’ll admit I stayed wrapped around her a beat longer once my brain fog cleared and I figured out it was her.

  And boy, did she feel right in my arms.

  Unless my eyes deceived me, Little Miss Priss had a booty call with Chewbacca, and judging by that post-coital interaction, it sucked. Especially since he seemed to have cranial rectosis—excuse me, shit-for-brains—if he couldn’t keep Kendall in his suite for some morning nookie and room service mimosas. Clearly, if he were any good, he’d have kept her from doing a walk of shame that resembled a jailbreak.

  Again, interesting. But I’m really not one to talk, given what happened to me last night.

  Ever since Josh hooked up with Evie, I’ve had plenty of chances to bug the ever-living shit out of K-shizzle, but she’s never given me such excellent material before. I’ll have to think of ways to torture her about Fuzzball.

  Now, downstairs, as I yawn by the bellhop stand and press a fist to my mouth, my eyes follow Kendall’s pert ass as she sways out the hotel lobby doorway as if ad hoc sexual liaisons for her are totally cool. (How’s that for big words? I went to college.)

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m for gender equality, and what’s good for the gander is good for the goose and all that. Free love and whatnot. I’m just surprised.

  Didn’t think she had it in her.

  With every step of hers, various forms of revenge on her booty call percolate in my brain. An image of him strung up by his thumbs while being waxed by several no-nonsense attendants strangely comforts me.

  God, are those the shoes with the flash of red on the bottom? Fuck, yes.

  Kendall’s so practiced in acting just right that she exits with flair, hair swinging and petite body wiggling. She smiles and waves at the doorman in livery, then slides into her Lyft as if she has another date in ten minutes.

  Leaving me in a puddle of wuss.

  I can’t help but stand and vacantly gaze at the foyer where she just left. What am I searching for, a shimmering after-image of her remaining mid-air? She left, asshole.

  The truth is I always do this whenever she’s around. Look for her. Watch where she went. I don’t know why, and it’s messed up, because she thinks I’m pond scum. Admittedly, I don’t have a great track record around this woman. But every time I see her, it affects me. Like a hit from a Tesla coil.

  Zap.

  Right between the eyes.

  Other places too.

  I’m not sorry. I’m a guy, and I can’t help but notice Kendall and her flouncy auburn hair and banging body, but she’s been so untouchable I don’t even try. You’d think I’d be sated judging by the thongs in my pocket, but you’d be wrong.

  Way wrong.

  “So, Drew. How many?”

  Narrowing my eyes at Pete the bellhop, I cock my head to the side and shake it while my heart shrinks. The one time Little Miss Priss deigns to talk to me in a downright chummy tone, and these ass wipes have to ruin it.

  I open my mouth to smart off to him, but I can’t. Pete and his crew have seen some of my finer moments and gotten me out of more than one scrape. Still, I’m as irritated as a hungry, hissing opossum—if opossums wore yesterday’s jeans—who can’t get to his cat food.

  But since Kendall has disappeared, I force a smile, turn to Pete, and lean my elbow on the concierge counter, my hair falling into my eyes. Carlos and Horace crowd behind him, backed by suitcase after suitcase of designer luggage. To the right, sleepy early-morning travelers check out. The lobby has elegantly placed gourds and pumpkins on counters and tables in preparation for Halloween.

  In some ways, the Huntington Hotel has become my second home, which I admit is pathetic. If you knew my relatives, though, you’d understand. Ever since I discovered condoms and pseudonyms I’ve been coming here, in more ways than one.

  But he asked a question. I’m not so stoked about what happened upstairs—I couldn’t get anywhere, to be honest—but I have a reputation to uphold—and a room to put on my tab. Holding up the lacy things and dangling them just out of his reach, I say, “Three. The twins and their friend.”

  While they all grin knowingly, an Army Ranger-looking dude halts his journey through the lobby like he’s yanked the e-brake on a manual transmission car. Nasty prickles run down my spine. I hope he’s no one special.

  But Fate thinks my life is her own personal—and very entertaining—reality show.

  With the pissed expression on the Hulk’s granite-chiseled face, I’d rather have a few blocks between us.

  No such luck.

  He’s ten feet away.

  He points. “What twins? What friend? Where did you get that La Perla?”

  Uh-oh.

  I guess filmy turquoise three-hundred-and-forty-dollar underwear is easy to spot if you know what you’re looking for.

  Carlos and Horace each grab a Louis Vuitton bag and exit, stage left. As the adrenaline levels spike in my body, I size up army dude.

  The deep bass of his voice makes his crew cut and beefy arms—which are about as big as my legs—even more intimidating.

  While I’ve spent the last year or two getting my health under control and I’m proud of my new physique, I’m calculating the odds of being able to take him on solo, since Pete has also faded into the background.

  Slim to none.

  Chances of me being ground into hops and made into an IPA at the Deschutes Brewery next door?

  Seven to two.

  Shit.

  Yes, I know. I really shouldn’t answer army dude’s question. I should turn, walk away, and meet Josh for breakfast.

  But since I’m an idiot, tired as fuck from last night, and don’t know how to save my own hide, I say, with blood pumping in my ears, “Upstairs.”

  The next few seconds would be comical if they didn’t involve a chance of getting my spine yanked out my ass. As his face drops, I see the words get processed in his brain along with the other three pieces of information in there. Yes, dumbfuck, I ended up with your girlfriend’s panties last night.

  He speaks slowly, since he’s a meathead. “I gave Sadie Vandenberg a pair like those.”

  Here’s the sad truth. Nothing happened last night. Sadie, Dana, and Chelsea had a girls’ night out, and I caught them at a club downtown. Actually, when I saw them, I was stoked, because I thought Chelsea Buchanan might want to design a collection for my company, but they were too far gone to talk business. We ended up at the hotel with three bottles of Cristal and a game of truth or dare. They picked dare, which is why I have their delicates. But they were too drunk to touch.

  I stayed until they passed out, made sure they were safe, dozed off around four a.m., and came to about five minutes before I saw Kendall.

  Kendall.

  Focus, dude. Do you really want to get your ass kicked before breakfast?

  I don’t respond, faking nonchalance, but his eyes harden and he continues, “And she texted me a picture of the Buchanan twins sitting o
n your lap last night at Club Styx.”

  With a situation like this, there’s only one thing to do.

  I yawn, scratch my belly, and zero in on this guy’s face turning from pink to red to purple.

  “Later, Pete. Guys.” I lift my chin toward the bellhops, spin on my heels, and take off running like Usain Bolt across the marble-floored lobby and out into the cold, misty morning.

  Feet thunder behind me.

  Fuck.

  3

  Drew

  “I’d sell a testicle for biscuits and gravy. I’m not kidding, either.” Our waiter sets down our plates with an unnecessary flourish. He leaves, and I eye my breakfast with distaste. “Fucking diabetes.”

  I’m sitting with my best friend Josh at this Cajun joint just over the Burnside Bridge from downtown. Groups of all-nighters crowd the place, drinking Bloody Marys garnished with bacon and eating cheesy grits, fried catfish, and mac and cheese. Every day, Le Bistro Montage provides a central space to nurse more hangovers than anywhere else in Multnomah County, so I know about six people out of every ten, at least by sight.

  I’m getting a lot of nods and people slapping my back, most of whom know my name, but I don’t know theirs. Good to see you, guy with the face. My conversation with Josh is also punctuated by white-clad waiters calling out, “One oyster shooter!” to the kitchen. It smells like butter and foodgasms.

  Josh shovels in his first bite of shrimp and grits, closes his eyes in satisfaction, opens them, and gives me a sympathetic grin. Fucker. “If it weren’t for the fact that you know what it’s like to be in a diabetic coma, I’d share this with you.”

  My body hurts with the memory. “This is true, my boy. This is true. Nothing like a few extra ketones in your blood to make you never wanna go there again. Still, I feel like a loser ordering an egg white omelet with spinach.”

  Gesturing at my mug with his fork, Josh adds, “And black coffee.”

  “Don’t remind me.” I almost gag looking at the slice of tomato. Two servings of biscuits and gravy get delivered to the couple next to us, and I stare at them, slack-eyed with longing.

  The plates, not the couple.

  Being responsible bites.

  Not that I’m always responsible, but I can say I’m genuinely trying these days.

  Josh catches the look on my face and bursts out laughing. “Better to suck it up with a few vegetables than the alternative. I’m glad to have you around even with your sour attitude.”

  “Yeah.” What he doesn’t say, but I know he means, is that it was damn scary. For both of us. I check my sugars, then grab the hot sauce in an attempt to salvage my breakfast.

  If you haven’t met him, my best friend Joshua Aden Cartwright is basically Clark Kent, but his superpower involves his dick and the internet. Not that I look at his dick often.

  Let me start over.

  Josh is the brother I never had. I grew up with him, we got each other in trouble in school—okay, it was mostly me getting him in trouble—and now he’s a successful architect with a beautiful wife, Evie. Josh and his better half have a hit TV show, but he became internet-famous for taking me up on a dare to show his schlong to a woman. Josh being Josh, i.e. fastidious, he ended up designing whole cityscapes based on his junk. You’d have to see it to believe it.

  Not that I check it out.

  Anywho, he’s given all that up, and now he’s on the straight and narrow. Although judging by his famous dick pics that still float around cyberspace, he’s more girthy than narrow.

  And that’s TMI even for me.

  Moving along.

  Should I talk to Josh about seeing Kendall?

  Nah. As much as I want to, I’d have to mention her doing the walk of shame, and that doesn’t seem like something she’d want getting out.

  Besides, he’s an old married man now and his wife would tell the Kenster. Some things aren’t meant to be shared. I’m not used to keeping shit from Josh, though, so I tell him about every other part of the past twelve hours or so.

  “So what happened after Robocop caught you with lingerie that wasn’t rightfully yours?”

  “I earned those knickers fair and square.” He raises an eyebrow, and I continue. “I had the element of surprise on my side. Or maybe it’s that I’m fifty pounds lighter. I’m fleet-footed. These days, people mistake me for a gazelle.”

  Josh gives me the stink-eye and sips his coffee. “You forget I’ve seen you on the treadmill.”

  I ignore his dis. “He chased me for about a block, but gave up fast, so I circled back and got in the Maserati and took off.”

  “Let me get this straight. You had a chance at three women last night, but didn’t get laid.”

  Given how drunk they were, getting laid wasn’t an option.

  Frankly, all thoughts of those girls are crowded out by Kendall looking so damn feisty and hot, trying to put herself back together after doing the nasty with that tool.

  She could do way better. I bet he doesn’t even own a razor.

  I’m not sure why I care.

  “I don’t wanna answer that,” I mutter. “I’m too old for this shit, but it keeps happening to me.”

  He tugs his glasses down his nose and stares at me over the rims. “You stay out all night, but don’t have a good time, don’t have any meaningful relationships, and almost get your ass kicked before the sun is fully in the sky. Maybe you need to reconsider your life choices.”

  Ouch.

  This is the kind of judgment I get on the reg from my family. But coming from Josh, it’s different, and even though it hurts, he’s right.

  I’m not one to navel-gaze, but mornings like this are unsustainable.

  Hell, my life is unsustainable. Just giving a rundown of the bartenders I know by first name would take hours. Still, I’ve made some major progress.

  I open my arms wide, bring them in, and point both index fingers down like a rapper at my mediocre meal. “If this doesn’t say our little Drew is growing up, I’m not sure what does.”

  “If you judge your life by an omelet, you’re even more of an asshole than I thought.”

  “Aww, thanks for the compliment,” I coo.

  But it’s not just the food in my life that’s changed. I’ve thrown out alcohol altogether. Getting so blackout drunk I lost a few days of my life made me get serious. I’ve been sober for several months, but Josh is the only one who knows.

  Even last night, I drank cran-and-soda, not vodka cran, and left the champagne to the ladies.

  Although it wasn’t as much fun as it normally is.

  Dammit. Maybe I am getting old. I’m pushing thirty, and as much as Josh and Evie’s doe-eyes make me ill, I’ll admit I’m jealous. None of the three girls last night had girlfriend potential—especially since one has a boyfriend.

  And the one this morning? What a pain in my dick. I get enough shit from my family, I don’t need her.

  I have no idea why Evie insists Kendall was so much fun growing up. That Debbie Downer’s got a stick so high up her ass, it’s lodged in her brain. She’s constantly telling me to fuck off or arguing for the sake of arguing. If I say her dress is white, she’ll say it’s cream. Eye roll.

  Since she’s never given me a chance—and maybe I haven’t deserved it—we’ve gone together like Vaseline and sandpaper.

  All that attitude comes in an astonishingly beautiful package, though. Have you seen those tits? Fuck. She’s tiny, but they’re nicely proportioned. High and perky.

  I bet they’re totally suckable—

  “So.” Josh swallows. “I have a proposition for you.”

  I adjust myself slightly in my seat. “Sorry, dude, but my heart belongs to my Bee.”

  My phone pings, and it’s a text from Frankie, my assistant who works on Saturdays. Not sure what I did to deserve her, but I’m keeping her. I text an okay for the purchase order and turn back to Josh.

  He sets down his fork. “Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”

  “Show up at
your parents’ shindig uninvited, like always.” I put my elbows on the table, lace my fingers together, and place my chin on my hands, batting my eyelashes at him.

  “What do you think about going up to the new cabin? The renovations will be done by then.”

  Huh? “On Mount Hood? Sure. Just you?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “No. Thanksgiving is for family. I wanted to do something for Evie, make it extra-special, so I figured we’d bring her dad and invite Kendall, and you could hang with us from Thursday to Sunday. That way I can get Evie away from the city to relax. You know how driven my wife is.”

  I am not excited.

  I’ll do anything for Josh. He’s everything I want to be—admired, loved, responsible. Well, except for the proclivity to show off his dick.

  But four days stuck with his father-in-law and angry Tinkerbell while Josh fucks his wife? No, thanks.

  Let’s see. Since I’ve known Kendall, she’s yelled at me, lectured me, ignored me, talked over my head, talked down to me, and made sure that there was no chance in hell I’d ever be able to touch her.

  Kendall’s like a gorgeous IRS auditor—she’s out to prove me wrong, but the words that come out of her mouth make me hard. I can’t help but smart off to her, which makes smoke billow from her ears and her fists clench before she stomps off.

  While I cackle.

  And hide my chub.

  I can only imagine how Thanksgiving will go down. Josh and Evie in newlywed heaven. Their dog Chauncey scratching his ass by the fireplace. Evie’s dad watching football. And Kendall slicing off my balls with whatever cutlery she finds in the cabin.

  I smile. “Sure, dude. Anything you want.”

  And as he tells me about the appliances he installed and all the views of the great Oregon wilderness, I plot my escape.

  4

  Kendall

  Sitting in my car outside of my parents’ house, I tap out another message to my best friend.

  Kendall: What about lunch on Thursday?