by Kat T. Masen
“Perhaps we should change subjects.”
“Perhaps.” I smile nervously. “Or at least, sideways. Let me ask you a question, but if it’s too personal, just tell me.”
“Shoot.”
“Is the wedding night this big of a deal to you as a woman? I mean, say you live with the guy, what would make that night so special?”
“I’m not following. Do you mean why is it special?”
“No.” I shake my head trying to get my words out correctly. “Zoey wants to hold off on intimate things until the wedding.”
“Right…” she drags. “But you’ve already done things?”
“Please, I’m thirty. Of course, we’ve done things.”
“Sorry, just getting the facts. So, I guess that would be nice… build up the sexual tension which makes the wedding night so much more meaningful.”
“So, you would do that, too?”
“I don’t know. Depends on the guy. I mean, if he’s hot like yourself, probably not.”
The second she says it, we both fall silent, unable to digest the uncomfortable air between us from her mentioning my looks.
“God… okay… sorry. I shouldn’t have just blurted that out. I need to go.”
“Raine,” I call her name, but she walks away quickly and doesn’t turn back.
Great, I’ve created another mess. I decide to let her go not wanting to cause any further embarrassment. I look at my watch—an hour to go then straight home for a quick change of clothes and back into town to celebrate my final weeks as a bachelor.
Troy may have told Zoey and Mia it will be a few harmless drinks at some club in LA, but his crude texts and equally shocking pictures warn me that I will be in for a long night.
A night that specifically warrants the ‘Bro Code.’
Chapter Six
Zoey
Drew’s a flat-out jerk.
When he finally agreed to wait until the wedding night, I thought great, he understands where I’m coming from and wants to make the night special. Savor something traditional despite our modern living arrangement.
Wrong.
He wants to be an asshole purposely walking around the apartment in boxers, stripping off with a raging hard-on while combing his damn hair.
And worst of all, he tells me to roll over because he needs his space in bed to jerk off.
But I stick to my guns, struggling to resist the temptation of jumping on top and riding him hard until the sun sets.
I still recall that moment because it was so damn hot.
“Zoey, can you move to your side of the bed? I need to take care of things.”
He’s wearing his glasses, and his hair is a wild mess from the shower. His tone is serious, paired with a piercing stare that leaves me begging the question as to why. I’m heavily distracted by his upper chest, his muscles so perfectly sculpted and toned, bare and exposed for me to see.
“What things?” I move the wedding diary closer to me balancing my laptop on top of the quilt.
“I need to masturbate.”
“Excuse me?” I choke, coughing on cue while trying to compose myself. The tickle in my throat lingers irritating me like crazy.
“I need a release. So, if you don’t mind, please move over so I can get started.”
I have no words, sliding over to my side of the bed as his hands move into the sheets and onto his cock. The screen in front of me is flickering, yet all I see is blank while my mind tries to comprehend the absurdity of this situation.
Just ignore him. He’s doing this on purpose.
But Drew knows me oh so well. Gradually building up his strokes hard and fast, releasing violent moans as his body begins to peak, neck stretched wide exposing his skin—the very spot that drives him crazy when I kiss it.
The ache between my legs resonates, and my tight little boy-shorts become increasingly wet. I can’t cave now, the wedding is only weeks away. We didn’t have sex for four years. What’s a measly four weeks?
It’s twenty-eight days.
Six hundred and seventy-two hours.
Stop it, Zoey! You’re only torturing yourself.
I open an email and try to read the content. I read the first line multiple times and still can’t remember what it says. Something about the flower arrangement and the invoice.
“I’m sorry. Is my moaning distracting you?” Drew stops, his pupils dilate while waiting for a response.
“No, carry on,” I say with a gulp.
The bastard does. This time louder and louder until his back arches, sweat forming on his forehead with his veins bulging out of his biceps leading up to the grand finale where he blows all over his hand.
My mouth is flooding with moisture, my body temperature high from my heart beating like a deranged lunatic desperate to crawl out of a straightjacket.
“Ahh,” he soothes. “That was great.”
Silence.
What the fuck just happened?
“A great way to release tension. Especially before the big night,” he says, void of any emotion.
“The bachelor’s night? I forgot that was on.”
“Really?” Grabbing a tissue, he wipes himself clean and climbs out of bed walking toward the bathroom completely naked. It gives me a few moments to clear my head, cool down, and release the groan building up inside.
Minutes later, he returns with another blinding hard-on. “How convenient you forgot it was on?”
I’m a shitty liar. Of course, I remember. It doesn’t help that Mia goes on and on about Troy’s bachelor night. That was supposed to be a tame night considering her and Troy’s dad were with the group, but low and behold, they all wound up in Vegas shoving dollar bills in a hooker’s panties.
I want to trust Drew—I should trust Drew. But things between us are rocky. We don’t see eye to eye on many things involving the wedding, and he won’t budge on the honeymoon. Instead, I’m forced to book Maui much to my displeasure. Because of that, I’m a cranky bitch around him. Add my non-existent pizza diet, and my mood swings are giving everyone whiplash.
“Sounds like it’ll be a great night.” It’s the only thing I can say to avoid arguing. And with that, he says goodnight and turns his back to me and falls fast asleep.
***
At work, I try to distract myself. Despite Drew’s petty spit, I continue to hang out with Slater enjoying his laid-back personality. He is easy going and doesn’t sweat the small stuff. We often spend our lunches talking about the most random things from how the Coreys were the coolest kids in Hollywood to why Elvis is still alive and wandering the streets of America. He makes me laugh and relieves the built-up tension that’s brewing inside of me due to the constant battles with Drew.
Today is no exception, and I purposely annoy him in his office trying to get some much-needed information.
“So, strippers… are you allowed to touch them or not?”
He laughs, placing his cell aside. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why? What if I wanted to visit a strip club and needed to know?”
“Then, you make every man’s dream come true,” he chuckles lightly.
“Ha, ha,” I comment briefly. “I’m serious.”
“It depends where you go. For the most part, no. But some places will allow it if you slip them a little something extra.”
“What kind of touch? Graze of the skin or more?”
“You want me to be specific?” he asks, raising his eyebrow and watching me intently.
I think about what he says. This is borderline awkward. I should stop now and end the conversation before I can’t backtrack and am knee-deep in sexual banter.
“Never mind,” I say disappointed, turning to leave his office.
“Zoey,” Slater calls my name. I turn back bringing my eyes to meet his. Something about the way he’s staring triggers an uncomfortable feeling. The same feeling I read about in my books. The feeling of attraction. “What’s got you so on edge?”
“N
othing.”
“Nothing wouldn’t be stressing out over her fiancé seeing a bunch of naked ladies.”
I let out a sigh, sitting down in his chair, ignoring the way he’s gazing at me waiting for an answer. The hem of my navy skirt pulls up slightly exposing my thigh. Quick to pull it down to a respectable length, I adjust my white blouse at the same time making sure I’m presentable.
Slater is leaning back in his big brown leather chair rocking back and forth with his hands clasped together near his mouth. His striking good looks are a small distraction.
“Things have been difficult lately.”
“I can see. You have a lot on your plate.”
“I didn’t expect this to be hard work… the whole wedding-planning thing. I thought it was supposed to be fun, but all we ever do is fight.”
Slater remains quiet allowing me to speak, keeping his stare blank. “Drew’s been short-tempered, and everything about us doesn’t… I don’t know.”
He leans forward resting his elbows on the desk. “Zoey, what does your gut say?”
“It wants pizza.” I laugh.
“Have pizza. You’re beautiful. Your body is amazing. A few slices of pizza won’t stop you fitting into a wedding dress. Let me take you out tonight. There’s a great pizza place just outside of the city. It’ll be a great way to get your mind off things.”
It would be a great way to get my mind off things, but spending time with Slater, alone, will only anger Drew.
Unless he didn’t know.
I’m not doing anything wrong. Besides, he will be busy staring at tits and pussy. That’s so much worse than having an innocent pizza with a co-worker.
The same time I’m about to say yes, Mia bursts into Slater’s office with a flushed face. She bends over clutching onto her belly, instantly alarming both of us.
Shit! She can’t have the baby in here!
“Change of plans,” she announces, out of breath.
I quickly stand up grabbing onto her arm to support her weight. “Change of plans? Is the baby coming?”
“Bachelorette night has been moved to tonight. Your mom just called me. Your dad sprained his ankle tripping over something in the garden. She can’t come now and to top it off, the boat I had arranged the party on won’t take pregnant women. Something about being a liability… assholes.”
“Okay, so why tonight?”
“Because I scored last-minute reservations at that Teppanyaki restaurant you love.”
“No way,” I exclaim. “Mr. Miyagi’s?”
She nods with a proud smile. “Plus… a little something special for afterward.”
“Does it involve naked guys?”
“I’m not saying a word.” Mia squints, hiding her smile while lowering her head. Her jet-black hair, grown past her shoulders, covers her face.
“I should probably start drinking now,” I say with excitement looking forward to unwinding with the girls.
“Okay, I guess I’ll leave you guys to get back to whatever you need to get back to.” Mia’s eyes dart back and forth waddling away with a curious expression.
“So, raincheck on that pizza?” Slater suggests, pulling me back to his presence in the room. His attention is fixed on the screen, and the lingering glance that bothered me before Mia walked in has disappeared.
“Sure.” I follow through with a smile walking out of his office, and when out of his sight, run toward Mia’s desk to probe her about tonight.
***
“Open your mouth,” Mia shouts over the noise as the chef throws a prawn at my mouth which somehow lands on my breast. My shimmery rose-gold dress is quite low exposing massive cleavage. I peel the prawn off my skin, wiping myself with a napkin, all the while struggling to hold in my laughter.
The four of us, Mia, Gigi, my ex-neighbor, my friend, Callie, and I continue to laugh loudly, tears streaming down our faces as we struggle to contain ourselves. It started with some harmless vegetables being thrown at us, but by the time the seafood came out, we’re in a fit of hysterics. Especially when Callie missed, and the squid got mangled in her perfectly styled hair.
Gigi has a turn instantly catching the piece of tofu thrown at her. With a perfect catch, we cheer her on as she swallows the food. “That, my girls, comes with experience.”
I place my arm around her pulling her in for a tight hug. I really missed having her around. She’s been my rock for so many years and that person I can always count on. Between her back-and-forth trips to the Middle East, we rarely have time to talk much anymore.
She hasn’t changed much. She’s still beautifully aged with her long, gray hair tied into her usual braid. The dress she’s chosen to wear tonight is slightly out of character—black with long sleeves—but she’s added a piece of her unique personality—an amethyst necklace that sits in line with the skirting of her dress and what appears like a diamond hanging center.
“Tell me about this new man,” I ask with a mouthful of sushi.
“No longer new. We’ve been seeing each other for six months. Did I tell you he’s a Sheikh?”
“Uh… no,” I say, eager to hear more. “That’s interesting.”
“Honey, interesting is an understatement. This man makes me come alive. My horoscopes forewarned me of new beginnings.”
“Does mine say that my fiancé has become a crabby eighty-year-old woman?”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Drew can be intense when he’s passionate about something. Like when he was falling for you.” She smiles, reminding me of a time when life was so simple.
Gigi has seen it all. My waste-of-time relationship with Jess, and Drew and I hooking up. She’s seen me at my absolute worst when life had kicked me to the gutter and shit all over me.
“I need a drink,” I yell to no one in particular.
A waiter walks past at the same time bringing a bottle of wine. I drink the glass quickly demanding another and realize I haven’t relaxed like this for quite some time. Drew and I are stuck in some sort of work rut. We rarely go out and have fun. He just wants to stay home and have sex. Granted, I enjoy the sex part, but I wish he’d like to get out a little more.
“It’s going to work itself out. Small bump, but an exciting journey ahead,” Gigi tells me.
Big fucking bumps and a stressful journey ahead. I’m not going to tell her that and be the killjoy tonight.
Finishing up dessert and another bottle of wine, Mia announces it’s time to go. With an array of excitement, we grab our purses and follow her lead. A twenty-minute drive later, we park in front of a bar in a seedier part of town. The streets are dimly lit, the sounds of dogs barking and alarms ringing can be heard in the distance.
“Okay, ladies, time to have fun!”
Callie leans in and whispers in my ear, “The last time she said that squishy sea life got into my hair.” She follows with a hiccup, grabbing my hand as we walk into the bar. I miss hanging out with Callie. It’s been a few months since we’ve gotten together. Thankfully, she’s in a much better place having suffered depression after her split from her husband.
Mia hands us all a whistle shaped like a penis. Everyone puts it around their neck with enthusiasm, and I follow because the wine is clouding my judgment and penis whistles at this moment look like they’re a lot of fun. Then, she hands me a sash that says ‘Future Mrs. Anal.’
“I can’t wear this!” I hand back the sash followed by constant hiccupping.
Mia throws it over my head. “Drew’s a neat freak. Very anal about cleanliness.”
“I know, but people will think I like anal.”
“But you do like anal.”
“The whole world doesn’t need to know that.”
She scrunches up her face exhaling like it’s no big deal. “Suck it up and don’t be a party pooper. Listen…” she pulls me to her, “… it’s our song!”
Whitney Houston blares over the speaker, and with the crowd singing along, I scan the room and notice predominantly women inside. It’s a fu
ll house, the majority dancing around and drunk-singing with glasses in hand. There’re a few brides-to-be, and it seems to be a popular ladies’ joint. Interesting venue choice, but nevertheless, the music is rocking.
We find a table near the front, and just as we take our seats, the lights black out. There’s a hush in the room followed by a few piercing whistles. One of them from our table. Two, now. Then, three. When the music starts and Like a Prayer begins, the dim lights center on the stage, and the silhouette of a man dressed in a priest’s robe becomes clearer as the lights brighten. On cue with the beat, the man rips off the robe wearing nothing but a leopard thong leaving zero to the imagination.
Hung like a goddamn horse.
Shit.
Along with the girls, I blow my whistle singing at the top of my lungs while dancing to the music. The dancer makes eye contact shuffling toward me as he dry-humps my ass, and sadly, that hung horse is actually a prawn dick in disguise.
When the song ends, another male hops onto the stage dancing more sexual at a slow pace to Red Red Wine. It gives us a moment to calm down, swaying along to the tune, and when I reach toward my purse to grab my cell, Mia’s quick to slap my hand and take it off me.
“No calling Drew,” she yells over the music.
Before I even have time to sulk, Mia pulls some penis-shaped shot glasses out of her purse. She calls for the waiter to top us off except hers with only soda.
“Next game,” Mia shouts, her voice becoming hoarse. “This is called the ex-factor.”
Great, I bet you have to perform something. Thankfully, the alcohol releases any inhibitions I’d normally have.
“Zoey, since it’s your bon voyage, this game is to say farewell to the last man you had sex with before Drew.”
I spit out my drink. “Mia, I can’t do that.”
“You can’t, but I will.” She grabs my phone out of my purse. My reflexes are weak, so I sit and watch unable to connect the dots of what I need to do to stop her. I doubt he’ll respond anyway.
“Noah?” Gigi asks.
“Leave him alone,” I warn her, penis shot in hand while I drink it in one go. It burns my throat, my body shaking as it passes through.