Walk on the Wilder Side: Wilder Adventures, Book 2

by Serena Bell

  A truly, truly horrifying thought occurs to me.

  “Oh, God!” I say. “Does Brody know what we’re selling on his boat?”

  “I think so?” my mom says.

  “Not good enough!”

  Pretty sure I yelled that, based on the fact that it suddenly got quiet in the other room.

  She consults the ceiling, then says, “No, wait, yes. Yes. He definitely does.”

  I eye her suspiciously, but she says, “No, for sure. I gave him the website.”

  I’m honestly not sure if that’s better or worse. Because now Brody Wilder thinks I offered to sell sex toys on his boat.

  This is definitely not going to improve the Brody-hates-me problem.

  “Rachel,” my mother whispers. “We have to get back in there.”

  “You. Told. Me. Essential oils.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t do it if I told you what it was.”

  “Damn straight!” I say.

  “Rachel,” says my mother. “I was dubious too. But please come back in that room with me. You’ll see. I promise.”

  “I am not going back in there. My high school history teacher is in there. And my Spanish teacher!”

  “I can’t do it alone, Mamita. I can’t. Look at me.” She slumps on her crutches.

  My mother does not employ the guilt trip too often, but when she does, she is an absolute, world-class expert.

  “Please,” she says. “At least stay for this. If you still hate it afterwards, you can bail. I will explain to Brody that you are afraid to handle the merchandise in his presence.”

  “I hate you,” I whisper.

  She smiles. “I know you don’t.”

  We go back into the living room where our guests look at us curiously. Mrs. G, who definitely remembers me from high school, has clearly figured it out, because she tosses me a sympathetic look.

  That’s right, Mrs. G.

  My wonderful but crafty mother kept me in the dark about the true nature of her business.

  She starts demoing products, which means she tells me what to pull out of the bins and I do it.

  At first, they are wholly non-threatening. Lotions, scented soaps, bath oils, hairbrushes. She segues into massage oil, and no one flinches. Next up is some kind of gel that makes you tingle wherever you rub it. I pass around the demo tube, and no one in the circle turns down the chance to rub a little on the back of their hand.

  Oh, what the hell. When in Rome.

  Ooh.

  That’s nice.

  “You can use this on your clit or your labia, too,” my mother says matter of factly.

  Okay, pause.

  I love my mom to death, but she was like most moms I knew, not a super-genius when it came to the teaching of sex ed. She did talk to me (briefly, blushingly) about the facts of life, and she supplemented with a couple of reasonably decent books that showed up on my bookshelf with no explanation whatsoever.

  But I have never heard the words “clit” or “labia” out of my mom’s mouth.

  I kneel and pretend to be investigating something in one of the Real Romance inventory boxes to avoid showing my hot-pink face.

  Would it be awkward if I went outside to “take a phone call?”

  “The blue box, Rach,” my mom calls, and I bring it to her and set it at her feet.

  She starts pulling out actual toys—bullet vibes, eggs, and one she calls “the Cadillac of all vibrators” that looks like a garden-variety back massager. She hands them to me one by one. I’m supposed to distribute them around the circle. The women look like I feel, shellshocked, as I pass out the goodies.

  Oh, God, I can’t hack this.

  The phone call idea is looking better and better.

  And then, something happens. The women are reaching for the toys, powering them up, touching them to their palms and thighs. And talking.

  “I’ve never used a vibrator,” one says.

  “You have to,” another says.

  “Do you use it by yourself?”

  “Sometimes. Or with my husband.”

  “My husband’s feelings would be hurt. He’d think it reflected on him.”

  “Let him use it on you,” my mother says.

  “Really?”

  The other women jump in.

  “Yeah, totally. Put on sexy lingerie and ask him to use it on you,” says one.

  “Give it to him for his birthday,” says another.

  The woman with the pink rabbit vibrator in her hands stares down at it, a smile creeping over her face.

  I realize right then that my mother is a bit of a superstar.

  “Can I say something?”

  The speaker is one of the youngest women there. She hasn’t been shy—she was one of the ones who said she was there because she was curious—but she hasn’t been chatty, either. We all turn her way, and she says, “I haven’t had an orgasm since I went on anti-depressants.”

  You know how everything turns on a dime at moments like that? It could go either way. Everyone in the room could fall awkwardly silent. Or…

  The room is suddenly, chaotically abuzz.

  “Me neither.”

  “Thank you so much for saying that.”

  “For me it’s my blood pressure meds.”

  “After cancer, I couldn’t get any satisfaction in the bedroom. And I miss it. I really miss it. Just, the intimacy. Is that weird?”

  “No, hon. No. Not weird at all.”

  “Why does no one talk about this stuff?”

  “Fucking menopause. It’s like I’m numb from the waist down. And let’s not even talk about the dryness thing.”

  “When I went on Prozac, I was like, where were you all my life? And then my sex life crashed and I was like, holy shit, I am not trading sex for happiness, and then one of my friends said, try this—” the speaker gestures to the Cadillac— “and then I realized, yes, you can have it all.”

  Needless to say, my mother’s sales are brisk. And not just of the warming gel and lube. That Cadillac? Ten orders. One woman buys three. She says she’s giving them to her sisters for Christmas this year.

  That “ten orders” doesn’t include mine. I can’t get near the signup sheet, but I’m planning to place an order, too. Getting cheated on by your asshole boyfriend calls for a very special category of retail therapy, and it should definitely include a vibrator.

  I’ll add my order to the sheet in the car, right after I tell my mom that I totally, completely, and absolutely get why she loves what she’s doing.

  6

  Brody

  It’s a perfect night.

  The sun is low and reflecting off the water. There’s almost no breeze.

  And Rachel Perez is a party whisperer.

  I know she’s a librarian, not a party planner, but I think this might be her other calling. She brought six bottles of wine, three shopping bags full of snacks, and an assortment of other things, including hand sanitizer.

  I did manage to remember the bug wipes this time. I feel way too proud of myself. I’m also issuing toilet paper in five-square portions to each woman who asks to use the head. I’ve learned my lesson.

  Rachel had the guests do introductions—I would never have thought of that—and now the women are sitting in the bow, chatting happily and passing around a small tube of hand lotion.

  No small dogs are present.

  Like I said, a perfect night.

  Also, Rachel’s wearing a pair of skin-tight jeans that show off her amazing ass and a tank top that swerves over her perfect tits and makes my own jeans too tight.

  I’m glad she’s not wearing a sundress like the one she wore last Sunday to Gabe’s housewarming. It had a scoop neck and thin straps that looked like they’d blow off her shoulders in a strong breeze. I tried so fucking hard not to stare down that neckline. And failed. So much soft skin, so much fodder for my late-night self-love.

  I’m not sure what happened on that porch, to be honest. One minute I was sticking to my guns about
what a bad idea it would be to have Rachel on my boat… and the next, I was giving her my phone number.

  I blame the dress. And her mouth. And her Rachel-ness. The way her face got soft with sympathy right before she offered up her and her mom’s services for the party. And something in me just caved, because I wanted her on my boat. Cheerful, beautiful, soft-hearted, kind Rachel. On. My. Boat.

  Even if it’s a terrible idea.

  And now here we are. Me, still with my grave doubts, and her, with her swervy tank top. Every time a breeze kicks up, I look over to see if she’s feeling the cold.

  God help me.

  “Okay, I was a little dubious about this until I tried it,” Rachel says, holding up a sparkly gold tube.

  I stop listening and just watch the sky, which is slowly turning an unearthly green-purple.

  Until a few words catch my attention. In an unexpected and very visceral way.

  “…on your clit or your labia…”

  What the fuck?

  I’ve just learned something. When a woman I’m hot for suddenly starts talking dirty out of the blue, my body reacts a split second before my brain. My dick is halfway to hard before my forebrain even comes online.

  She’s passing around more of those sparkly gold tubes, and I crane to see.

  Sensual Heat.

  Wait, what?

  The women are laughing and exclaiming words of approval as they rub it on their hands and their faces.

  I can’t take my eyes off Rachel, who has smoothed a bit on her cheek to demonstrate. Fingertips sliding across her satin skin.

  “Give it a second,” she says, laughing. “It’ll start to tingle.”

  The women are all oohing and ah-ing. Wanting to know how much it costs.

  All I can think about is Rachel, tingling. Everywhere.

  “Rachel,” I hear myself saying. Sharply.

  The women look up at the sound of my voice, and I wince.

  She hurries back, ducking into the cockpit beside me.

  “What is that?”

  “Warming lube,” she whispers, darting a look at her guests, who are watching us curiously.

  I lower my voice, too. I don’t want to ruin this party for her—or for me. The last thing I want is to reap another round of shitty reviews. “I mean, what’s it doing here?”

  She gives me a quizzical look. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “I thought you were selling beauty products.”

  Her eyes get huge. Her mouth forms an O. And her hands spread open, like she’s bracing herself.

  “Rachel?” I murmur.

  “You, um, didn’t. You didn’t, um, look at the website?”

  Her cheeks have bright hot streaks across them. Something in my gut clenches in response to those streaks, like it would if I’d put them there.

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, God. God. Brody. I’m—I’m so sorry. My mom said she told you to look.”

  I vaguely recall this. And a text reminding me to check out the website that came in this morning from Mrs. Perez. Just want to make sure you looked at the site so you know what you’re getting yourself into.

  I just figured she meant that the products would all be floral scented and pink and that the participants would use the term “self-care”—one of Amanda’s favorites—a lot.

  I did not figure she meant that it would include lube. And—

  Oh, shit.

  “What else?” I demand.

  My voice comes out gruffer than I mean it to, and she flinches. “Um,” she says. She looks around a bit wildly, like someone might save her from this conversation. From me.

  “Rachel,” I warn.

  “Toys,” she whispers.

  Connor is going to kill me. And not in a kind, efficient way. Slowly and with pleasure.

  Wait. Connor. Does Connor know?

  I review the contents of our conversation. What did he say?

  Beauty stuff, like body wash and perfume and shit.

  There was no wink-wink, nudge-nudge, and I cannot imagine Connor would deliver this blindsiding to me point blank.

  Therefore, he must not know.

  Oh, shit.

  He cannot find out that Rachel is selling toys on my boat. He cannot.

  But more to the point…

  I look up, and there she is, tight tank top—and oh, hell, she’s definitely cold—long, dark hair, and very worried expression on her face.

  Rachel—Rachel who I have spent the last ten years of my life trying not to think about in a way that includes things like tingling, or lube, or toys.

  Connor is a good friend, and I am not this good of a person.

  Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

  Also, God give me strength.

  Rachel

  A rush of humiliation washes over me, while I readjust to this new reality.

  Brody did not know.

  I just showed up on his boat and blindsided him with boxes full of sex toys.

  I die.

  Unfortunately, it’s not that easy, and I am still standing here on his boat, surrounded by curious onlookers, boxes of toys, and Brody, who looks as hot as always, and now—unsurprisingly—pissed.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I whisper.

  “Oh, God, no!” he whispers back. “Don’t leave me alone with them!”

  The desperation in his voice startles me—and makes me laugh. Which startles him. He turns his green gaze on me, and something in those eyes flares. Anger, I think.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It’s just—I wasn’t planning to leave you with them. I assumed if I left they’d leave with me. But—I don’t know, they did pay money to ride your boat, so maybe that was a faulty assumption.”

  Brody pulls something out of his pocket. It’s that little mini rabbit’s foot he fidgets with. He hides his gaze from me again, which is just as well because you’re not supposed to stare into the sun that long.

  “Look,” he says, from under his bangs. “This wasn’t what I expected… But please don’t go. I, um, need this. I need to make this work. This business is what takes care of the whole Wilder family, and if I’m not pulling my weight…”

  He trails off.

  That was at least five sentences. A whole paragraph of Brody Wilder. The look on his face hurts my heart. Brody Wilder, veteran bad boy, wants desperately to do right by the people he loves, even if doesn’t look like that’s who he is from the outside.

  “Of course I’ll stay,” I say.

  The pained look softens into something much more like the Brody I’m used to. A scowl. “I’ll just, I don’t know, plug my ears.” The corner of his mouth tips up, the scowl morphing into something more like a half-smile. I want to keep it.

  “And close your eyes?” I murmur.

  Unfortunately, the combination of the situation, the question, and my tone makes it sound super suggestive. The smile leaves his face and is replaced with something else, and humiliation swamps me again.

  Ugh, as if it’s not bad enough that I’ve just clobbered him with sex toys on his own boat, I’m flirting now. With a guy who has done everything he can to make it clear that I’m nothing more than his best friend’s little, bitty, insignificant sister.

  “I’ll just…”

  I gesture to the women, and practically run away from him.

  “Everything OK?” someone asks me, as I rejoin them in the front of the boat.

  “Yeah—just a little—misunderstanding.”

  I don’t explain the nature of the misunderstanding, and no one asks. The women here tonight mostly didn’t know each other before they showed up, and they’re warming up a lot more slowly than the other group. Or maybe I don’t have my mom’s magic touch.

  Speaking of magic touch, oh, shit, it’s time for the vibrators.

  I can’t look Brody’s way.

  I won’t look Brody’s way.

  Needless to say, the next few reveals are torture. I practiced a bunch so I wouldn’t blush, but all my wo
rk is instantly undone. I blush my way through eggs, bullet vibes, remote control gadgets, straight up penis-clones, g-spot stimulators, shared vibrating toys. The women become fascinated, intrigued, confessional.

  The rabbit.

  The Cadillac.

  Is he watching?

  Is he scowling?

  Half-smiling?

  Or smirking?

  Damn it, I have to peek.

  Not watching. He’s in the back of the boat. He has binoculars up and is staring at something on the shore.

  “He’s hot,” says one of my guests.

  “Really?” I say, like I hadn’t noticed. “Yeah, guess so.”

  I look down into the box and realize that Jack Buddy’s up next.

  No.

  My face is on fire.

  I’m going to skip it.

  Except…

  According to my mother, Jack Buddy is a money-maker.

  Anyone who pleasures a penis on a regular basis can appreciate Jack Buddy. Married straight women are mega fans. They like the idea that they can get their husbands off with a minimum of wrist damage and, on a bad night, without having to subject their soft parts to friction. Jack Buddy sold like hotcakes at the first party, and my mom confirmed that it’s always a big winner.

  No avoiding Jack Buddy, then. Because if I’m going to die of humiliation and have to avoid Brody for the rest of my life, I might as well make my mom some money.

  “So,” I explain. “This is Jack Buddy. Jack’s a penile masturbation aid. Some people call them strokers.”

  I will not, will not, will not look at Brody. No matter how much it feels like my gaze is drawn to him by super magnets.

  The women stare at the soft silicone sheath in my hand. They all have grabby-hand eyes, like they can’t wait for me to get through my explanation so they can touch the foreign strangely-appealingly-pink-and-squishy sleeve.

  Somehow—no idea how—I manage to get through my explanation and to pass the demo strokers around for the women to admire—and covet.

  They’re all discussing the marriage-saving possibilities.

  “I mean, you could just lube it up and hand it over, right? When you have ‘a headache’?”