One Size Fits All

by Courtney Cole

  “Is our bickering distracting you? Do we sound like an old married couple?” I ask. “News flash: that’s because we are!”

  “Babe,” Spencer says in a sweet, soothing tone. “Just relax.”

  “Don’t ‘babe’ me!” I stomp my foot into something squishy. Does anyone in New York clean their car? What is wrong with this city? Sliding my foot back, I try really hard not to think about what I just stepped in. “Tonight was supposed to be so much fun. I’d hoped one of us would wind up in handcuffs, but this wasn’t at all what I had in mind. Yeah, one day this will be a hilarious story I tell at parties, but right now it sucks! I know we’ll clear all this up, but by the time we get out of this, you’ll have to catch a flight. Then we won’t see each other for a few more weeks.” I hang my head for a moment before continuing, “I could have had Swoony Spencer, but that wasn’t enough for me. Because I’m Verruca Salt, and I want the whole world in my pocket. I pushed for too much, and now look at me—going to the slammer with gum in my pussstache.”

  He gives me that smirk that says, “You’re nuts but I still love you.” “‘Swoony Spencer’? What does that mean exactly?”

  I press my lips together. “You know, classic romance stuff. Vanilla. There might not have been any handcuffs, but …” I shrug. “Then there wouldn’t be any handcuffs.”

  “I love that you want the whole world. I love it even more that you’re not afraid to reach for it,” he replies. “That’s who you are, who you’ve always been. You’ve never lived your life vanilla, and I certainly don’t want you to start now.”

  I nibble my lip. “You mean it? You’re not mad or disappointed.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll have a massive case of blue balls, but I’ll get over it.”

  “Sorry about that …”

  He nudges me with his shoulder. “Hey, I was there too, remember? You weren’t playing this game all by yourself. Stop blaming yourself.”

  The car comes to a sudden stop, and we both go head first into the plastic partition.

  “That’s going to look great tomorrow,” I murmur, wishing I could rub the smarts on my forehead.

  “It’ll go so well with the bruises on our wrists from these stupid cuffs,” Spencer replies. “Mine are cutting off my circulation, and it’s possible my shoulder is dislocated.”

  “I think this experience has ruined handcuffs for me.” Which is such a shame. I loved handcuffs.

  The car doors open. “We’re here, love birds. I’ve got some bad news for you. The server’s down, so it’s going to take a while to get you processed. Get comfortable. You’re going to be here a while.”

  No server means no Internet. No Internet means they can’t look us up, which means we’re stuck here.

  I hate this fucking city.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, on behalf of the city of New York, we apologize for this little mishap and whatever inconvenience it may have caused you.”

  We have been stuck here for fifteen hours. Fifteen long, weird hours. I’m not sure if this place is always this busy, or if last night was a special occasion, but the group cell I was in was packed. There are only a handful of benches and a crap load of prisoners, so most of us had to sit on the damp floor that I’m fairly certain has a perma-layer of urine caked on it. I really wish I had considered this possible outcome when I didn’t pack underwear, but it never occurred to me that my evening may end in a jail cell. I’m beginning to rethink my underwear is only for nuns and periods philosophy.

  The cell became even more crowded as the night went on. The more bodies they shoved in there, the tenser things became. Three fights broke out in a matter of twenty minutes. As far as fights go, they were more bluster than blood, just some pushing, shoving, name calling, and hair pulling. After the third fight, people seemed to team up. I had no idea prison gangs formed this quickly, but apparently they do. Being a skinny white girl in an expensive cocktail dress with her twat hanging out, I started to grow concerned for my well-being. A very large woman named Bertha offered me protection in exchange for my shoes. At first I politely declined, but then she explained that it wasn’t a request, and I handed over my shoes. As far as gang leaders go, Bertha wasn’t half bad. She didn’t force me to perform any sex acts, didn’t require me to get a prison tattoo, and was kind enough to introduce me to a number of her friends. Seeing as I was “in wit’ dem” and they offered to show me the ropes if I decide to make turning tricks a permanent career move, when an officer called my name and told me I was sprung, I gave them all small wave, promising I’d keep in touch.

  I lied like a rug, all the while praying to God they didn’t catch my real name.

  Spencer, who actually got his one phone call, called Marjorie who moved mountains to get us out. She called my mother who went to my house and got copies of our birth certificates and marriage license. Marge sent them to one of the corporate lawyers, who brought the documents to the station and expedited our release.

  Spencer shakes the hand of the apologizing cop. “You were just doing your job. No hard feelings.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I shout. “I sat in pee for over fifteen hours. I have hard feelings.”

  “Mrs. Fairchild,” Greg, our lawyer, says with a smug, condescending tone. “I’m going to recommend we all just try to move on from this experience. It would be embarrassing to yourselves as well as the company if this issue were to escalate. We should all be thrilled this was taken care of quickly and quietly.”

  Of course. He’s worried about the freaking company. As much as I would like to take his ugly green tie, wrap it around his nut sac, and pull until his balls turn purple, I refrain—for my husband’s sake.

  “I’m going to have to explain this to my mother,” I say as we walk toward the exit of the station.

  “She’ll think it’s hilarious,” Spencer replies. “Your brother on the other hand …”

  I snicker, picturing all the blood vessels that will pop in Chase’s face when I tell him this story. He might be my first stop when I get home. His reaction might help take the sting out of this trip.

  “The company sent a town car,” Spencer says. “It should be waiting for us just outside. It’ll take us to the hotel.”

  As we get closer to the exit, I see it’s downpouring. The parking lot looks like Noah’s Arc will be floating by any second now. “Fucking fabulous,” I mutter as I glance down at my prison-issued paper flip-flops.

  Spencer reaches out to pick me up, but I push him away. “Don’t touch me. I am so disgustingly foul I don’t want you anywhere near me. I’m toxic right now.”

  “Babe, I’m just as foul. Let me carry you. You shouldn’t have to walk in this.”

  He reaches for me again, but I push him away and then run out the door. Looking over my shoulder before I step into the downpour, I say, “I can’t get any worse than I am right now.”

  Spencer grabs my hand and runs into the rain with me. “You’re crazy!” I scream at him.

  “Crazy for you!” he replies with the biggest smile.

  We jump in puddles and splash around in the raging river running through the parking lot. We probably look like complete lunatics, but neither of us cares. Nothing else in the world matters but him and me.

  He pulls me toward him. “It was all worth it.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Nice try, pal. No, it wasn’t. This was a colossal disaster of epic proportions.”

  “Yeah, kind of, but right now, you look so happy. I’d spend a hundred nights in jail to see this smile.”

  A town car across the parking lot flashes its lights. “That’s probably our ride.”

  Spencer scoops me into his arms, this time I don’t fight him. “Come on, Mrs. Fairchild. Marjorie extended our hotel rooms for another day. If we hurry, we might have a little time for fun before I have to get on my flight to Berlin. You should see the shower in my suite.”

  I rest my head on his chest.
“That sounds perfect. But can we stop and buy some scissors first?”

  THE END. . . for now

  Look for more from Spencer and Charlie releasing Winter 2016

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  Other Books by Isabelle Richards

  When Fates Collide Series

  When Fates Collide

  When Fate Isn’t Enough

  When Fates Align

  Love/Hate Series

  Hate To Love You

  Love To Hate You

  Love To Love You

  The Ten Centimeter Calamity

  By B.L. Berry

  © 2016 by B.L. Berry

  All rights reserved.

  Editing: Jennifer Roberts-Hall

  Proofreading: Aleesha Davis

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For my Dad, the original pastrami sandwich eater.

  I love how you continue to support me even though you haven’t read any of my books. Trust me when I say I write about nuns and puppies and all things completely wholesome. I hope you keep your promise that you’ll never read anything beyond this dedication … because that would be really f*cking awkward. I mean, who wants to read their daughter’s vagina humor?

  Nevertheless, I love you.

  And Happy Father’s Day.

  Because every day is Father’s Day.

  1. THE DAY IT ALL STARTED

  “Shhh!”

  Jeff tugs on my hand as he leads me away from the bustling ballroom. I’m not sure why he wants me to be quiet because there’s no way anyone at the reception can possibly hear us right now. I should feel guilty sneaking off before the toasts and the throwing of the bride’s bouquet, but I don’t think anyone will miss us. They’re all a bit preoccupied with dancing and the alcohol that’s flowing as freely as our inhibitions.

  My laughter echoes down the empty marble hallway, which makes me laugh even harder.

  In the distance, the wedding band is in the middle of their latest crowd-pleasing set. Jeff’s family didn’t notice our escape as they were too busy belting the lyrics to Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines right alongside that horrible wedding singer. Fortunately for all, enough booze has been consumed that nobody even cares when the wedding singer goes off on a three minute tangent answering Thicke’s million dollar question of “what rhymes with hug me?”

  I think the real million dollar question here is who sings Blurred Lines at a wedding? That’s about as appropriate as playing Nine Inch Nails’ Closer at a Beastiality Anonymous meeting, but I digress.

  Other than the music, this wedding has been pretty incredible. I practically threw myself on top of Jeff right in the middle of the dance floor earlier in the evening. His epic, white guy dance moves were certainly not the way into my panties, but when his eyes smiled, and there was a glint of mischief, I nearly mauled him.

  But that’s not how we got here in the hallway.

  I’m not sure when I made the decision to slip away with my boyfriend for a mid-wedding celebration quickie, but when he looked at me with his ocean blue eyes and lazy drunken smile and jokingly said, “There’s something about weddings that makes me horny,” I knew it was hopeless to fight my libido. My ears perked up at the magic “H” word. It’s not the first time he’s told me that line, but it’s the first time I was drunk enough to react to them like I did roughly ninety seconds ago.

  The room was dark, my fingertips were curious, and I leaned over into his ear and whispered, “There’s something about you that makes me horny,” just before brushing my fingertips up the length of his inner thigh to discover that he was telling the truth. I am never that forward. But imagine my surprise when I learned those weren’t just words. Apparently, weddings actually do make him horny. Jeff grabbed me in a flash and had me sprinting out the double doors behind him.

  Maybe it was the bottle and a half of champagne I’d downed during the happy hour that made me follow him? No, it was definitely the bottle and a half of champagne I downed during happy hour. I don’t care, though. Because this man, my boyfriend, is all I want right now. Provided we can actually find a few minutes of peace and quiet.

  That’s a lie.

  I’m probably drunk enough to entertain an audience with him.

  The first two doors Jeff tries are locked, but on the third try, he throws his weight against a door and opens a room that is pitch black. Before I know it, our lips are meshed as Jeff pushes my shoulders against the door.

  He moans into my mouth. “You taste like strawberries, woman.”

  I giggle and reach for his shirt, enthusiastically unbuttoning it from the top down.

  “Don’t bother, Henley, we only have a few minutes,” he reminds me, then nips my collarbone with his teeth before flicking his tongue up my neck, retracting the path with relentless kisses.

  His hot breath against my skin causes me to writhe, and my head slams against the backside of the door. “Ow!” I cry through my laughter. Clearly the copious amount of champagne has deadened my nerves.

  “Are you okay, baby?” he whispers in concern. I can barely see his face lit up by the dim glow of a red exit sign above us.

  “Yeah,” I breathe out heavily and fumble with the belt wrapped around his waist.

  “Hold on, let me find a light really quick.”

  “Fuck the lights, Jeff.” I pull his chin toward me and kiss him with an unrivaled ferocity all while unzipping his tuxedo pants, slipping my hand into his boxers and pumping my hand up and down his cock a few times. It comes back to life instantly in my palm.

  Jeff presses his forehead against mine and a purr escapes from the back of his throat. “Shit, Henley, I want you so bad right now.”

  Jeff reaches around my body and attempts to take my dress off, which is ridiculous if I’m not even allowed to take off his shirt.

  “Don’t even try. It’s too much effort!” And it’s true. My navy strapless dress has a corset back, and there’s no way I can get in — or out — of it without the assistance of an army. I reach down and gather the fabric and hoist it up to my waist. Jeff slides his hands up my calves and thighs to slip my panties off.

  “What the fuck?” he slurs in surprise. If I wasn’t so caught off guard by his comment, I’d probably find his tone adorable.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What the hell is this, Henley?”

  Oh, God. Shit!

  “Um …”

  “Are you wearing granny panties?”

  I grind my teeth in horror. “Shit. No! Those are Spanx. They were undoubtedly made by some guy as a torture device, but they do a damn good job keeping everything in place.”

  There goes my lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets reputation I’ll never get. And why the hell am I being so long-winded?

  “Mmm … I’d like to spank you right about now,” Jeff growls.

  Involuntarily, I snort at his comment. It reminds me of the time we tried dirty talking and failed miserably. We both ended up in fits of laughter.

  “Just get them off, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jeff kneels down and peels the Spanx off my ass and I step out of them, kicking them to the side. My body instantly feels free fr
om the tight confines of those wretched unmentionables. He makes quick work of the rest of his pants and boxers, dropping them to his ankles. He leans my body back against the door and in one fell swoop, pushes himself inside of me, filling me to the brim.

  I melt around his body.

  My head is light from all the champagne and from the dizzying spell he casts upon me.

  It becomes increasingly difficult to hold my body up as my legs turn weak and, instinctively, Jeff takes on more and more of my body weight in his arms as we lean back against the door.

  “It feels wrong to be having sex before the bride and groom,” I pant mid-thrust.

  “It’s not wrong. We’re celebrating love. They’d commend us for celebrating so passionately,” Jeff whispers in my ear before nipping my earlobe with his teeth.

  “To love!” I cry out and clench his body tighter. Our tongues are at war with one another as our bodies mesh together.

  “Oh my God, Henley, I’m so close. I’m so close … I’m gonna come,” he growls in my ear like he’s a freaking sports announcer calling a grand slam, game-winning play at the bottom of the ninth inning of the final World Series match up.

  Why do guys do that anyway?

  I hitch my leg tighter around his waist and sink my fingernails into his perfectly tight ass, bringing him impossibly closer to my body.

  “Oh, shit! Henley! My calf … I … I’m cramping … oh, God … I’m coming! CRAMP!” Jeff’s body tenses up right as the overhead lights flash on, blinding us both.

  What the fuck?

  My gaze snaps to his, and I feel the color draining from my face in one fast, sobering moment.

  “Hey! You! You can’t be in here!” A man’s voice echoes through the space, chopped up into bits and pieces of broken English. “Stop that! Now! That is bad!

  When I look over Jeff’s shoulder, a portly old man in a hunter green security uniform crosses the space across the empty ballroom, hastily waving his finger at us.