by Ann Denton
The attorney sighs and rubs his brow. “I’m sorry. Danny’s had issues since he was younger. When he didn’t make the Olympics for tennis, everything kind of snowballed. He’s been diagnosed as a compulsive liar. He doesn’t mean to. But the lies just come out. Often. I’m so sorry about that.”
“Does he really work for a party planning place?” I ask.
Mr. Walsh shrugs, “Maybe he did last week. Dunno. Probably not. He goes through jobs like a kid goes through cookies.”
Heather’s waxed eyebrows shoot up. “So, he’s addicted to lying and can’t hold down a job?”
She doesn’t say it. But I can imagine ‘winner’ sarcastically echoing in her head and being telepathically projected at me.
Mr. Walsh shakes his head. “The psychologist said he doesn’t have ulterior motives. I think it started as a habit. And he just can’t stop.” He sighs. “He really was amazing at tennis, though. Wasted potential.”
“That’s sad,” I shake my head. The poor hot Ken-doll man is messed up in the head.
Mr. Walsh shakes his head in agreement. Then he holds his hand out to Heather. “I’ll see you next week, once you’ve opened the accounts we’ve discussed. Then we can finalize paperwork.”
Heather nods and guides me and my slumped shoulders outside.
We climb into her brand-new, cherry red Caddy. (Heather would not listen to anyone who told her this was a granny car. It was her granny’s dream car and, by extension, hers. And now she has it.) So, we be ballin’ like Nana Graham.
I stroke the leather seats and shove aside thoughts of the sexy Liar-Pants-On-Fire. I definitely don’t want to see his pants burn to a crisp and reveal his muscular thighs and his—I shake my head to stop that thought. Nope. I refuse to let myself ogle a liar. Even just in my thoughts. In order to distract myself, I ask Heather, “So, how you gonna invest all this money?”
Heather shakes her head. “That was a whole lotta gobble-de-gook.”
“Right?”
She sighs. “The car’s fun. But that, that was—”
“Not fun,” I supply.
She nods. “Way complicated. I’ve gotta set up like seven new bank accounts this week.” She blows out a raspberry.
I smile. “How about Braum’s burgers and ice cream? My treat.”
We go through the drive thru and back to the little house I rent with two other women. Nobody’s home, so Heather and I set up at the dining table and I prop my feet up on an empty chair as we eat juicy burgers.
“Winning the lottery should be exciting and fun and, like, carefree,” Heather grumbles, pulling out a pickle and nibbling on it. “That asshat lawyer made me feel like an idiot for not having all this shit set up already. Like, dude, I just won.”
I shrug as I take a final bite of my burger. “’Mo’ money, mo’ problems.’” Like I know or something.
She blows another raspberry. That seems to be a thing this afternoon. “What would you do with the money?”
I think about it as I stir my vanilla ice cream. “I dunno. Buy a house? But I’m not an adventurer. You are. What’s like … your ultimate fantasy?” I picture her on some yacht cruising around the world. Maybe even racing someone to make it more exciting. Heather loves to win.
Me? I just love peace and quiet when I’m not working. I’m around people all day at work. They buzz at you like hornets hopped up on meth. They want this and that and the other. By the end of the day, my ears just want silence. A house without roommates sounds awesome.
Heather eats her peach-jalapeno ice cream for a minute before she answers my question. I know the exact moment she figures it out, because she gets this shit-eating grin on her face.
“What?”
She bites her lip and widens her eyes at me suggestively.
Immediately, I retract my feet into my own seat. Whenever Heather starts to look like that, we’re in for trouble.
“I have an idea. Of something I’d really like. But … I’d need help. What if I hired you, Katie?” Heather shrugs nonchalantly.
Whenever Heather tries to be casual, it means she’s about to try to talk me into strolling into crazytown with her.
“You already gave me a loan. I’m not taking any more of your damn money. If this is some trick to give me more—”
“It’s not! I really need your help!”
I study her suspiciously, “Hire me for what, exactly?”
She stands, goes to my bookshelf, and grabs a book. She comes back and tosses it on the table. I quickly snatch it up.
“That is a signed copy of The Lost and the Chosen!” I scold.
She nods. “It’s one of your dirty romance books, right?”
I arch a brow, “Not just any romance.”
“It’s the harem one, right?”
“You mean reverse harem?” They’re my guilty pleasure. One woman. Lots of men. Hot sweaty sex. What’s not to love?
Heather nods toward the book and takes another bite of ice cream. She swallows and swings her spoon through the air. “I want that.”
“What?” I’m lost, even though there’s an intuitive pit in my stomach opening up. She’s about to lead me down the rabbit hole. And my body’s just prepping for the fall.
“I want a harem. Of dudes.”
I watch her for a long minute, waiting for the punchline. She doesn’t give me one.
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah. I’m a millionaire now. Why the fuck not? Why settle for one guy? Have a couple and when one pisses me off, just bounce to the next for a couple days.”
She says this as if that is emotionally possible. Of course, Heather’s been … different since her divorce. She’s always been full of piss and vinegar, as my grandma liked to say. Her divorce only made that manifest tenfold. Me—on the other hand—I’m all sugar and spice. At least on the surface of things.
Heather’s eyes narrow on me when I’m not immediately enthusiastic. “You love those books. Don’t you want one, too? After you help me get mine, we can totally get you one.”
I shake my head and bite my thick bottom lip. “Nope. I’m good, thanks.” Today is the perfect example of why I can’t handle guys. I was totally into the liar. Completely buying everything he said. I’m too gullible. Not to mention there’s Jeremy. He’s my secret fuck-buddy and I can’t even handle him.
Think of the devil … my phone buzzes with a text. It’s Jeremy.
When are you free?
I tuck my phone onto my lap so Heather can’t see. I text: Can’t tonight.
I get a dick pic in response. I roll my eyes.
“Who’s that?” Heather’s leaning over the table. She grabs my phone before I can stop her. Her eyes widen. “You told me you ended things!”
I bite my lip guiltily. “Jeremy sucks as a boyfriend but … needs.” I shrug weakly.
Heather narrows her eyes and texts Jeremy back. I don’t even fight her. Then she says, “You don’t need him. You need your own harem. We’re totally doing this. I can hire your company and you can set up all kinds of crazy dates for me. OOOHHHH! I know. We can go to an island. Like one of those dating shows! And you can coordinate it! It will be amazing! Totally bomb.”
My chest tightens with a combination of panic and excitement. “Umm…”
Heather starts rattling things off. “We can have group dinners, group dates, individual. Ooh, we can have like team-building exercises. And like secret challenges! OMG. It will be the best. You can help me make it the best, right?”
“Are you sure that’s what—”
“Totally sure.”
My mind starts to whirl with possibilities. Visions of what could be sparkle in my mind like little tiny diamonds. My eyes meet Heather’s. She’s so full of energy that if I touched her right now, I’m sure I’d get a shock. And all that energy is focused on me.
Can I pull this off? Could I organize something like this? It’s gonna be big and wild and expensive. But it’ll also be the most exciting thing I’ve ever done
my whole life.
I bite my lip and give a slow nod. Heather jumps up, tosses my phone on the table, and starts jumping up and down. “I’m gonna get a harem! I’m gonna get a harem!” she chants in a sing-song voice.
I smile and shake my head as I pick up my phone, and as I expected, Heather’s text to Jeremy says: It’s over.
That text is true for pretty much every part of my old life. It’s over. And if Heather has anything to say about it, my future is about to become an impossible cyclone of whirling, swirling crazy.
Chapter Four
Motherfucker! The people who run those dating shows do not have it easy, I think to myself as I get yet another quote for private islands. It looks like Heather’s gonna have to shell out about eighty grand a night. Fuck. That thought makes me want to puke a little. That’s almost three years of work at my old job.
Doc Stife has left messages. He doesn’t really believe I’m quitting. But I’m so glad I am. I always meant to go out and do something else. But then the recession hit. And one thing that’s a sure bet in Oklahoma is that people have let their mouths rot to hell. So, they end up needing the dentist.
Party planning? That was just a pipe dream. Just a fun little thing to daydream about while I stared at teeth with more holes than swiss cheese.
In the last forty-eight hours, that daydream has become a reality. And it’s awesome, terrifying, and overwhelming. I feel like I’m walking the tightrope over Niagra Falls like those crazy men did on TV before the internet took over. You only watched them waiting for a disaster to happen. I’m them. I’m trying to defy the odds and get this shit right on the first shot. I’m checking and double checking, and triple checking everything.
Heather wants a Bachelorette-style experience. She wants dresses and planned dates and excursions. She wants a bunch of hot guys to choose from. And I’m coordinating it all with four lists and over a thousand checklist items.
Whenever something gets boring—a lot of checklist items include ensuring we have belly medicine and passports—or the money side of things starts to make my stomach churn, I pull up a tab on my brand-new laptop and go back to searching for hot guys for the harem.
I have a dating service providing some, but I know what Heather likes—and more importantly, what the bitch actually needs—so I’ve been searching for younger doctors who’ll be uptight enough to offset Heather’s unique brand of psycho. She needs someone semi-rigid who’ll indulge her but be busy enough to do their own thing.
I pat myself on the back when one guy named Andrew, a cutie with freckles who’s working on being a surgeon, DMs me a ‘yes.’
Score! I fist pump and stand up to dance around my living room. Heather walks in to find me shaking my ass in silence, celebrating my future brother-in-law, my future title as matchmaker of the century, and the basic brilliance that is me. I wave at her to join the silliness. When I notice her with her phone up, recording me, I freeze.
My hands lower in slow motion. “No, you didn’t!”
“This is Insta-gold!”
I tackle her. “I just got a super-hottie signed up for your harem-quest, so you delete that shit right now or I’ll take him back, missy!”
We play fight on the crappy green shag carpet until we find a cheeto that was somehow hidden in all the shag. It’s so old the cheese is gone, and it looks like a deformed miniature finger.
“Gag! You’re moving out of here, like now!” Heather sits up and pushes me off her. She holds up her phone and deletes the awful dance video. “Get your suitcase.”
“Where the hell am I moving?” I ask. “Because it sure as hell won’t be in with you.”
We tried living together after high school. Both of us nearly murdered each other. Our love is best given with a bit of a distance. Or at least with breaks. Which is why I’m getting myself the farthest fucking condo from the chaos on this private island. I don’t want to hear Heather’s wild-monkey orgies with these guys.
And I’m pretty sure she’s planning on orgies. She just added me to her online shopping account so I can use her card to order shit. The girl has ordered enough lube to grease the Holland Tunnel in New York City.
Heather clicks her tongue as she thinks. “I might just rent you an apartment near mine.” She just moved into a swank apartment downtown, near the Blue Dome district, where all the bars and restaurants have that posh, pretend-we’re-not-a-chain-restaurant-even-though-we-are feel to them.
“Um … isn’t it loud at night?” I ask. I’m totally a morning person. “What about something on Riverside?”
“Ugh, that’s for retired people.”
“Well, you’re basically retired now—”
“Ew. Not even.” She sweeps her hair back and I notice new purple peekaboos.
“Look, that’s where I’d like to stay for now. I can pay for it, once you start paying me my salary.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
I spend the rest of the day moving the five bags of crap and the bed I own into an apartment that overlooks the Arkansas River. I realize I only own one chair. I set it up facing the balcony in my empty ass living room. Heather was kind of bothered by that fact when she left.
I don’t really care about furniture right now. I’ve got my own apartment. I’m a fucking party planner. And, in two weeks, I’m gonna be basking in the sun on a private island that comes with its own master chef, watching a gaggle of guys chase after Heather while she preens.
I sit in my lone chair, new laptop on my lap. I click ‘reserve’ on Thais Island in the Caribbean. As I do, I shake my head. Holy fuck. This is really happening.
Heather’s won the lotto and I’m getting her a lotta men. Lott o’ men, I correct myself, chuckling at my own pun. Heather’s getting her own harem of lotto men.
The next two weeks are a shit-show of planning while we wait for Heather’s money to come in. Who knew that so many guys would be cool with a harem relationship? But, like two hundred dudes volunteered on that dating service. So, I’ve had to scroll through making cuts. First round, I watched a lot of videos and read bios. I did that for like thirty guys and cut twenty-eight. But that took me nine hours. Nine! My neck was so sore after that I just starfished on the living room floor with a Salonpas slapped on my skin.
“I hate turning thirty,” I moan as the doorbell rings with my Chinese delivery. I pull my lazy butt to the door and Heather sweeps in past the Chinese delivery dude, all in a huff.
“You know what I just saw?” she asks.
I shake my head as I pay the delivery man.
“Shane Paul was just parading around his new girlfriend at Yokozuna.”
“What’s that?”
“The sushi place!” Heather makes this statement as if it should be obvious. Like I’ve eaten sushi before.
“I’m sure she’s just as trashy as the others.”
Heather’s eyes flash and she swallows hard. I watch as she fights the tears. She and Shane Paul were high school sweethearts. Then he cheated. She forgave him. He cheated again. Since they’ve divorced, he’s paraded around town with an endless line of bimbos.
“You wanna key his car?” That’s been my go-to revenge tactic. Shane Paul’s truck might be ten years old, but it’s still his baby. And since the divorce, we’ve put probably sixty key scratches all over. When the break up was still fresh, we’d even let the air out of the tires.
Heather shakes her head. “I want to do something bigger. I have cash now. What the fuck can I do to him? What do rich people do to get back at each other?”
We spend a good half-hour eating Chinese and searching the internet for revenge tactics. Ultimately, we decide on one. As the sun sets, we head over to the copy shop and pick up the newly designed posters someone on Fiverr made for us. We buy some staple guns and duct tape. Then we head over to Shane Paul’s neighborhood. We staple the signs to every pole we can find. We duct tape them to fences. We giggle like drunk teenagers out toilet papering houses.
The signs sa
y: “Missing: Precious Scrotum. If found, please return to Shane Paul Zurich.” It has a picture of two hairy balls on it, which from far away, could be mistaken for someone’s misshapen dog. It also has Shane Paul’s phone number on it.
We finish posting the last of the signs and then climb into the Caddy. I lean back against the seat and sigh. “I wish we could hack Shane Paul’s phone to listen to the messages he gets.”
Heather smacks the steering wheel. “YASS! We’re gonna do that.”
I shake my head. “How?”
She shrugs. “I dunno. But I’ve got money now. So, we’re gonna find a fucker and get it done.”
It takes until two in the morning, but we do find a fucker. And get it done.
Heather’s vicious look of victory is all the motivation I need to feel like we’ve done the right thing. Or at least, the morally-grey, subjectively right thing. His cheating and their divorce have ripped her up.
I hope to high heaven that this whole harem business can at least help her mend her heart. Fuck. I’m thinking like my grandmother. Well, I hope that at least Heather can get some screaming orgasms out of this and that she’ll get over Shane Paul and that one-true-love crap she’s held onto for too long.
The voicemail messages are solid gold. Every time I see Heather over the next week, she plays them for me.
“Have you looked under your totem for your scrotum?”
“Maybe you left your balls on the playground where you pick up those tramps you bring home. And stop speeding down the street!” Heather laughed when she played that one, saying it was their old neighbor Dane, who hates Shane Paul.
Another message came from an unknown caller. A breathy, phone-sex-worthy male voice said, “Excuse me. I was calling about the lost little scrotum. Is there a reward if I help you find the precious?”
One night, Heather shows me a text photo of some prunes someone left on Shane Paul’s doorstep. She’s pretty sure it was Dane again. A nice note accompanied the prunes. “Returned: Two balls. Slightly used. Reason for return: Did not meet expectations.”
