by Erin Noelle
The ding of the elevator cuts my thought short, and before I can say or do anything else, Rory grabs my hand and drags me into the empty lift. His mouth is on mine the second the mirrored doors come together, separating us from the group of high-brow voyeurs and neither of us attempt to come up for air until we’re stopped at our destination.
Rushing to our room, our heavy breaths the only sound in the narrow hallway, I quickly forget about everything but the raw ache between my legs and the one thing that can soothe it. Rory hastily slides the key card through the lock, and the second the green light flashes, he throws open the door and we collapse inside.
Articles of clothing fly through the air before the lock clicks shut behind us. With his eyes clouded with desperation and pure hunger, he tosses me on the bed on my stomach then positions himself on his knees between my spread thighs. Eight weeks is a long fucking time to go without sex, and I’m willing to bet it’s been just as long for him.
Grabbing my hips, he pulls my ass up into the air so that it’s perfectly aligned with his steeled shaft. As I watch him roll a condom on from over my shoulder, I prepare myself for a rough, demanding fucking. Exactly like I like it.
No words are exchanged as he enters me, nor is eye contact made. Burying my face in the mattress, I grip the sheets and brace myself as he thrusts into me over and over again, his hips beating a staccato rhythm against my ass. I close my eyes and focus on the overwhelming pleasure building fast and furiously in my core; however, the only image that appears behind my tightly shut lids involves the cocky-mouthed, drop-dead gorgeous guy from Ember earlier this evening. The more I think about him, the clearer the indecent vision becomes, the closer I get to my release, until I’m soaring in my orgasmic high thinking only of faded Levi jeans and thick chestnut hair I’d like to bury my fingers in.
Rory finds his climax with a muffled yell, and once we’ve both recuperated, round two ensues, followed by three and four, each time feeling more and more impersonal. The bed, the Jacuzzi tub, and the chaise lounge all see plenty of action until physical exhaustion takes over. The last thing I remember as I struggle to keep my eyelids open is Rory’s phone ringing and his muffled voice as he accepts the call.
I’m not sure if it’s the knock at the door or the sound of a male voice calling out, “Room service” that disturbs my exceptionally peaceful sleep, but either way, the first thing I realize when I wake up stark naked, tangled in the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets, is that I’m alone. Strangely, Rory and all his stuff are gone. He’s never been one to bolt in the middle of the night, usually sticking around for a morning shower romp prior to going our separate ways, but before I can replay the events of last night in my mind to figure out what happened, the rapping on the door returns.
“Miss Shavell, room service, ma’am,” the hotel attendant repeats, a bit louder this time.
“One minute,” I call back as I scramble out of bed and snag my dress from yesterday off the floor then slip it over my head.
Hurrying to let him in, the amused expression that flashes across his face when he sees me says everything—I look like a girl who was fucked six ways from Sunday. Glancing down, I notice the dress I just threw on is indeed inside out, and I’m sure my out-of-control bed head and smudged mascara only helps to complete the look.
Refusing to allow him to fluster me, I smile brightly and motion him into the suite. “I wasn’t aware I ordered room service,” I remark as he carries the tray in and sets it on the dinette table next to the bed.
“No, ma’am. Mr. Tanner ordered it for you before he left early this morning. There’s also a note from him on the tray. He wanted me to express his apologies for leaving you alone,” the middle-aged, balding man explains, his gaze lingering on my braless tits that are barely concealed by the thin yellow fabric.
Never one to back away from an opportunity to tease, I gather my hair in one hand and twist it up into a knot on top of my head, revealing even more of my cleavage to him. In my sweetest, most demure voice, I reply, “Awww, well, thank you so much for delivering the message.” Then, lifting the silver dome covering the food with my other hand, I pick up a piece of sausage and raise it to my mouth. “And for the meat,” I add before sinking my teeth into the juicy link.
His Adam’s apple bobs wildly as he swallows hard, unsure of what to say or do next. Shuffling his feet backward toward the door, his nervous gaze drops to the ground and he begins to stutter, “Y-y-yes, ma’am, Miss Shavell. P-please stay as long, um . . . as long as you’d like. Mr. Tanner has taken care of everything.”
Arching an eyebrow, I take another bite, well aware the grease from the sausage is dribbling down my bottom lip, past my chin, and dripping onto my chest. “Yes, Mr. Tanner is quite good at taking care of everything. More men should be like him.” I pause to read his nametag, then add, “Don’t you think so, Kurt?”
“Absolutely.” Another hard swallow as he shoots his hand out behind him to reach for the silver knob. “If you need anything else, please ring the front desk, Ms. Shavell.”
Then, with a quick twist of his wrist and an abrupt about-face, he’s gone. And I erupt into a fit of giggles as I grab the handwritten note from Rory off the tray.
I drop back onto the bed, grabbing a piece of bacon from the plate as I go and sigh contently. I really have a great life. Amazing family. Good friends. Promising career plan. Regular hookup. All drama-free. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
So why am I still thinking about that damn button fly?
SATURDAY, JUNE 16
WEDDING DAY.
Ugh.
I know the minute I wake up something isn’t right. My skin is clammy, my teeth are chattering even though I’m sweating, and my hand feels like it’s been shot when I accidentally bump it against the headboard. All that means one thing: fever.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m a fucking pussy when I’m sick. On my bike, I’ve cracked three ribs, broken my left ankle twice and my right forearm once, and dislocated my shoulder more times than I can count, but the crud kicks my motherfuckin’ ass. I haven’t been sick in over five years, and the fact I’ve come down with something today of all days gives me another reason to hate this stupid-ass day.
Exerting all the energy I can muster, I roll onto my side and snatch my cell phone from the nightstand, collapsing back onto the hotel pillow once the feat is accomplished. After three deep breaths, which also involves three excruciatingly painful swallows, I raise the phone up off the mattress and hit the “favorites” button with Emmy Sue’s picture next to it. Switching it into speakerphone mode before dropping it on top of the comforter next to me, I wait for her to answer.
“Levi, I swear to God you or Gunner better be dying or in jail to call me at six-thirty on the morning of my wedding,” she growls into the receiver, not bothering with any false pleasantries. This is why I love her; she’s always real. No fluff. I just wish she wasn’t taking my roommate away from me.
“Dying,” I croak. “I think I’m dying.”
“Shit!” She shuffles around on the other end of the line, probably sitting up in bed and turning the light on. “The sore throat from last night? I thought that was just an excuse to get out of the rehearsal dinner and hook up with Tori?”
I attempt to laugh—because I did, in fact, fuck her maid-of-honor Tori yesterday, only it was before the rehearsal dinner, not after. But the vibration of my voice feels like razorblades carving into my tonsils, and I end up hacking and coughing for several minutes, not getting a single word out in the process.
She waits for me to stop before continuing her inquisition, the panic in her voice growing with each word. “Wow, you do sound terrible. Are you running a fever? Do you have any medicine? Have you called Gunner?”
“No thermometer or medicine, but my bet is yes on the fever. It hurts to do anything. I don’t know where to go or what to do. Gunner doesn’t know. I called you first.”
“’Kay, let me call my mom and see if she kno
ws anyone we can get you into first thing this morning. The good news is the wedding isn’t until six, so we have some time to get you well enough to make it through the ceremony.” She sounds a little more optimistic than a few moments ago.
Moaning in discomfort, I nod as if she can see it. “Just let me know what to do. I’ll be here in bed until then.”
“I’ll call you right back,” she replies before adding, “Oh, and Levi, you will be at the wedding. I don’t care if we have to prop you up on something. Gunner won’t do this without you there, and neither will I. You’re our best friend.”
Her words tug at my heart, and if I didn’t feel like hot, soggy dog shit, I might have gotten all sappy back. But right now, I just don’t have it in me. “I’ll try, Em.”
“I know you will.”
Four hours later, I’m at the wedding day brunch set up in the hotel for Gunner and all the guys in the wedding, and much to my surprise, I feel halfway decent. A half-hour after I hung up with Emmy Sue, her mom, Rachel, picked me up from the hotel and drove me to a local urgent care clinic, where they fixed me up with some strong shit—a shot, some pills, a bottle of throat spray, and something called Magic Mouthwash.
I didn’t really pay much attention to what was going on. All I know is I feel somewhat human as I sit here eating a made-to-order omelet that doesn’t taste like much of anything. I may have numbed my tongue and all my taste buds while squirting that cherry shit all over the back of my throat, but I’ll take tasteless food over choking on a thorn bush any day.
“If you want a Bloody Mary or a mimosa, they’re up there at the bar,” Gunner announces when he sits next to me, the plate in front of him overflowing with every breakfast food known to man.
Shaking my head, I finish chewing the bite in my mouth before speaking. “Nah, I can’t drink on this medicine if you actually want me to be upright and responsive for the ceremony, and I promised Emmy Sue I wouldn’t drink until afterwards.”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea then. You don’t want to piss off Bridezilla anymore today. She sounded like she was on the brink of a meltdown when I talked to her earlier, and you’re at the top of her shit list.”
“Why? What else is going on?”
Popping a piece of bacon in his mouth, he smirks knowingly at me. “It seems Tori woke up sick this morning too. Symptoms almost identical to yours, except she’s allergic to like every fucking antibiotic available, so they can’t give her whatever they gave you. She’s still in bed miserable, and it’s doubtful she’ll be able to make it tonight.”
“Ah, fuck,” I grumble, dropping my fork on my plate. “She gave me this crap?”
He snickers before washing his food down with a big gulp of his Bloody Mary. “I don’t know who gave who what, but I know once you’re well, my soon-to-be wife is going to kick your ass for causing her this stress on her wedding day. She’s contemplating going without a maid-of-honor but says that’ll fuck up the pictures or some shit. I don’t know. I told her as long as she and I are fucking each other’s brains out tonight as husband and wife, I didn’t give a shit about anything else.”
Guilt settles uncomfortably in my stomach. For all the silent bitching I’ve been doing in my head about this wedding, all for completely selfish reasons of losing my best friend and roommate, I truly want it to be a great day for my two favorite people on the planet. Even if it means dressing up in a monkey suit and being on my best behavior. Gunner and Emmy Sue are my only family . . . well, the only family I claim, anyway.
“Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Holding his hand up to stop me, Gunner pinches his eyebrows together and glares at me. “Don’t apologize to me. I ain’t mad at ya. You didn’t know bangin’ that chick would turn into all this. We’ll deal with it, and once we’re on the road to New Orleans, you can apologize to Emmy Sue if you still think it’s necessary. But for now, I need you to talk as little as possible, rest until it’s time to get ready, and don’t forget the fucking ring tonight. Capiche?”
“Yeah, I got it, man,” I reply, pushing my chair back away from the table as I stand. I still feel like shit for semi-ruining the day, but I guess there’s not much I can do except make sure I’m there to support them tonight. “I’ll be at your room around four with my tux.”
“And the ring, bitch!” he calls out after me as I walk out of the room. “Don’t forget the fucking ring!”
I flip him the double bird over my shoulder without turning around, and I know by the warm tone of his laughter that all is right between the two of us.
Whoever designed the first tuxedo needs to be shot. I mean, I know he—or she—is already dead, but I’d like to shoot them once or twice more, just for some personal satisfaction. Revenge for coming up with this torturous contraption that has way too many goddamn pieces and feels like a vise squeezing around my already swollen neck. Fucker.
“Is everyone ready to go? The guests have all been seated and we’re heading out in five. Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” The Nazi wedding coordinator Emmy hired may be the most high-strung person I’ve ever met, but I guess that’s what makes her good at her job.
Glancing first at Gunner to my left, then Rhino on my right, I’m also guessing it was her idea for these brutal suits, because the three of us couldn’t look more out of place in these black bowties and suspenders if we tried. Between Gunner’s neck tattoos and the gauges in his ears, and Rhino’s electric blue Mohawk dyed this morning to match the wedding colors, I’m probably most suited for the look, except the tailor screwed up my alterations and the jacket won’t button around my chest, and the hem of my pants doesn’t reach my shoe. So I look like a fucking clown. A clown waiting for a flood.
Today has been shit, and I’m clearly not living up to my title of best man. Right now, mediocre man might be pushing it, and that’s with the help of the drugs.
“You ready, bro? Still sure about all of this?” I ask Gunner in a voice low enough no one else can hear. I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to talk him out of it, but I don’t feel like I would be doing my job if I didn’t confirm one last time.
With a shit-eating grin on his face, his head bobs. “Abso-fucking-lutely. Not one single doubt.”
“Good. I’m really happy for you.” I offer a small smile as I nod along with him. “I love you both. Would do anything for either of ya.”
Angling himself toward me, he wraps his arms around me and pats my back in a man-hug. “I know, fucker, but now’s not the time to develop vaginitis. Go out there, dazzle everyone with your charming smile, and give me the ring when they ask for it. We can jack each other off using our tears as lube later.”
“Shit! I knew I forgot something!” My eyes grow wide while I begin to frantically pat around the five thousand pockets in the jacket and pants, acting like I’m searching for something.
Gunner’s face pales several shades. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What was the last thing I told you when you left this morning, dude?”
Our exchange catches the attention of the Nazi wedding coordinator, who’s been talking to God-knows-who in that earpiece since we got in the room two hours ago. She rushes over in a frenzy, throwing death daggers at me with her beady black eyes.
“Where is it? Where did you leave it?” she barks, her neck turning bright red as she fists my lapels.
I want to drag this little charade out a bit, make Gunner squirm to the point he’s so relieved when I do pull it out that he’ll coast right through the ceremony unfrazzled. However, I’m afraid female Adolph may actually kill me later, so I bend down and retrieve the ring from my black trouser sock—my sock that can be seen without even hiking up my pant leg, no less.
Lifting it in the air, I hold it in front of my cousin’s face and stifle back the laugh threatening to escape. “Calm your tits, yo. I may feel like ass and look like a clown, but I’m not a fucking assclown. I’d never let you down, especially not something like this. Now, let’s go get you hit
ched.”
At six o’clock sharp, the three of us follow Lady Hitler out of our dressing room and into the ballroom, taking our places at the front of the grandiose room, next to the minister. A sea of faces mixed with enough blue and white flowers to start a small nursery greets us when we turn around to wait for the ceremony to begin.
I try to scan the crowd, looking for familiar faces of our friends from the motocross tour who are here to celebrate with Gunner, but before I make it to the third row, the music begins and Gunner’s parents start making their way down the aisle to be sat in the front row. Following my aunt and uncle is Emmy Sue’s mom, escorted by Emmy’s brother, and then the music changes as Meghan, the first bridesmaid, begins to make the trek toward us, exactly like we all rehearsed last night.
Once she’s in her designated spot, I refocus my attention to the back, aware it’s Tori’s turn to strut down the aisle next. Except when the big wooden door opens, a familiar sassy-mouthed blonde appears in her place, wearing the dress Tori was supposed to be wearing, carrying the maid-of-honor bouquet.
Sucking in a surprised breath through my teeth, her bright blue gaze locks on mine immediately and a wicked grin skirts around the corners of her mouth. Then, she lifts her chin proudly in the air and glides forward with the grace of a ballerina, every eye in the room staring at her. But hers never leaves mine.
I shift as my clown pants become uncomfortably tighter and drop my hands casually in front of my crotch to hide the evidence.
Her grin morphs into a smirk.
Today might not be such a bad day after all.
SATURDAY, JUNE 16
BEING IN SOMEONE’S WEDDING THAT you haven’t seen in five years is strange, to say the least. Forty-eight hours ago, I wasn’t even invited to this lavish affair. And by lavish, I mean oh-my-God-Emilia-I-knew-your-parents-had-money-but-this-is-fucking-off-the-chain kind of affair.