by Lauren Rowe
“Eh, I’ll be okay. If Jonas tries to attack me, I’ll sic Barry on him.”
“Oh, Barry will be there? Say hi to him for me. I love that guy.”
“Will do. So, hey, I gotta go—we’re at the after-party with the SNL cast—I just stepped outside for a smoke.”
“You’re already partying? Will just performed a few minutes ago.”
“Three-hour-tape-delay for the West Coast, numnuts.”
“Oh, yeah. Duh. Well, have fun, man—enjoy every minute of your success. You deserve it. You’re totally winning at The Game of Life, man. It’s awesome to watch.”
“Hey, that’s the idea, man—as you well know. Win, win, win, as much as humanly possible—and then die taking none of it with you. Speaking of winning at The Game of Life, say hi to Stubborn Kat for me and tell Little G her Über-Cool Uncle Reed loves her like crazy.”
“I will. Text me the info about Bangkok when you have it.”
“Sure thing. Bye, bro. Enjoy changing shitty diapers. Peace.”
I hang up my phone and walk back into my bedroom—and I’m met with Arma-fucking-geddon currently in progress: Mademoiselle Terrorist is wailing her head off and Kat is leaping desperately around the room like a kangaroo, bouncing Gracie up and down frantically, obviously trying her mighty best (and failing miserably) to quiet our mini-beast. When Kat sees me, she flashes me a look of such desperation, I almost laugh out loud.
“I don’t know what’s pissing her off so much,” Kat whimpers. “I’ve tried everything.”
“Give her to me, babe.” I hold out my arms. “I’ll hit her with the Playboy Razzle-Dazzle.”
“It won’t work,” Kat whines. “I fed her. I changed her. I burped her. I sang to her. She just cries and cries and cries. Oh my God.”
“Give her to me, babe. She likes the smell of my skin.” I take Gracie’s writhing, shrieking body from Kat and hold her against my bare chest—and not four seconds later, Gracie’s head does three complete revolutions on her neck and she pukes breast milk all over me.
“Gah!” I shout.
“Whoa, that’s a lot of puke,” Kat says, laughing.
I look down at my puked-covered chest, grimacing. “Fuck.”
“Poor baby worked herself up into a puking frenzy,” Kat says.
“Gee, I wonder where she gets that?” I ask.
Kat laughs. “Give her to me so you can shower, babe.” She puts out her arms.
“No, just grab me a towel. I’ll shower after I get her calmed down.”
“Nothing will calm her down, like I said,” Kat says, throwing me a burping towel. “I’ve tried everything, trust me.”
“Not everything—you haven’t playboyed her.” I gently wipe the puke off Gracie’s chin, right off the little cleft I love so much, and then off the “G-R-A” in my “GRACE” tattoo, and bring Gracie to the makeshift diaper-changing table on top of our dresser. I gently lay Gracie down on her back, stroking her screaming face with my fingertip. “I’m sure my baby just needs a fresh diaper, that’s all,” I say soothingly.
“No, I just changed it,” Kat says. “It’s something else.”
“Is your diaper bothering you, little one?” I coo to Gracie, ignoring Kat’s skepticism. I lean over Gracie’s face, shooting her my most serene and soothing smile—and, instantly, Gracie stops crying on a dime, even before I’ve opened her diaper, and stares at my face, completely transfixed.
“That’s right, my little Scorpio,” I soothe. “Look into my eyes. That’s it, baby girl.”
Gracie reaches up and touches my nose and I kiss her little fingertips, eliciting dove-like coos from her.
“No freaking way,” Kat says. “I tried everything—and one smile from her handsome daddy and she’s blissfully happy?”
I touch the teeny-tiny indentation on Gracie’s chin and stroke the soft, blonde peach fuzz on top of her head. “She’s just a daddy’s girl, that’s all,” I say softly, my voice low and calm. “Isn’t that right, Little G?” Gracie gurgles at me and pulls on the scruff on my chin and I rub my nose against hers. “My baby girl just needed a little Playboy Razzle-Dazzle, that’s all,” I say quietly. “Isn’t that right, angel?” I shoot a snarky look at Kat. “It’s the same tactic I use to soothe another Scorpio I know when she goes off the rails and starts acting like a demon spawn.”
I smile, expecting Kat to shoot me a snarky expression to match my own, but she doesn’t. To the contrary, she’s looking at me the same way she did when she walked down the aisle toward me on our wedding day—like I’m the answer to her most fervent prayer.
“I love you,” Kat says softly, her eyes wide and sparkling.
“And I love you,” I say. I begin changing my serene daughter’s diaper. “I love you forever and ever and ever, Mrs. Faraday.”
Kat’s face melts.
“I tell you what, Party Girl,” I say. “How about you get yourself into a nice, hot tub in the bathroom while I rock our little terrorist to sleep, and then I’ll join you in the bath and let you wash the baby-puke off me?”
“Oh,” Kat says. “That sounds lovely.” Without hesitation, she pulls her nightgown over her head and throws it onto the bed, revealing her new, sexy curves and dark, erect nipples. “Maybe while we’re in the tub together, I’ll imagine I’m a mermaid who’s recently sprouted legs—and maybe if you’re really sweet to me, I’ll let you teach me what my newfangled vagina is for.”
I laugh. “So, we’re gonna do a porno version of The Little Mermaid?”
Kat giggles and winks. “See you soon, Prince Eric. Don’t keep me waiting too long.” She honks her delectable boobs and sashays into our bathroom, singing “Part of Your World” at the top of her lungs, her ass cheeks swishing to and fro as she moves.
I look down at Gracie. “Damn, you’re mommy’s sexy,” I say. “And very, very silly, too.”
I scoop Gracie off the dresser, change her into her Hello Kitty footy-pajamas, and bring her over to the rocking chair that’s now a permanent fixture in the far corner of our large bedroom. After settling into the chair with Gracie in my arms, I rock her slowly, looking deeply into her big, blue eyes—the beautiful blue eyes that make me want to be a better man—and I begin to sing my favorite lullaby to her: “You Are My Sunshine.”
“You are my sunshine,” I sing softly, rocking rhythmically in my chair, staring into my daughter’s ocean-blue eyes—and, as always happens in moments like this, I begin thinking about Gracie’s namesake, the supernaturally beautiful woman who long ago sang this same, simple song of love to me.
When I reach the end of the song, Gracie’s still staring at me with wide eyes, so I sing it again from the top, rocking my sweet little baby slowly, calmly, breathing deeply as I do—until, finally, Gracie’s lovely eyelids flutter and shut.
“Gracie Louise Faraday,” I whisper softly when my song is over and her breathing has turned deep and rhythmic. “I love you, Little G.” I close my eyes, sending a little prayer to heaven to the other Grace Faraday, the one surely watching over us at this very moment. “I love you, Mom,” I whisper.
Gracie’s rosebud lips part and hang open in complete relaxation. Her body’s a tiny sack of potatoes in my arms. I get up from the glider and carefully lay her down on the center of our large bed, and then I head toward my bathroom, my cock tingling with anticipation.
I enter the bathroom and there she is—my beautiful mermaid, soaking in a hot tub, her skin pink, her eyes closed.
“Hey, Ariel,” I say softly. “Our little fishy’s out like a light.”
Kat opens her eyes and smiles. “Thank you, Baby Whisperer. Now take off those briefs and get your YOLO’d ass in here.”
I do as I’m told, of course—and, as I’m lowering myself into the warm water, Kat points at my crotch with cartoon-like, wide eyes.
“What’s that?” Kat asks.
I look down at my naked body. “What?”
“That.” She points right at my hard dick. “That ding-a-ling thing.�
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“Oh that?” I smile from ear to ear. “It’s my thingamabob.”
Kat giggles. “You’ve seen The Little Mermaid?”
“I told you I was a very nice boy.” I stroke her smooth thighs under the warm water.
“You were a very nice boy?”
“That’s right. Past tense. I’m a very bad boy now—a beast with a raging boner.”
“Ooh, that gives me a faboosh idea,” Kat says. “How about you and me do a porno version of Beauty and the Beast tomorrow night?”
I chuckle. “So we’re gonna do the entire Disney catalog, huh?”
Kat giggles. “Why not? I’d love to see how you’d pull off Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”
“Pfft. Child’s play,” I say, running my palms over her curves under the warm water. “Six dildos and an apple. Easy peasy.”
Kat laughs.
“Okay, Little Mermaid,” I say. “We’ve got probably three hours ’til our little fishy wakes up, screaming and demanding to be fed—so let’s use our free time wisely, shall we?”
“Yes, sir.” Kat grabs my dick and strokes it with authority. “Let The Little Mermaid mini-porno begin.”
“You know what?” I say, licking my hungry lips. “I’ve suddenly got an inexplicable craving for sushi.”
I begin lowering my face into the water, but Kat grips my hair, stopping my movement.
“Ariel is mute when she’s human remember?” she says. “Her voice is trapped in that necklace thing. So let me say this now: I had a really great time tonight, my love. I love you so much—and, oh, you fucked me brilliantly.”
“I love you, too,” I say. “Now quit your yapping, Ariel. It’s time for me to show you what that whatzit between your legs can do.”
Epilogue
Josh
I pull my brand new, cherry-red Ferrari FF into my driveway and sit for a moment, singing along to the song blaring through my speakers. It’s my current theme song: “All I Do Is Win” by DJ Khaled. When the fucking awesome song finishes, I kill the engine of my fucking awesome car and lovingly caress my steering wheel.
“I love you, baby,” I say softly to my beautiful car—my thirty-first birthday present to myself. It’s just a little something to celebrate how fucking hard I’m winning at The Game of Fucking Life. God-damn, I’m a fucking beast. All I do is win, win, win, baby. Fuck yeah, I do. No matter what. Because I’m a winner. Truth.
I run my hands tenderly over my steering wheel again, exhaling with near-sexual pleasure as I do. God-damn, this is a beautiful fucking car. I get a hard-on every time I get behind the wheel. Fuck yeah, I do. I’ve got a beautiful fucking Ferrari to match my beautiful fucking Ferrari of a wife and my sweet little baby girl and fucking awesome house ten minutes away from my fucking awesome brother.
And not only that, Climb and Conquer is absolutely slaying it these days—we’ve already shattered our mid-year revenue projections and we’re planning major expansion in seven more markets later this year—plus, our designated charities are all flourishing, too. As it turns out, Jonas’ entire business model was pure fucking genius. Surprise, surprise.
And, on top of all that, when I got home from work last night, I’d no sooner taken two steps through my front door than my beautiful sick fuck of a wife silently greeted me at the door by unzipping my pants, kneeling before me, and sucking my big ol’ dick ’til I exploded into her waiting mouth. God-damn, I’m crushing life. Winner, winner, chicken fucking dinner, baby. Boo-fucking-yah.
I pull my phone out of my glove box and quickly scan my texts, and, as expected, there’s a message from good ol’ fucking awesome and reliable T-Rod, confirming everything’s set for my romantic-stay-at-home birthday dinner with my two favorite blondes. “Everyone’s already at your house, setting up,” Theresa writes. “Chef, waiter, violin, cello. Oh, and I added a viola just for yucks. Have fun, Birthday Boy!”
I shoot off a quick reply. “Thanks a million, T. Just got home. Gonna be a great night.”
I tilt my rearview mirror toward my face and survey my reflection. Handsome motherfucker. Lucky bastard. Winner. I run my hand through my hair, carefully smoothing a stray, and straighten the knot on my Roberto Cavalli necktie.
I pick up the bouquet of gardenias and the velvet jewelry box sitting on the passenger seat of my fucking awesome car—what better way to celebrate my birthday than giving my wife more ice for her ever-growing collection?—and then I bound happily toward the front door of my fucking awesome house, clicking the heels of my Stefano Bemer shoes, singing the DJ Khaled song under my breath as I go.
But when I get inside my house, it’s perfectly quiet. No hustle-bustle; no signs of preparations for a birthday dinner; no wife dropping to her knees as she greets me in the doorway.
I peek into the kitchen. No chef. I check the dining area. No violinist, cellist or viola-ist. (What the fuck do you call someone who plays a viola?)
“Kat?” I call.
But my smokin’ hot wife is nowhere to be found.
I head into the nursery and, lo and behold, there’s my mother-in-law, sitting in a glider with Gracie, quietly reading her a book about farm animals.
Louise looks up from the book in her hands and her face lights up. “Happy birthday!” she says. “Look, Gracie. Daddy-the-birthday-boy is here!” Louise gets up from the glider, toting Gracie in her arms.
“Hi, Gramma Lou,” I say, kissing Louise on her cheek. “Where’s my wife?”
“Oh, she went out,” Louise says.
“What? We were supposed to have a romantic dinner-for-two-and-a-half here at the house. I had everything all set up.”
“Yes. And, I must say, everything you arranged looked very romantic, indeed—absolutely stunning. The chef was a real sweetheart, too. He took it very well when Kat sent him and the musicians to Colby’s house, instead.” Louise leans in like she’s telling me a secret. “Colby’s got a hot date with his physical therapist tonight, so I’m sure he’ll greatly appreciate everything you had planned.”
I stare at Louise dumbly. “Kat sent everyone away?”
“Mmm hmm. She left a note explaining the new plan. It’s in the kitchen. I’ve got a few birthday presents waiting for you in there, too. Come on.” She hands Gracie to me and the three of us make our way into the kitchen. When we arrive, Louise hands me a rectangular box off the counter, wrapped in bright yellow paper and a bow.
“Thank you,” I say. I hand her Gracie and unwrap the box to find a genuine treasure awaiting me. “Wow. ‘Barrique de Ponciano de Parfidio,’” I say, reading the label on the elegant—and rare—bottle of tequila. “Lou, this stuff is really hard to come by—a total collector’s item. How on earth did you get it?”
She shrugs. “Oh, just a little something called the Interwebs.”
“Thank you so much. I’ve tasted this stuff once before a long time ago and it was fantastic. Thank you.” I kiss her on the cheek, and as I do, Gracie reaches for the scruff on my chin so I take her back from Louise.
“It’s from the whole family—the boys, too—we all chipped in. Even Keane.”
“Even Keane?” I ask, laughing.
“Even Keane. So that tells you where you rank in this family’s pecking order. Pretty darned high.”
“Wow, I’m totally honored. I’ll call everyone and thank them tomorrow—but will you tell them I got it and loved it?”
“I sure will. Ryan said you better save him a couple shots of that stuff, by the way, or he’ll never forgive you.”
“That goes without saying—not just for Ry, for everyone. Maybe we can do a foosball-tournament-tequila-tasting-dinner later this week?”
“Great. It’ll be your belated birthday party. What would you like me to make?”
“Oh, everything you make is great.”
“It’s your birthday, honey. Pick what you want.”
“Spaghetti, then,” I say definitively. “My favorite.”
Louise smiles. “You got it. Plus extras for the birt
hday boy.”
“Hot damn. You know I love my extras.”
Louise giggles and hands me another box. “This one is from Ryan, specifically.”
I open the box and it’s a crystal shot glass, etched with the name “Lambo.”
“Ry got himself one engraved with ‘Captain’ so you two can sit out on the patio like lovebirds, watch the sunset together, and drink your new tequila.” She rolls her eyes. “Ryan’s truly talented at giving gifts to others which actually turn out to be gifts to himself, isn’t he?” She grabs a gift bag off the counter. “And this one is from me. Just a little trinket.”
“This is all too much, Lou,” I say. “Really.”
“Oh, no. This is just a little nothing. Hardly anything at all. I saw it and thought of you.”
Gracie bats me in the face so I shift her in my arms and pull out the contents of the gift bag. A lump rises in my throat at the sight of my gift—a coffee mug, emblazoned with the phrase, “World’s Greatest Son-in-Law.”
“Thank you,” I say, hugging Louise with my free arm.
“Whenever you have a cup of coffee, you’ll be reminded how much you’re loved, honey.”
I bite my lip. “Thank you.”
Louise waves her hand. “You’re impossible to buy presents for, you know that, Josh? What do you get the guy who has everything?”
I motion to everything I just opened. “All this.”
“We all just wanted you to know how much you’re loved, that’s all.”
“Thank you. I feel it. I love all of you, too.”
Louise wipes her eyes. “So, enough of that. You never intended to spend your birthday hanging out with your boring mother-in-law. Gimme that baby.” She grabs Gracie from me and hands me an envelope off the counter. “Here you go. Kat asked me to deliver this to you exactly at six.”
I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. Six on the button.
I open the sealed envelope and immediately smile from ear to ear. There’s a poker chip inside—and a typewritten note: “Happy Birthday, my darling, beloved Playboy with a Heart of Gold!” the note reads. “Sorry-not-sorry, but our romantic dinner-for-two-and-a-half has been cancelled and donated to a very good cause (namely, getting Colby laid by the hot physical therapist he’s been drooling over for the past two months). The Playboy and The Party Girl with a Hyphen can’t stay home like old farts on the Playboy’s thirty-fucking-first birthday! Hell no, old man! We can sleep when we’re dead! Go big or go home! YOLO! It’s time to party like it’s 1999! (Well, until about midnight, that is, since that’s when Gracie’s been waking up lately for a feeding.) So get into your fancy new Ferrari and get your YOLO’d ass to this address, PB.” It’s an address in nearby Kent. “Because, Playboy, I feel the need—the need for speed! XOXOXOXOX Mrs. Katherine Ulla Faraday. P.S. I’ve always wanted to fuck the winner of the Indy 500!”