Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  17

  As we pull into the parking lot of the sex toy store where Marie and I are mystery shopping today, she turns to me and blurts out, “Amanda, what’s a Dirty Sanchez?”

  I set down my foamy hot chocolate. Permanently.

  Marie went through the entire mystery shopping certification process so that she could do sex toy shops. So far, she turns out to be a master at them. This one is a little different from the others.

  This is a store with its own back room that hosts bachelorette parties. As luck would have it, we need to evaluate the process of being walked through the offer to host a combined bachelorette/sex toy party, complete with catering and strippers.

  Timing is everything.

  Shannon has begged me to make sure her mother doesn’t sign any contracts. Technically, as the maid of honor, it’s my job to throw the bachelorette party, and no matter how elegantly awesome this place might be, I have the final say on what Shannon’s last night of debauchery looks like.

  As far as I’m concerned, it involves alcohol, body oil, and Joe Manganiello.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  I pointedly ignore Marie’s question about a Dirty Sanchez (Google it—you’ll understand why) and we walk up to the smoked glass doors of our day’s shop.

  You would think we were walking into a spa. A zen-decorated, grass and glass and polished stones, all muted earth-tones spa. The facility is called O.

  Just...O.

  A woman dressed in dove grey, with hair pulled back in a bun, greets us with a warm smile, reeking of verbena. She has no idea we’re actually mystery shopping. That’s the point. We pretend to be regular customers, but quietly document all of the ways the center can improve its customer service.

  We’re offered cucumber sparkling mineral water. The decor is a mix of raw wood, polished bamboo floors, glass waterfalls and zen rock stacks, with orange and gold accents throughout.

  “O offers a twenty-first century club for sophisticated women,” the saleswoman, Chloe, explains. “We want to be a fourth space for women of a discerning taste.”

  “Fourth space?” Marie asks. She’s toned down her entire personality, eyes eager but body controlled.

  “Home is the first space. Work is the second space. Third spaces are locations like coffee shops and malls. We’re the fourth space. The space where you can arrive. Rest. Relax.” Chloe leans forward and whispers in a hushed tone with sultry implications. “Indulge.”

  Just then, a seven-foot-tall redwood masquerading as a man walks by, covered in oil and ginger hair, all tan and green eyes and...I think he’s wearing a shoelace.

  And only a shoelace—between his legs.

  He bends over and offers an assortment of tiny pieces of sushi on a tray that is so small it can’t even cover his, um...chopstick.

  “Indulge,” Marie says, her voice like a cougar’s growl, accepting a piece of something with salmon, her eyes tracking every move the man makes as he leaves the room.

  “That is Henry. He’s one of our top massage therapists.”

  “He gives massages?” Marie gives me a look that says, Please tell me we’re required to get a massage as part of this shop. Please. Please!

  I give her a terse head shake.

  She pouts.

  “Yes,” Chloe answers. “We have an array of highly skilled practitioners here, from massage therapists to acupuncturists to Reiki providers and so much more.”

  “More?” I ask, my lips twitching with amusement.

  Chloe takes the bait willingly. She smooths long, elegantly-painted fingers along the tops of her legs, which are covered in a light linen skirt. “Indeed. You wouldn’t be here at O if you weren’t aware of our full array of services.”

  “True. My daughter is getting married in a few months and we’ve heard wonderful stories about your bachelorette parties.”

  I kick Marie in the ankle, just lightly enough to make a point.

  She moves out of target range.

  Chloe’s face spreads with a grin. “Ah. I see. You want to experience the full package.”

  Henry walks over with a tray of chocolate mousse in little espresso cups. As he bends over, I see the full package, all right.

  I take one of the white-chocolate-filled delights and Henry gives me the once-over. My face pinkens. A few days ago, this would have been a dream, but now?

  Suddenly Henry is just...work. Nothing more.

  Timing really is everything.

  Chloe pulls out a small remote control and pushes buttons, a large screen sliding down from the ceiling as the lights dim. She begins a slideshow, a slick, professional design that takes us through all of the features O has to offer, from private lap dances with the male “talent” to hot tub and massage packages for couples.

  “And, of course, we have our Bridal Queen Delight,” she says, going in for the kill. None of their services in the brochure have prices next to them.

  Five men pour into the room as stripper music starts, the lights changing color. One of them is holding a sex toy that is likely banned in the state of Texas.

  We’re about to get a full taste of O, all right.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  It’s Andrew.

  Can’t wait for tonight. What are you doing now?

  Watching a male stripper perform with a sex toy, I text back.

  My phone rings instantly.

  Marie doesn’t even notice. She’s watching Henry do a backbend and play with a—

  “You’re doing what?” Andrew’s voice barks into my phone. I plug the other ear and try to ignore the show in front of me.

  “I’m working.”

  “Your work involves a male stripper and sex toys?”

  “Yes. Today it does.”

  “Who on earth pays you to do that?”

  “You do.”

  Silence.

  “WHAT?”

  “Anterdec has majority ownership of the parent company that just recently launched the O spas, right? This is your job I’m on, Andrew. Thank you.” I practically purr through those last two words.

  Silence.

  “Shit,” he chokes out. “So I’m paying you to ogle half-naked men.”

  I squint and look carefully at the beefcake before me. “Technically, they’re about seven-eighths naked.”

  He groans.

  “The only mostly-naked man I want you to watch is me.”

  My turn to be silent. I am silent because my mouth just filled with drool and I can’t stop imagining Andrew in a shoelace offering me chocolate mousse in an espresso cup.

  “Amanda?”

  “Yes.”

  “You there?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I missed you last night.”

  “You were with me last night.”

  “I meant after dinner. You didn’t take me up on my offer to come back to my place.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too much. Too fast.” That’s the simple way to explain it. The truth is vastly more complex, but it’s hard to concentrate right now when there are five mostly naked men with bodies like something out of Magic Mike shining at me.

  Chloe thinks I’m talking about the striptease in front of me and slows everything down. Marie is in some guy’s lap, being fed chocolate-covered strawberries and having Champagne poured into a vial between her breasts and sipped by another man.

  Maybe that’s what she means about ‘the girls’ doing more work than anyone ever imagines.

  “Is it?” he asks softly. “Is tonight too much?”

  “No!” I say a little too quickly.

  “Yes!” Marie calls out as the music quickens and she’s lifted into a—

  “Is that a sex swing?” I call out.

  “Oh, come on,” Andrew mutters. “My work day involves discussing currency exchange rates and spreads—”

  “This involves some, uh, spreading too,” I mutter. And plenty of currency, I imagine. />
  “Amanda,” he growls.

  “I think I have to get off the phone before Marie commits a felony or three in front of me, Andrew,” I say, trying to stay calm. “Or does something so unforgivable Jason leaves her. I am pretty sure standard wedding vows don’t allow for—”

  “I want you off this account. Immediately.”

  “You don’t get to decide that,” I say, laughing. He has no idea that I would love to be taken off all these sex toy shops. I tried to pawn them off on Carol but she wouldn’t bite.

  Now I’m watching Marie bite.

  “If Anterdec’s the client, I most certainly do get to decide that. See you tonight.”

  Click.

  Oooooo.

  Was that jealousy?

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Andrew:

  Is dinner at my place tonight too much, too fast?

  I text back:

  No.

  He replies:

  How about asking you to pack an overnight bag?

  A zing runs through me, and not because of the sudden appearance of Henry in my face, his eight pack inches from my forehead. He’s an afterthought. I only have eyes for my blinking blue phone screen.

  I type back:

  Wait. You cook? You’re cooking me dinner?

  He replies:

  You dodged the question.

  I text back:

  So did you.

  He replies:

  Then we’re at a standoff.

  I answer:

  Yes, we are.

  And he says:

  The only way to break a standoff is to figure out the other person’s weak point.

  And I reply:

  That could take a very long time. I should pack an overnight bag just in case.

  He texts back a smiley face.

  Hold on.

  I think I just lost this standoff before it even began.

  18

  Andrew’s loft is one story below the penthouse level and right on the water, about a five-minute walk from where we had dinner last night. I’m looking out at a wall of glass that shimmers from the reflection of the moon on the water and the city lights bouncing like disco balls. He has a small balcony with two wrought-iron chairs on it and a large, mesh umbrella.

  “You live here?” I gasp, stunned by the location. “In a waterfront loft? Why were you buying a boat on the marina the other night when you live right on the water?” I can look out his living room window and see the marina in question below. Way below.

  “Business investment. A way to entertain clients.” He’s in the kitchen, fussing with food on plates. The apartment smells amazing, but I know that the scent is fake.

  “You didn’t actually cook for me, did you? You used that old onion trick.”

  He looks up, face tight with concentration as he arranges food on white, square plates. His hands are big and skilled, moving as if he knows what he’s doing. And yet from what I know from Declan, Andrew’s got the cooking skills of a preschooler.

  After he wipes his hands on a towel, Andrew grabs two wine goblets and pours generous glasses of a lovely white wine. I peek at the label. Domaine Leroy Corton-Charlemagne...something. When rich people put famous historical figures on their wine labels, you know it’s going to be expensive.

  He hands me one glass.

  “What old trick?”

  “You fried some onions in olive oil right before I came over. It makes the apartment smell like you slaved away over a hot stove when what really happened was a private chef came by earlier and prepared everything in advance.”

  Another one of his tells. He blinks slowly, the motion too controlled. His face betrays him.

  I take a sip. Great wine. Then I laugh.

  “You’re good,” he says.

  “Busted.”

  “Consuela sends her regards.”

  “You hired her just for our dinner?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem? Would you prefer a different chef?”

  “I am fine with a burger and fries.”

  “Too bad. You’re getting filet mignon and cauliflower roasted in avocado oil with a jicama...something.”

  “You can’t even fake cooking well.”

  He pulls me to him, ending the space gap between us. His mouth tastes like wine and smiles. He’s wearing an open-collared business shirt in a shade of blue that makes the grey of his apartment seem crisper. Bolder. There’s a black t-shirt underneath, which only serves to mold to the contours of his torso, pecs, and shoulders, outlining his body.

  The loft is decorated in shined stainless steel and open support beams, with wallpaper that looks like old black-and-white photos of industrial-age factories. The door to his bedroom is open and I see a nautical theme in there, with the bed covered in a white-and-blue-striped duvet.

  Bed.

  His bed.

  I shiver and Andrew pulls me ever closer. I feel how much he likes me. Likes this. His arousal triggers my own, the tête-à-tête fueling a kiss that leaves me on tip-toes, reaching for the soft hair at the back of his head, my hands groping and grasping to bring him as close as two people can be while fully clothed.

  Panting hard, he pulls back and stares down at me, eyes alight with more than passion.

  “Too much? Too fast?”

  “Not yet.”

  His eyes narrow, those arms cradling my hips in a way that is so comfortable it feels like we’ve been doing this for years.

  “You set the pace,” he stresses, letting one arm stray from my waist so he can drink his wine.

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  I just wait. I don’t try to explain.

  “Because...” His voice fades out with a deliberative sigh. “Because I don’t know. It just feels right.”

  “Do you always do what feels right?”

  He jerks his head sharply, breaking eye contact. “No.”

  “But you try.”

  “Yes.”

  “Always?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  I laugh. “Somehow, you don’t strike me as the kind of man who worries about having other people’s approval in order to do something.”

  “Other than my dad, that’s true. And even with him, it’s fading.”

  I study him. He’s not quite nervous, but there’s something just slightly off.

  “Why’s your dad giving over the CEO position to you now? He’s barely sixty. That’s fairly young. James doesn’t strike me as the type to cede control easily.”

  Andrew’s mouth sets in a grim line. His hand is at my elbow and he guides me to the couch. “I’ll tell you the answer if you promise to keep it a secret.”

  “I still haven’t said a word to Shannon and Declan about your being CEO.”

  “I know you haven’t. And I appreciate that.”

  Some layer to Andrew’s tone sets an alarm bell off inside me. The wine is loosening me up but this makes me tight with worry.

  “Dad has cancer.”

  And there it is.

  “Oh, Andrew,” I say, leaning forward to hold his hand. “I am so sorry.”

  He nods. “It’s not that bad. Prostate. Slow growing. He has many years ahead of him. But it’s shaken him to the core and he’s stepping back. When we make the formal announcement he’s not positioning this as a retirement, not at all. In fact, he’s becoming a venture capitalist and planning a whole new company around seed money and angel investing.”

  “Okay.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “But he’s freaked out.”

  “Declan doesn’t know yet?”

  Andrew shakes his head.

  “Your dad confided in you, though?”

  “Dad and Declan have a complicated relationship. Dad doesn’t like to show any kind of weakness with Dec.”

  “Why?”

  “Goes back to the incident. My mom’s death.”

  “Oh.” This is the first tim
e he’s ever brought it up with me. He’s initiating the conversation, and if I’m careful, he’ll open up to me.

  “Dad’s fumed at Declan for all these years. It’s not like Dec could have made a different choice, at least, not the way he tells the story. Mom wanted him to use the EpiPen on me. Dec did as told. Mom died. I lived. The end.”

  The way he’s describing this makes some part of me cry for the teen he was when it all occurred. The man in front of me is telling the story with a clinical detachment that is manufactured. I’m not judging. I’m just observing. His entire demeanor changes as he recounts what happened, and it’s giving me insight into Andrew as a man.

  What happened that day was horrifying and harrowing for Andrew and Declan and their mother. But the aftermath...oh, how awful. My throat begins to fill with the tangy sense of impeding tears. The bridge of my nose tingles. I blink, hard, trying to drive it away.

  Some second date.

  I need to reply. He’s looking at me like we’re playing conversation tennis and it’s my turn to return the ball.

  “Your father doesn’t feel like he has a relationship with Declan where he can tell him these private details?”

  “No.”

  “But he does with you.”

  Andrew frowns. “Yes. I guess. Apparently so. Dads are so complicated, aren’t they?”

  I hold my breath.

  He picks up on a change in me right away. “What’s your dad like?”

  “I don’t know. He left when I was five.”

  “Left? Your parents divorced?”

  “Um,” I say, biting my lower lip. This story never gets easier to tell. “Yes, they divorced.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Not since I was five.”

  “When you say he left, you mean it. He just...left?”

  “You know the old cliché about the guy who goes to the store one day to get a pack a cigarettes and never comes back?”

  He grimaces. “Yes.”

  “Substitute a twelve-pack of beer for cigarettes and you have my dad. Leo Warrick’s been gone for more than twenty years.”

  “And absolutely no contact?”

  I wobble. I hesitate. There is a truth here. There really is. But the true truth is deeper below the surface truth than anyone who hasn’t lived my life can possibly imagine.