The Neanderthal Box Set: A Workplace Romance, 2020 Revised and Expanded Edition

by Reid, Penny

  I sat in one of the large chairs, and Fiona handed me a bottle of water. “Keep hydrated,” she said, smiling.

  “It won’t fit in your suitcase.” Ashley’s voice carried from where she was standing behind the bar, going through all the alcohol choices. “This place is off the chain. They have a bottle of Royal Salute up here.”

  “Holy crap!” Marie walked over. “That’s like a thousand dollars.”

  Elizabeth walked in, flopped into the chair across from mine. “What is Royal Salute?”

  “It’s thirty-eight-year-old scotch,” Ashley responded, then whistled. “I’m not touching it. I don’t even have a thousand dollars in my savings account.”

  “How many ounces is it?” I asked.

  “It says seven hundred milliliters.”

  I did the math in my head, converting milliliters to ounces and dividing the bottle cost by number of shots. “That’s sixty dollars a shot.”

  “Well, hell. I can afford that.” Ashley grinned.

  Elizabeth winked at me, and I smiled even though I was starting to feel a little unsettled. Maybe it was because the lemon drops were wearing off.

  I glanced down at the huge antique ruby ring on my finger and, in my brain, I took a long look around me and thought about the last few hours—the room, the limo ride, the first class tickets—and realized that this was my life now.

  I was marrying Quinn, but I was also marrying his bank account.

  The thought didn’t fill me with excitement. It filled me with dread.

  * * *

  We caught a show that night. Then we gambled and drank and danced in the club on the top of the casino. Then we passed out. No one objected to sleeping late the next morning.

  I crawled out of my room around 12:30 p.m. and was the third person up. Fiona and Ashley were also awake, and they’d already been to breakfast, the pool, shopping, and returned. Neither of them were typically big drinkers so it made sense that they didn’t have much of a hangover.

  I didn’t have a hangover either, but sleeping in felt good. We’d gotten back to the hotel room after 3:00 a.m. and, without sleep, I was like a malfunctioning Internet search engine. You could ask me a question about moon phases, and I’d come back with information about how to make homemade marshmallows.

  Everyone else joined the land of the living over the next half hour, at which point I was informed that we all had an afternoon and evening of bliss planned at the hotel spa. Again, the entire spa had been reserved. I felt a lot spoiled and a little irritated that I was the only one who seemed to be experiencing dissonance with the level of luxury.

  I’d never been to a spa before. I’d never had a massage or a facial, and I’d certainly never been waxed anywhere. Sometimes I’d painted my own nails or given myself a pedicure. I usually thought of grooming as standard maintenance, like cleaning out and vacuuming your car. I supposed a day at the spa was like getting a tune-up or an oil change.

  Regardless, this experience felt extreme and a little like being a piece of meat prepared for dinner. I was stripped, plucked, cleaned, tenderized, seasoned, boiled, and dressed.

  When we arrived, we were told to take off everything but our underwear. The attendant gave us plush terry cloth bathrobes and slippers, lovely against the skin. Everyone was on a different schedule. I started with a ninety-minute massage. Next, I had a soak in a mud bath, a mineral bath, a body scrub, then eyebrow waxing and a facial.

  I was disoriented and dizzy, a mixture of relaxed and overwhelmed, when I was shown into a large room and told to sit in a very official looking chair with a tub at my feet. I was glad to see that all the other girls were already there getting pedicures and wearing similarly dazed expressions.

  Except Sandra.

  She was beaming and talking animatedly. I caught the tail end of the conversation, “…article where they placed jewels around it. Jewels! Can you imagine? It’s called vagazzled.”

  “That’s crazy.” Ashley was knitting while her feet were being pampered. “And stupid. Who would want jewels glued to their skin around their vagina?”

  “Maybe some women have ugly vaginas,” Sandra shrugged, sipped her water.

  We’d all been drinking water since over consuming the night before.

  “To a heterosexual man, there is no such thing as an ugly vagina,” Elizabeth interjected. “Although I personally find them very strange looking.”

  “Okay, show of hands, who here gets their junk waxed?” Sandra asked and raised her hand.

  I glanced around, saw that Kat, Marie, and Elizabeth had also raised their hands.

  Sandra squinted at Fiona. “Really? Greg doesn’t complain? He doesn’t want you to skin the peach?”

  “Skin the peach?” Fiona lifted an eyebrow at the phrase.

  “Yeah, skin the peach, peal the kiwi, groom the cat, mow the lawn, trim the topiary, clip the hedge, scale the tuna?” Sandra’s recitation of waxing euphemisms impressed us all.

  “I prefer to say shearing the sheep,” Ashley said.

  “That’s because you’re from Tennessee and like farming references.” Sandra, I knew, was purposefully trying to heckle Ashley. Ashley, of course, knew it too. She ignored the attempted heckle.

  “No, it’s because it’s a knitting reference. Get it? Shearing the sheep? Carding the wool?”

  “Oh! That’s a good one.” Elizabeth smiled and lifted her water bottle like she was toasting Ashley.

  “What about defuzzing the sweater?” Kat added, looking thoughtful. “You know, when sweaters get those balls of fuzz.”

  “Wouldn’t that be de-pilling the sweater?” Sandra asked.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it. I like defuzzing the sweater better.”

  “I feel like Zamboni has a place in this conversation….” I said, trying to think of a good waxing euphemism including a Zamboni. “But I just can’t think of how it could be used.”

  “De-icing the rink?” Marie offered.

  Everyone shook their head then stared thoughtfully at nothing.

  Then Kat broke the short silence and said, “Another way to say vagazzled is lighting the landing strip.”

  “That’s good!” Sandra nodded enthusiastically, “I’m going to use that. Maybe figure out how to add the word cockpit to it.”

  “What was your original point?” Fiona lifted her eyes to Sandra.

  “Oh, I was saying, doesn’t Greg complain about your hairy-kari?”

  Fiona shrugged. “When would I have the time or opportunity to worry about harvesting the wheat and leaving decorative crop circles? I have two kids. I’m lucky if I shave my legs.”

  “Harvesting the wheat!” Marie gave Fiona a long distance high five then added, “Genius!”

  “What about you, Janie?” Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at me. I didn’t know if she did this to see me better, try to be intimidating, or because she was still drunk from the night before.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you going to start vacuuming the carpet now that you’re getting married?”

  I frowned, twisted my lips to the side, and considered the question.

  I had no idea.

  I hadn’t thought about it. Aside from my lust for sexy shoes, I was exceptionally low maintenance. I shaved, but had never considered waxing.

  “Maybe. I’ll try anything once.” I shrugged at last.

  “Anything?” Sandra’s smile paired with her eye squint made me nervous.

  “Almost anything,” I amended.

  Then she asked, “What about a sperm facial?”

  “Sandra!” Fiona looked and sounded shocked.

  “Is that what the kids are calling it?” Marie said, smirking.

  Fiona wasn’t done. “Really, is that necessary?”

  “No, really, it’s a real thing! I promise!” Sandra held her hands up, her eyes wide.

  Then one of the lovely ladies giving us our pedicures spoke up. “It’s true. It’s a real thing. Heather Lockl
ear gets them. We have them here. We use whale sperm.”

  The room was silent for a very, very long moment as we all wore mirrored expressions, except Sandra. She looked vindicated.

  “Whale sperm?” Kat sounded horrified. “Whale…sperm?”

  “But how….” I tried to imagine the logistics of whale sperm extraction. “How do they get the sperm out of the whale?”

  “Wetsuits?” Marie offered between giggles. She glanced and Ashley and they both burst out laughing.

  “This is disgusting.” Fiona shook her head, but the effect of her indignation was ruined by her poorly hidden laughter. “I can’t…I can’t even….”

  “Have you lost your ability to can?” Sandra asked Fiona.

  “Actually, it makes sense.” Elizabeth, like me, wasn’t laughing. She was glancing at the ceiling, and I could tell she was thinking critically about sperm facials. “Spermine, which is a component of semen, is high in anti-oxidants. It makes sense that it can be used to smooth out wrinkles. It’s high in proteins, too.”

  Ashley made a gagging sound then said, “Cockroaches are also full of protein, but you don’t seem me mashing them up and putting them on my face.”

  “But the type of protein matters,” Elizabeth said, defending her position.

  “See, this is why Elizabeth and Janie are BFFs.” Sandra winked at me. “Janie wants to know the mechanics of the process, and Elizabeth is critically thinking about the medicinal benefits.”

  “Can we please talk about something else?” Fiona shivered, her face a grimace. “Someone, quick, change the subject.”

  Sandra shrugged. “I’ve also heard of a spa treatment where they use fish to eat the dead skin off your feet.”

  “Oh my God! Stop with the spa treatments!” Ashley glared at her knitting like it was offensive, her hand movements jerky. “No more. No more discussion of weird spa treatments allowed. You’re harshing my mellow with talk of whale sperm in the face and skin-eating fish.”

  The room plunged into silence except for the sound of splashing water and knitting needles clicking. I glanced at Elizabeth, and we shared a small smile. Then I looked at Sandra and knew, I just knew she had one more weird spa-related treatment to share. I wondered if she’d made a point to look them up before we left.

  Just when I thought she was going to let it go, Sandra blurted, “Then I guess I won’t bring up the nun urine.”

  “Sandra!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  *Quinn*

  We were in the desert shooting machine guns when I got the first text.

  I glanced at the screen of my phone. When I read the message, I secured my weapon, placed it back on the stand, and walked out of the shooting range.

  Then four new messages arrived all at the same time. Each one was more strange and alarming than the one before it.

  The texts told me that the ladies were on their way to Elvis’ Wedding Chapel of Burning Love. According to Stan, someone was getting married and he needed help. Also, they were taking off their clothes.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I tried calling Stan for a status, but he didn’t pick up his cell.

  “Shit.” I glared at the text messages, reading them again.

  Nico came up behind me and stopped at my side. He glanced from me to the phone. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Read this.” I showed him the texts. His eyes narrowed when he read the last two.

  His eyes lifted to mine. It was one of the few times I’d seen him frown. “We should go.”

  Ten minutes later Dan, Nico, and I were aboard the helicopter and on our way back to Las Vegas. The trip took less than twenty minutes. Nico checked his watch fifty times.

  I instructed the pilot to land on the Circus, Circus helipad instead of the one on the Excalibur. Google maps told me the older casino was just a block from Elvis’s Wedding Chapel of Burning Love.

  We were still in our fatigues. I took off my outer shirt, and the other guys followed suit, leaving us in camouflage cargo pants and green T-shirts. It was hotter in the city than it had been in the desert. Also, the button-down long-sleeve shirt suddenly reminded me of a straightjacket.

  We jogged from the helipad, down the stairs and straight to the elevator. Dan, who’d been quiet the whole time, was pacing the small box the entire ride down.

  He only stopped to say, “What the hell is going on?” Then he hit the mirrored elevator wall with an open palm.

  I was continuously speed-dialing Stan’s cell but it kept clicking over to voicemail.

  I wasn’t panicked.

  I was irritated.

  Assigning three guards instead of one was my initial plan. I should have listened to my instincts.

  I didn’t think they were in danger from other people, but—all together, in Vegas, likely drunk—they were definitely a danger to themselves. Stan’s radio silence concerned me most. My guess was that he’d been separated from his phone by one of the ladies.

  Nico bolted out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open. Dan followed. I was last. The sounds and chaos of the casino made me flinch. These places were mazes, meant to keep people on the floor, spending their money.

  As soon as we were outside, Nico glanced at me for direction. I pointed and we jogged toward the chapel. I was a faster runner than the other two, and when the sign came into view, I sprinted.

  I pulled open the door to the chapel, bracing myself. I didn’t know what to expect, but I suspected that it would be crazy.

  I was right.

  Everyone, including Elvis, was wearing their underwear, and Stan was nowhere in sight. They were all dancing, and irritating boy band music was blaring from the sound system.

  My eyes searched for Janie and found her. She had on a veil, a sash that said, I’m getting hitched, a white lace underwear set, and zebra print stilettos. She was laughing and she was drunk.

  Seeing that she was unharmed, I took stock of the situation.

  Elvis and Kat were dancing, and he was holding her waist.

  Sandra was standing on a pew and lip-synching. Next to her was a man I didn’t know and had never seen. His hands were all over her, and he wore a shirt that said I married Sandra Fielding and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. He had stripped down to his boxers—no pants.

  Janie and Ashley were dancing with each other…and they were touching.

  I groaned then grimaced.

  It was innocent touching—holding hands, hugging, bumping their asses together—but it was still happening, and I saw it.

  I was now grateful that Janie sent me away from her panty dance parties. I don’t care how devoted you are to your woman, you see two ladies as hot as Janie Morris and Ashley Winston in lace underwear dancing with each other, it’s going to leave a lasting impression.

  Marie and Elizabeth were also dancing together; it looked like the tango, and Marie had the lead.

  “Oh my goodness!” This sounded like Ermergoodnish because Sandra slurred it. She pointed at me and yelled above the music, “You came in costume!”

  I glanced at my T-shirt, cargo pants, and boots. Just then, Nico and Dan flew into the room, stopped short, and looked around.

  I glanced between Sandra and Kat, tried to decide which one to extract first. Dan charged over to Elvis and made the decision for me.

  “Get your hands off her,” Dan snarled, pushing him against the wall. He stared at him for a moment before turning to Kat and lifting her in his arms.

  This left a stunned Elvis with his hands raised in surrender. “Hey, hey—sorry.”

  I gritted my teeth, glared at Elvis. “Turn off the music.”

  The impersonator, still in a posture of surrender, skirted along the wall toward the sound system controls. I was gratified that he moved quickly.

  While he did this, I took three large steps and lifted Sandra off the pew and away from the unknown male. She didn’t protest, but he did.

  “Hey—hey, man.”

  “Shut
up.” I passed Sandra to Nico, then turned back to the man and sized him up. He was already scrambling down from the bench.

  He was in his late fifties, approximately five foot eleven, and unnaturally tan. His skin looked like it had been painted on. He wore a large diamond stud in one ear, and his blond comb-over reminded me of Donald Trump.

  “I don’t know you,” I said. “You don’t touch her.”

  “Hey man, we’re married.”

  The music stopped; the chapel fell abruptly silent.

  “What did you say?” I said, stalking closer.

  He swallowed and his eyes ricocheted around the room. “I, uh, said…uh, we’re married…?”

  As he said this, he held up a piece of paper. I snatched it out of his hand and read it. He was right. It was a marriage license, and Sandra’s name was printed in the bride box. She’d signed it.

  I lifted just my eyes to the man then ripped the paper in two. “Not anymore. Put on some pants and get the hell out of here.”

  He flinched then nodded, edging away.

  My eyes flickered over him before I added, “And leave the shirt.”

  He nodded faster and pulled the shirt over his head, tossed it to a bench, and grabbed his pants but didn’t put them on before he ran out the door.

  All eyes turned to me, and I studied each of their faces.

  Alarm twisted my gut. They didn’t look drunk. They looked stoned.

  I crossed the room to Janie; she was leaning against Ashley. I took her chin in my fingers and peered into her eyeballs. As I suspected, her pupils were dilated.

  “What the hell…?”

  Marie stumbled forward. “Heya Quinn, whatzup?” She slapped me on the back. “Areya here for the wedding?”

  I glared at her. “What did you take?”

  Sandra burst into a fit of giggles, and would have fallen on her ass if Nico didn’t help her sit on bench. “I think it was…the shocolate.” She covered her face with her hands. She was still laughing.

  Nico moved to Elizabeth and was studying her eyes too. “Hey, Bella, are you okay?”

  Her head nod was over exaggerated. “I’m grrrrrrrreat!”