That said, the deep-tissue massages are so luxurious I have had to stifle my own sex noises here and there, so I can’t be too critical; these chicks really know what they’re doing. And I’m actually somewhat relieved they gave us women instead of men, because with the way my two besties seem ready to Turn Up, I’m not sure we wouldn’t get kicked out of this joint if they had dudes massaging us.
“Which one is Barrett again?” I ask, and she swats at the air just out of reach of me.
“Probably,” I say. “It was just weird. No chemistry, really. But he was trying to force there to be. Nick said—”
Shit.
“Nick as in Hot Sub Guy?” Valerie wants to know. She’s at Eleven in an instant.
“Yes, he moonlights at Quiznos,” I deadpan.
“Is Quiznos still a thing?” Quinn smacks her lips. “Now I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, well, I was too, and that’s one of the reasons Barrett’s a no-go.”
“I don’t understand. You were talking to Hot Sub Guy about your date?”
I wave off the masseuse. “Thank you,” I say. “That’s good for me.”
She gives a small smile and GTFO. This girl totally gets me.
“No, I wasn’t talking to Hot Sub Guy about my date,” I lie. Sit up. Tighten the towel under my armpits. “I was talking about it to Ida, and he happened to overhear. And then he put in his two cents.”
That’s…almost true?
“What did he say?” Quinn’s starfished herself and her masseuse girl is making faces but is ultimately being amazingly patient with the three of our tipsy asses.
They must be used to it.
I trace the cushy piping that lines the massage table with a lazy finger. I don’t make eye contact with her. “He said that Barrett was probably just trying to sleep with me.”
“Duh,” she says, and her massage is over.
I give a sad half grin. Blunt Quinn’s my favorite. I’ve missed her.
“I could have told you that. But, I mean, if he wants to fuck you, he’s got to feed you, amirite?”
“Oh gawd.” Head in my hands. “Are you girls sure you want to do cocktails at the beach bar? I’m afraid we’re going to get ourselves arrested.”
“Ay dios mio. Yes.”
And that settles it. After shoveling our faces full of gourmet burgers and duck-fat fries at the hotel’s five-star restaurant, I consider myself to be killing it here so far. Everything is within walking distance, I’m keeping us hydrated and well fed, and the girls seem to be having the weekend of their lives.
In no time at all, Valerie and I are doing a white-girl version of the sexy salsa dance Quinn has perfected. She’s Sofía Vergara in a sequined miniskirt, and she spins flawlessly in time to the music all over the parquet wood floor. A few of the resident dance instructors have taken to us (because obvi) and we’re all Julia Roberts laughs and glamorous hair tosses and ambitious shots of tequila until it’s way past our bedtime.
As we’re gliding back to our hotel, heels in our hands, the warm breeze sifting our hair out of our faces like we’re a trio of goddamn goddesses, I can’t suppress a sigh. “This is better than Ibiza. I mean, that trip was amazing, but what do you think?” I turn to Quinn, who looks to be floating over the cool sand squishing beneath our feet rather than walking on it.
“I agree. It’s way better. Because we’re all together. All three of us. Like it always used to be.” She puts her arms around Val’s and my middles.
“And, you know, there’s not that horrible business with those horrible men to think about.” Valerie snorts.
“Indeed not.” I nod.
Wind still strong, we keep sliding over the sand, in what—let’s face it—probably looks like choreographed rhythm.
And then, Valerie: “I was jealous.” Her gaze is fixed on her bare feet, but she keeps walking. “That you guys went, I mean.”
We take a few more steps in silence, the waves crashing in and out the only soundtrack, and a feeling of sobering eeriness creeps over me.
“But you have Mike,” I say. Cautious to stay every bit the Positive Patty about their guys and loooooove this weekend.
“And the kids, yes, I know. I’m aware.”
There’s something a little heartbreaking in her tone. The moon spills down the length of her hair. Her milky shoulders, exposed.
“We haven’t had sex since before Frankie was born. I don’t even want to.”
There. She’s said it.
I’ve suspected it for a while and I’ve certainly made my jokes about it to Quinn and to Sarah on occasion, just with all her stupid Rodan + Fields posts on Facebook and the portraits of Pinterest perfection…but to hear her admit it now, out loud, makes me ache for my friend. My Valerie. Who genuinely enjoyed men in college. In high school.
How is it that she can be married—the ultimate goal for all of us female folk, right?—and be as horrifyingly miserable as I know, deep down, she is?
I’ve always hoped I was wrong, but now she’s said it. No turning back.
“You’re just drunk,” I offer, an out.
“So what?” She rounds on me and then pulls back just as quickly. Softens her tone. “He’s not a bad person,” she says.
Quinn plods along wordlessly next to us.
“He’s just—”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. I stop, toss my shoes to the ground, and squeeze her to me. “Just—let’s order room service. Sleep it off.”
“I’m not a teenager,” she snaps over my shoulder, still clinging tight. I can feel the desperation in her grip.
“I know. I don’t think anyone’s saying that. Are we, Quinn?” I give her a look like A little help here?
“Of course not,” she chimes in. “But it’s late.”
“Sure.” Valerie shrugs. “But if I can’t talk about it to the two of you, who can I talk to about it?”
“You can talk to us anytime. Sure—let’s talk,” I say.
But just as suddenly as the conversation came on, Valerie makes a beeline for the ocean, the wind tossing her hair all about, and she’s kneeling. Throwing up.
“How about a health-care professional?” Quinn quips.
I give her a frown and then go help our friend.
* * *
It isn’t anything half a dozen Gatorades and one extra-large room service pizza can’t cure.
Not too much later, Valerie is cozy and snoring in her room, and Quinn and I are lounging on the balcony and smoking cigarettes we bummed from Armando because we’re idiots and like to do this sort of thing when we’ve had a few too many cocktails. That was just how we asked him for them too: “Hey! We’re idiots and like to smoke when we’re drinking—mind if we snag a few?”
“Think this is better than Ibiza now?” Quinn’s long eyelashes glint in the moonlight as she stares off at the inky ocean.
“I do,” I say ironically because #wedding, and she laughs. I take a deep drag and watch the smoke disperse against the night sky. “So she emoted. So what? She probably won’t remember it in the morning. Or she’ll pretend she doesn’t. You know Valerie.”
I keep it breezy, but the weight of our friend’s words sticks with me, anchors me to my spot, and it’s difficult to feign being upbeat. I don’t know how Val does it all the time if this is how she really feels.
“So what are we doing tomorrow? I’m so excited!” Quinn’s words don’t quite match her dusky tone, and the two of us just sit in utter relaxation. Utter non-movement, for what could be hours, for all I can tell.
“I’m not so sure you’re up for it.” I give her the ol’ side eye and throw her half a smile.
“BASE jumping?” Her eyes bug.
“Hell no. Strip club.”
Her laugh is light and its echo dances off the balcony and disappears. “I fucking love you!”
“Ha—I wasn’t sure how you’d react. But I figure we should do it once before we die, right?”
“You’ve never been?” Her voi
ce goes up at the end and it somehow tells me she has.
Or maybe she thinks that’s how I spend my weekends now.
“Why do you guys think I’m, like, this crazy party girl? No, I’ve never been,” I say and take another drag.
“Tomorrow night will be a blast.” She nods, and her lips curl upward like the Grinch’s before he’s about to steal Christmas.
* * *
Chapter 13
Showers and a greasy breakfast do us a world of good the next day, and Valerie’s back to her usual chipper self. Not a mention of last night’s conversation or a gloomy moment to be spared. We’re catching up on our phones and working on our tans until our dinner reservations at eight.
“Vitamin D is just what the doctor ordered.” Valerie fans herself with an Us Weekly she’s been thumbing through all afternoon, and Quinn and I can’t contain our laughter because #penisjokes.
Midway through the swordfish and pumpkin farrotto, my phone buzzes. I cringe a little inside because Nick messaged me last night and I ignored it.
Nick: Big weekend plans?
And I just couldn’t take the implications of that question. Or worry about whether or not I was reading too much into it. Which I probably was.
But when I bring my phone to life, I see it’s a Spark match.
It buzzes again.
“What is it? What is it?” Valerie’s practically salivating all over her fried okra.
“It’s…James. Thirty-eight.” I feel a blush bloom across my cheeks as I realize this one—this is a guy I swiped Right on the other night during my Spark free-for-all. And, I daresay, he seems great. “Nothing offensive or questionable about his profile at all. Provided he is, in fact, real, this could be my date to your wedding. You know, if I meet him and don’t hate him.”
“Gimme that.” Quinn’s snatching for my phone, but I’m holding it out of her reach.
“I didn’t even read the damn thing yet,” I bark.
“Well?”
James: Hello. It’s me.
“What, is he doing Adele?” I scrunch my nose at the screen.
And immediately write back.
Me: I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet.
Bzzzt.
James: To go over. Everything.
“This is so lame, you guys,” I say. But I laugh. And there’s a tickle in my chest.
“Let me see him,” Quinn practically yells. She nods in what looks like appreciation after she sees and hands the phone back.
“It’s cute! Write him back again!” Valerie bangs her fork on the table like a toddler.
Me: They say that time’s supposed to heal you, but I ain’t done much healing.
A few minutes go by before his next message comes through, and the tickle I’m feeling starts to hedge toward panic, but he replies.
James: OK, enough. Sending the first message is the worst, but thanks for playing along. I’m James. Which I’m sure you’ve gathered because I can tell you’re not an idiot.
Wide grin.
“Oh, James,” I say to the phone and to the girls. “I do believe we might have found ourselves a winner.”
* * *
We stay fuzzy and fizzy just like the champagne, which has been our drink of choice at the restaurant. And, if we’re keeping score, with brunch. Because #bellinis, obviously.
The champagne is probably why I say yes to Armando when he suggests we “beautiful ladies” take a limo this evening to The Dude Ranch, our destination for fine male entertainment. But he insists it won’t cost that much more, and this James Spark and his wit have had me reeling all day, so I’d probably have agreed to just about anything.
We pull up to the strip club and snag the attention of every man, woman, and child—okay, there aren’t children there, I don’t think—waiting in line. A Mr. Clean type with a clipboard and some Secret Service–looking wire attached to his ear waves us over.
“We’re the Wallace bachelorette party?” I say, inspecting my nails. Ain’t no thang.
He runs his meaty fingers up and down the list. “Are you Rachel Wallace?”
“I am, but—”
“Go right in.”
“Damn, VIP!” Quinn trills as he opens the door, and we enter an explosion of music. A champagne popper of sound.
“Is there a mechanical bull?” Valerie peers up, down, left, right. Like all her senses are being stimulated at once and she’s about to spontaneously combust.
Cacti! (Seems dangerous…)
Split-rail fences sectioning off private dance areas! (Authenticity!)
“Valerie, this place is called The Dude Ranch. Of course there’s a mechanical bull. Isn’t there?” I ask the shirtless cowboy who’s just sidled up to us with a drinks menu. (Helloooo, Dolly!)
“Surely there is, little darlin’,” he says, and he tips his hat. Gestures over toward the far end of the place, where a group of salivating spectators has already gathered.
“So polite.” Before I can stop it, my hand is magnetized to the cowboy’s chest, and I snap it back. “I’m sorry! I’m new!” I say, slack-jawed. “You’re not going to kick me out of here, are you?”
He chuckles a good hearty hombre chuckle and clutches me to him. “You’re allowed to touch,” he shouts over the bump of the music.
He smells way better than a cowboy. I mean, probably.
“Whom do I talk to about the Magic Mike experience? We’re that bachelorette party—”
“Just the three of you?”
“What can I say?” My hand back to his chest. “We’re old. We’re the last ones.”
“Age is just a number, little darlin’.” Another hat tip. “And we’ll take good care of you in here at the Ranch. Now, who’s the bride? You?”
I laugh and laugh and laugh until I can’t breathe, the lights, the confetti, the ranch hand making me dizzy.
“I am.” Quinn steps forward and does Ta-da hands.
“Good,” he says, still looking at me, piercing into my cold, black heart with those baby blues.
I know it’s all pretend, but holy hell.
And then he takes Quinn by the hand and we all snake our way through the crowd after him.
* * *
I’m holding my stomach because it hurts from laughing. I don’t remember the last time I laughed this much. Unless they’ve pumped this place full of nitrous oxide, it’s from all the Vodka Red Bulls we’ve switched over to (always a good idea)—we’ve kind of been drinking like it’s the end of the world—and all the ridiculous attention we’re getting. All the hilarious things the strippers have made their patrons do. Made Quinn do. At one point, they pulled her up onto a fake tractor, said they were going to plow her, and made her lick A.1. Sauce off this dude’s washboard abs.
I was so horrified for her (and slightly jealous) and so entertained by Valerie’s hoots and hollers next to me that I was literally gagging on glee.
I take up residence at the bar and opt not to try the mechanical bull since I like my neck how it is—unbroken—thankyouverymuch, but Quinn and Val really hold their own. Valerie beats every other woman in the joint in terms of time held on, and she wins herself something that at the moment I can’t recall, even though I only pretended to take the last three shots we’ve been offered (poured them right into the plastic cactus plant when everyone else took theirs, because I’m afraid this place could be the death of us—and, after all, I promised they could trust me to take care of them).
But my time as an observer comes to an abrupt end as I hear the emcee, Cowboy Steve, summon me onto the stage.
“Our lovely bachelorette wants to share the love,” he croons into the microphone. “Let’s get the rest of her party up here and have ourselves a good old-fashioned rodeo!”
“Yee-haw,” screams the crowd.
As the spotlights start their search, I feel my face redden. Call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s going to be anything old-fashioned about this rodeo. There’s no escape. Cowboy Steve and
Quinn are thick as thieves now—thick as rib eyes—and they scour the crowd for Valerie and me.
I’m scrambling to get away, clawing my way to hide behind every chick in the place, when all of a sudden something drops over me and cinches at my waist. I glance down and clutch at the spongy ropelike thing. It’s a rope made of pink Lycra. And then, with a whoosh, I feel the heat and I’m blinded, the spotlight flooding me in white.
I flip back toward the stage, my eyes wide—every gaze fixed on me—and I realize I’ve been lassoed. I’m being pulled onto the stage.
The crowd is losing their collective mind. And their shouts—“Go! Go! Go! Go!”—have me dizzy. I squint my way through the sea of rabid women, and the music vibrates through me. I am powerless to stop this cowboy from pulling me onstage in one swoop of a solid arm.
I wobble as he sets me upright and I steady myself using his biceps. Blinking like it’s going out of style, trying to retain my balance. To orient myself.
As the purple dot in my vision from the spotlight dissolves, I start to take in what’s around me. Hundreds of women jumping all over themselves from the floor, spilling their drinks, pushing and shoving to get closer to the edge of the stage.
Valerie too has been Lycra-lassoed, and she’s being lifted onto the stage by another hombre in brown leather chaps. Her face is lit up like Vegas—and it’s then that I think to check out the cowboy who’s got me.
He’s wearing black chaps, jeans peeking out from underneath, and a tight flannel shirt, rolled at the sleeves. It’s unbuttoned halfway down and exposing glistening pecs that are the stuff of Tyson Beckford ads—
When suddenly that thought gives me a chill.
Tyson Beckford.
And I think to look up into the guy’s eyes.
Penetrating eyes with a hint of what looks like sheer terror widening them. It probably mirrors my own.
His grip loosens a moment and I almost fall to the floor, but we hold each other’s gazes even as he catches me. Helps me stand on my own as recognition sets in and his terror turns to what looks like amusement, with a quirk of a smile.
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