Instant Gratification

by Blakely, Lauren

  Especially when she slinks her hands around my waist, dipping them into the back pockets of my jeans. Grabbing my ass. Driving me crazy as I yank her closer for a final hot, searing kiss.

  When we break apart, my mind has traveled to another country. My logic and reason have packed up and left too, no forwarding address.

  She drags her fingertips down the front of my shirt. “What do you know? Turns out soft and slow is nice too.”

  I run a hand through my hair, trying to reconnect thoughts to reality. “Yeah, works for me as well.”

  She drops her forehead to my chest, and damn, that feels nice. But when she lifts her face, it’s like she’s reset herself, cleared her thoughts. “But that was simply a test. You know that, right?”

  I need to reset too, so I nod automatically. “Sure. Just testing a theory. Won’t happen again.”

  “It can’t happen again.” She takes a deep breath. “Also, there’s something I’ve been meaning to refresh your memory about.” She moves closer once more, so there’s barely any space between us. “I don’t know where this idea of three times comes from. Maybe you ought to have your brain checked.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She dips her face near me and whispers against my neck, her fresh scent drifting into my nose. “It was four.”

  She lets go and leaves.

  I stand there, wishing it were Chip’s wedding right now because I can’t wait to see her again.

  And that’s a big fucking problem.

  18

  From the pages of Truly’s Drink Recipe Book

  Slippery Slope:

  Wasabi powder

  Sake

  Lime juice

  Splash of gin

  So maybe you took a step down a slippery slope the other night. Maybe you tumbled a little farther than you thought. No worries. We can get you back up with a certain cocktail. Mix wasabi powder, sake, lime juice and a splash of gin. Strain it into a Collins glass, and take a hearty swallow.

  That fire in your nose?

  That kick?

  It’ll knock you right back up to where you started.

  Top of the hill with your feet firmly planted.

  You’re good.

  No slippery slope for you, no matter how pretty you feel when you slide into that blue dress he sent over to your place for you to wear tomorrow. It fits perfectly, like he knows all the curves and dips of your body.

  No matter how sharp the drop seems when you read the note he included: I’d say try not to look too tempting, but that’s a lost cause. See you tomorrow night.

  Slippery slope indeed.

  19

  Jason

  On the way to Chip’s bachelor party, my phone pings with a message. I unlock the screen, laughing when I find a cartoonish image of a leg bone connected to the ankle bone, and a text from my sister.

  Abby: At last! Now we know how they’re connected.

  As I turn the corner toward the restaurant, I hunt for a GIF, find one I like, and send it to her. It’s a shot of the board game Operation.

  Jason: Well done! For your next assignment, I’d like you to master Operation. It’ll be tough, but I believe in you.

  Abby: Jason, don’t be silly. That’s the fourth year.

  Jason: I know that. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know? I mean that literally. Go on. Try and find something that impresses me.

  Abby: Sure, let’s talk about the anatomy of the brachial plexus.

  A quick Google search tells me that’s the network of nerves extending from the spinal cord over the first rib and into the armpit.

  I reply.

  Jason: Now you’re talking!

  Abby: Impressed? I told you that you’d get a strong return on your investment. Just wanted you to know your money is going to good use.

  Jason: I never thought anything different.

  I say goodbye fondly and head into the restaurant.

  * * *

  The clatter of forks and the clink of glasses echo across the dark restaurant in the heart of the Upper East Side. Chip picked this surf and turf spot for his last single night, and the man seems pleased.

  He stretches his arms wide across the back of the booth, sighing contentedly as he regards the remains of his sea creature. “Guys, this was the best night ever. Thank you so much for being in my wedding party. I’m so dang busy running the firm that I don’t have time for friends. This though? This kind of night out? It’s the perfect solution for a guy like me.”

  There’s something refreshing about Chip. He’s entirely forthright about his situation and his need for a best man. He’s not cloying or clingy. He’s simply having a blast and paying for it.

  Perhaps that makes me a hooker.

  Well, at least I don’t put out.

  I raise a glass. “Happy to be a part of it.” But Walker’s advice rings in my ears. You do know you can’t do this forever.

  “It’s an honor,” Sully says, playing the part of Chip’s good friend to the T.

  Chip points to the meal. “And this lobster? This was the best lobster ever. I’m going to write an ode to this shellfish.”

  That sparks Troy’s interest. “What will you say?”

  Troy and I worked a few weddings together this summer, and he’s a suave cat. His inquisitive nature makes him a good fit for the gig.

  Chip regards the lobster, screwing up his brow as he thinks. “All right. I’ve been working on this for a while. I’m not there yet, but work with me.” He clears his throat and adopts an old English accent, sliding into a riff on Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 and its opening lines about a summer’s day.

  “Shall I compare thee to my dream fillet? Thou art more buttery and more succulent.” He grins at us. “What do you think?”

  “Nice!” Troy jumps in.

  “Well done,” I second, using my best Hugh Grant tone, as requested.

  “But I kind of get stuck there. I’ve been reworking the first few lines for a while now, and I can’t seem to move past it. I bet you can help, being English.”

  I laugh and turn to Troy, who’s nearly bursting to take on the challenge. “You don’t need me when you have our resident Shakespeare scholar and aspiring playwright.”

  Troy, seeming energized by the opportunity, snaps his fingers, muttering under his breath the actual lines from the bard’s most famous sonnet. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” A long sigh, then he pumps a fist. “Got it. Ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Chip says. “Lay it on us.”

  “Shall I compare thee to my dream fillet? Thou art more buttery and more succulent. Other fish will storm your plate, try to claim your place . . . But none will win, all are but a supplement.”

  Chip’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been stuck on rhyming ‘succulent’ forever.”

  Troy gestures broadly, amped up by the creative exercise. “My first thought was ‘truculent,’ but that means aggressive and doesn’t really fit that well. So, ‘supplement’ it is.”

  Sully’s eyes bounce back and forth like he’s watching ping-pong in the Olympics, then he bows Wayne’s World–style. “You just rhymed on the spot. We are not worthy.”

  Troy blows on his fingers. “When you got it, you got it. I can rap the entire sonnet actually.”

  “You can? That’s an awesome party trick. Can you do it right now?” Chip asks, sounding awestruck.

  Troy glances to me as if asking for permission, and holy hell, he has it. “Dying to hear this.” I cross my arms and listen as Troy makes a beatbox of his mouth and proceeds to hip-hop his way through “Sonnet Eighteen,” starting with Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

  I clap when he’s done. We all do.

  The word idea seems to flash in neon above Chip’s head. “Can you do that at the wedding tomorrow? May
be with ‘Sonnet One Hundred Sixteen’?”

  “If music be the food of love, play on,” Troy says. “Though that’s from Twelfth Night. But it’s my way of saying yes, I’d be honored.”

  “What do you do when you’re not . . .” Chip lowers his voice. “You know, doing this . . .?”

  Ah, the question of the hour. In addition to the groomsman work, how exactly does he support his playwriting habit? Lately, I’ve begun to suspect he works the pole. How else would he know all the words to 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” and Ginuwine’s “Pony”?

  “He does a little of everything,” Sully interjects proudly. “A real man of the people. Jack-of-all-trades. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah, sometimes I work as a cop. Sometimes I’m the maître d’. Other times, I’m just the pool guy.”

  “Those are a lot of . . . odd jobs.” Chip’s eyebrow rises, like none of that computes.

  Troy lifts his water glass and takes a drink. “Just to support the wife and me before the plays take off.”

  Everything makes perfect sense now. He’s a stripper. Magic Mike meets Eugene O’Neill is my rent-a-groomsman.

  Chip smiles like he has a secret. “I love Shakespeare. I quoted a sonnet when Pugalicious and I asked Ashley to marry me.”

  I snap my gaze to him. “Pugalicious?”

  “Pugalicious is my dog. Ashley and I met at a dog park. She has a pug too. It was love at first pug.”

  “That is . . . thoroughly sweet,” I say.

  “Hooked her with the pug, won her with a sonnet. Hopefully, she’ll stay for me.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising a glass.

  “What about you? Who’s your date? Is she sonnet-worthy?” Chip asks.

  “Julie,” I say quickly.

  “What’s she like?”

  I don’t answer Chip at first. Not aloud.

  She’s like . . . the bottle of scotch you want to open but can’t because it’s on your father’s shelf. She’s like the car you long for when you spot the red Ferrari cruising around the bend. She’s the sexiest, wittiest, most clever woman—no, person—you’ve ever known, and you want her so fucking much, it’s a persistent ache.

  I turn to Chip. “She’s just a great girl. That’s all.”

  When dinner ends, capped with loads of selfies that Chip sends to his family and his bride, Troy pulls me aside.

  “I need to take off. I have a . . . thing.”

  “Good luck with the thing. See you tomorrow at the ceremony.”

  After I say good night to Chip and head out into the Manhattan evening, it occurs to me that all of these guys, this random collection of men, are heading home to their various ladies. Chip to his soon-to-be bride, Sully to Jana (and his sneakers), and Troy to his woman, Irene. Well, after he shakes it all night long.

  As for me, I wander downtown, happily single, loving the night breeze and enjoying my solitude.

  Though what is Truly up to right now, on a Friday night in the summer? Is she out with friends too? At home? Or behind the bar at Gin Joint?

  A tug pulls me toward Chelsea, telling me to casually pop into her bar. Chat with her. Flirt with her.

  Steal a moment alone with her and kiss her so damn senseless she melts completely in my arms.

  I blink the far-too-tempting thoughts away. Another kiss would be dangerous. It could make the next few gigs with her rockier than they need to be. Not to mention the potential strain it would put on my friendship with her brother.

  I clench my fists, holding tight to those thoughts as I head home instead. No need to catch a few extra moments with a woman I’m not involved with, not seeing, and not going home to.

  My phone bleats.

  It’s Nora.

  “Hallo, German spy,” I say.

  “Guten Abend. I’m calling because I want to go out on a high note, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  20

  Jason

  The next morning, Nora spins her replacement around to face the mirror hanging on Truly’s bedroom door, presenting her like she’s in a pageant. Granted, Truly looks stunning in the simple blue dress I sent to her.

  “You look amazing.” Nora sings the last word. “Now, have you thought about what name you’re going to use?”

  Nora’s here because . . . well, she insisted. She leaves tonight for Chicago, and she wanted to send us out on a high note, she told me when she rang last night. She also wanted to ride in style to the airport, and I can’t blame her. Chip is sending a swank limo for me, and I’m taking off soon and will drop Nora off at the airport on the way to the photo shoot. Truly will join me later.

  “She’s Julie. That’s the name I told Chip,” I say from my spot on Truly’s couch.

  Nora shoots death rays at me with her hazel eyes. “She can’t be a Julie. Why did you give her that name?”

  “Why can’t she be a Julie?”

  “Julie’s pretty easy for me not to fuck up,” Truly says dryly. “I have to agree with Jason on this one.”

  Nora grabs Truly’s shoulders. “Because this is your opportunity. This is your chance. You could have been Ramona, a naughty librarian who wears fishnet stockings under her pencil skirts. You could have been Svetlana, a Russian orphan finally finding her way in America. Or, even better, Francesca, the Brazilian heir to an oil conglomerate, who escaped from . . . a cartel. Personally, I liked to use names like Zosa and Marta.”

  It’s a wonder no one saw through the ruse. But then again, Nora can act. She’s not always over-the-top. Just with friends.

  “But then I’d have to do an accent, wouldn’t I?” Truly reminds us. “I’m not really an accent person. Though I can do a good Midwestern one. And then when Damien Grey the Third bent me over the piano, he spanked me and slid inside me, and it felt oh so good.”

  My jaw disengages from my skull and falls to the floor. Even in her Midwestern good-girl accent, she sounds fucking hot. “Yes, just do that all night.”

  Nora laughs. “It’s very convincing. Maybe for the next one?” Nora’s hope is like an extra exuberant person in the room. “Or maybe you could be a delightful Southern belle. Perhaps you could be Abigail Anna from Savannah.”

  “Why would I want to draw more attention to myself? I’m only there as a shield for him.” Truly flaps her arm at me.

  “You’re both a shield and a lubricant,” Nora says, amused. “It’s what my agent says. Use me as your shield or your lubricant.”

  I raise a hand. “If you’re choosing, I’d really like to be the lube.”

  “Darling,” Truly says, trying on Southern Belle after all, “I’m the lube. Try to remember.”

  Nora claps. “See? It’s so much more fun.”

  Truly twirls her hair and smacks her lips, as if she’s chewing gum. “Like, I don’t know. I totally don’t know if it’s more fun. Does it, like, feel more fun to you?”

  I crack up at her ditz routine. “Look at all your hidden talents.”

  Truly takes a bow then says in her own voice, “Listen, I’m only going as Jason’s date. I don’t need to do a whole song and dance.”

  Nora scoffs for a full minute. “Oh no, no, no, no. He’s not Jason tonight. You can’t call him by his real name.”

  “Right, I nearly forgot.” Truly meets my gaze. “What am I calling you? Can you be Cornelius?”

  I wiggle an eyebrow. “Depends when you want to call me that.”

  Nora fluffs Truly’s hair and offers more names. “How about Mortimer? Or better yet, Wilbur? Hold on. Let me grab a comb.” She scurries to the other side of the room where she left her purse.

  Truly walks closer to me, a smile tugging at her lips. “Can I call you Wilbur tonight?”

  “Only if I’m deep inside you,” I mouth.

  Truly’s eyes simmer. “You’re not going to be inside me.”

  “Then you’re not going to call me Wilbur.”

  Nora returns with a silver hair clip. “Let me just do this. If you like it, I’ll show you how,
and you can do it tonight, okay? Personally, I like wigs, but the idea is the same. A new hairstyle can make you feel like a whole different person. It’ll help you get into character.”

  She threads her hands through Truly’s hair, fashioning it into a French twist, and . . . wow. Truly looks . . . just wow. Her neck is divine and begging me to kiss it.

  Be good. She’s your best friend’s sister. She’s your friend. And you need this job badly to help Abby.

  But that neck. I want to get my mouth all over it. I want to inhale her. Devour her.

  Truly gestures to her new ’do. “What do you think?”

  I think my mouth is dry. I think I can’t form words without gravel in them. But I find my voice, answering her as nonchalantly as I possibly can, given the hard matters south of the border. “I think down works fine.”

  Nora gives a dismissive grunt. “Fine? Fine is for peanut butter sandwiches. You look delicious like this. Like a strawberry cupcake. Ooh, one more thing. What’s your job, if someone asks? You could be a banker, all buttoned up. Or even a belly dancer. That’s exotic but believable. No one can call you on that.”

  “I took a belly-dancing class once.” Truly wiggles her hips, then she snaps her fingers. “I know! I know what I want to do.”

  She heads for her bedroom and returns wearing a pair of black glasses. “Costume glasses. You approve?”

  “Of everything,” I say, picturing how all the pieces—dress, hair, hot-for-teacher glasses—will come together.