The Dirty Book Club

by Lisi Harrison

  Well, she would have a husband for that if Brandon hadn’t gone back to Oceanside for his medicine; medicine for a stomach condition Jules was totally unaware of.

  “Destiny and I will go with you. We can spend the night,” she tried. The thought of him suffering alone pained Jules more than every stomach condition combined. But Brandon reminded Jules of the breakfast meeting she had with Piper Goddard and insisted she stay. It was the “responsible” thing to do, he said. And so she did. Jules also set her wake-up call for thirty minutes earlier than usual so she could creep over to the dumpster on the other side of the resort and dispose of the gift bag by the cheap rooms.

  * * *

  DAN ENJOYED A finger in the ass while he was getting a blow job, particularly right as he was about to come. But unlike M.J.’s past lovers, Dan was a quiet climaxer, so the moment often came and went before she could capitalize on it. Sure, the sudden hitch of his breath was a reliable indicator—a call to action for the dutiful girlfriend who aimed to please—but aiming anything in there seemed more sinister than sexy. It was so fleshy and damp. A sea anemone’s suction with a toothless hooker’s grip. And so M.J. blamed all those unfortunate missed opportunities on Dan’s muted orgasms and managed to look herself in the mirror just fine.

  But thanks to Addie, Fat & Natural could do the dirty work for her.

  So M.J. burrowed under the covers and took Dan in her mouth. She played with his balls, worked his shaft, and flicked her tongue expertly against the head of his cock. She did everything and all at once while listening for that sudden hitch. When she heard it, M.J. powered up Fat & Natural, introduced its vibrating tip to Dan’s clenched asshole, and—

  At the Riley residence . . .

  * * *

  BRITT SLAMMED HER head against her daughter’s Hello Kitty pillowcase, as if the jolt could summon the return of happier times: Paul home from work smelling like soil and sweat . . . family dinners in the tree house . . . sex in the garage while the kids were asleep . . . At the very least, maybe the jolt would shatter her eardrums so she couldn’t hear Paul snoring in their bedroom.

  How many times did she beg him to wear those Breathe Right nasal strips? See a sleep specialist? Widen the airways in his throat with uvulopalatopharyngoplasty? But the more Britt lobbied for change, the more Paul stayed the same.

  She gazed up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on Margot’s ceiling and thought of the Brazilian. Though they’d only slept together since Marrow and no one actually slept, she could tell his airwaves were unobstructed. And if they weren’t, he was the kind of guy who would do something about it. He didn’t get those shoulders from working a TV remote. Those were the shoulders of a man who thrived on heavy lifting. Lifting that included, but was not limited to, hoisting Britt onto the Kahangs’ washing machine twenty minutes before she showed their home to a potential buyer. God, it was hot.

  Britt sighed with her entire body. She couldn’t believe she cheated on Paul with a nameless, hairless stranger. Her! At the same time, why hadn’t she done it sooner? Paul’s indifference was so much easier to tolerate when she was getting attention from someone else. Not to mention the amount of money she had wasted on antidepressants and shrink appointments. The Brazilian’s latest text alone was enough to flood Britt with serotonin, maybe even eliminate her need for caffeine.

  She read it again:

  Watching u tonight made my dick hard. Jerking off now. Thinking of ur ass in those tight white jeans.

  Britt opened Addie’s gift bag.

  * * *

  M.J. CAME TO with an ice-filled Ziploc on her forehead. Her ears were buzzing. She assumed it was a concussion until she realized that Fat & Natural had been knocked off the bed and was now vibrating against the wood floor.

  “What happened?”

  “My knee slammed into your frontal lobe,” Dan said. “It was a reflex. I wasn’t prepared for something that big. I’m sorry.”

  To prove it, he slid down her naked body and spread her legs, giving M.J. what she would refer to as “the best apology ever.”

  * * *

  TO JULES, THE female orgasm was like winning the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes; something that happened to a blessed few, not her. But what if that thing under her bed was the answer? What if it worked?

  Jules banished the thought from her perverted mind. It’s not that she was opposed to sex toys, per se. She was a live-and-let-live kind of gal. It’s just that something about it felt like cheating, only worse, because poor Brandon was sick.

  Maybe it would be easier if Fat & Natural didn’t look so realistic—not that Jules had much to compare it to. Brandon’s penis was her only penis, and it was more fit than fat. Actually, it was thin, but Brandon never liked being called thin. Trim, yes. Athletic, yes. But never thin. Also, his penis had a slight left curve as if it was peering around a corner to see what it was missing. Which, in this case would be his wife, making love to a rubber phallus that was not his. And Jules couldn’t betray him like that. She needed to keep her deranged curiosities at bay. She needed to pray for Brandon’s stomach. She needed rest so she could be alert for her meeting with Piper Goddard.

  Even if Jules wanted to try it, and she wasn’t saying she did, she’d be lost. The back of the box mentioned an “easy to control interface” and “three stimulation modes” but where were the instructions? If she was going to try it, and she wasn’t saying she would, Jules needed the facts. Was it loud, how far “in” did it go, and was she at risk for electrocution?

  “Hello, Siri,” Jules whispered into her iPhone. “How do you use a vibrator?”

  “Okay, I found this on the Web for How do you use a vibr—”

  Jules silenced her at once.

  * * *

  BRITT LOADED THE batteries into the base of the balls and conjured an image of the Brazilian in what she hoped was his current state: jeans around his sturdy ankles, stroking his shaft, bucking wildly as if she were on top of him . . . She exhaled the day and then lowered the vibrator past her Soul Cycle T-shirt, over the front of her boyshorts, and—

  Fuck you, Selena Gomez!

  How was she supposed to lose herself when surrounded by posters of the pouty starlet and a photo collage of Margot’s friends? The guest bathroom it was.

  Once situated on the bathmat, which desperately needed a vacuum, Britt removed the bottle of lube from inside the gift bag and squeezed the slippery solution onto her fingers. The sound reminded her of ketchup squirting onto a hot dog, which reminded her of family barbecues, which reminded her of the twins, which reminded her that she had a million things to do before they came home from camp—none of which involved lying on a hair-filled bathmat with a vibrator.

  Still. Britt spread her legs. Her hip-flexor popped. She needed to stretch more after spin. She needed to stop thinking about spin. She reached into her boyshorts and applied the lube. She closed her eyes. Her vagina began to burn. And not in the “ignited gas burner” way, in the “someone doused it in gasoline and tossed a match on it” way.

  “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow ow!” She jammed a monogrammed towel between her legs and waddled to the tub. A burning bush! she might have joked, if she wasn’t seriously considering a call to 9-1-1. But what would she ask for—an ambulance or the nearest hook and ladder?

  After hosing down her crotch with cold water, the pain finally began to subside.

  “What the hell?” Paul asked, eyelids too swollen to notice the splay of discarded paraphernalia on the bathmat.

  Britt emerged from the tub, shivering. “Cramps.”

  He yawned. “You woke me up.”

  “Sorry. I know you have a big day watching Netflix tomorrow . . .”

  “It’s okay,” he muttered, returning to bed.

  Back in Margot’s room, Britt checked the bottle of lube for the name of someone she could sue. Instead, she found a warning: “This product was designed as a sex toy cleaner and should not come in contact with the skin.”

  She whipped it at S
elena Gomez’s throat.

  In the apartment above the Good Book . . .

  * * *

  ADDIE LEANED FORWARD and spit.

  “Fuck!” she said, wiping her lips on the back of her hand—her thirty-fifth birthday and the only thing in her mouth was an electric toothbrush. The night was not supposed to end this way. No night was!

  It didn’t matter how many times she brushed, the taste of resentment was still there—metal and dirt, like prison bars—prison bars disguised as a gift from Gloria, Liddy, Dot, and Marjorie.

  What could have possibly made them think she’d want Liddy’s bookstore for her birthday? The gift was of no use to her, unless of course she could sell it for travel money or burn it for warmth. And so Addie decided she would simply give the Good Book back. Thanks but no thanks. Delete from cart.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  Pearl Beach, California

  Tuesday, July 19

  Full Moon

  THE FULL MOON called the Dirty Book Club’s second meeting to order, and tonight’s G-spot, thanks to Jules’s pull, was the Majestic’s ultra-exclusive Oyster Bar. Located on the beach, the torch-lit cave could seat only thirty people and—after months of reading about the mesmerizing sitar music and vanilla-spice incense imported from Morocco—M.J. would finally be one of them. Management promised them a table for sixty minutes, provided they were out before Solange Knowles arrived, but Jules was convinced they could push it to ninety if they dressed like “hoochie mamas.”

  Which was why M.J. was miffed when Britt drove past the valet and chose free parking two blocks away. Her hoochie-mama shoes were not made for walking. But Britt allegedly saw Paul drive out of the Majestic and was adamant that they not waste chardonnay money on pricey hotel valets. “Because when a woman sees her unemployed husband pull out of a resort on a Tuesday evening, every dollar in her Coach wallet gets drafted for active duty. Mission: drink to forget,” she said. Hands shaking, she released the Mini Cooper key into her clutch. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be having an affair, not him!”

  “Are you sure it was Paul?” M.J. asked, as she clacked through the lobby trying to keep up with Britt’s urgent steps.

  “How many wool-beanie-wearing ass-bags drive blue Priuses in this town?”

  “If you’re including Lyft drivers I’d say hundreds.”

  Out on the beach, a college-aged staffer wearing a guayabera shirt and an at-your-service smile, was standing in front of the red ropes that blocked access to the cave. Once he found their names on his list he welcomed them to the only five-star barefoot bar in Orange County. “Can I check your shoes?”

  M.J. lifted her leg and rolled her ankle, offering him an unobstructed view of her Louboutins.

  “No, ma’am, I mean, can I check them for you while you’re at the Oyster Bar? Then, you know, give them back when you leave. Like a coat check but for—”

  “How much?” Britt asked.

  “The service is free, but oftentimes patrons thank me with a tip.”

  “Yeah, well, unfortunately your tip has its heart set on being a bottle of chardonnay, so I’ll handle the shoes myself, thanks.” Britt removed her strappy sandals and rolled up her gold lamé genie pants in deference to the rising tide. Her arched spine poked through her black tankini top like a threat: If you so much as think about calling me MC Hammer I’ll cut you.

  “Same,” M.J. told him, then kicked her iconic red soles across the sand. Anything to avoid bending down in her leather leggings and Ginsuing her intestines. “There are so many ways to interpret ‘hoochie mama,’ ” she said. “Tragically, all of them are tight.”

  They continued through the cooling sand toward the torches, walking to the windshield-wiper beat of M.J.’s thigh-scraping leggings. “You don’t really think Paul is cheating, do you?”

  “No, I really know he’s cheating on me.” The tangerine rays from the setting sun highlighted her certainty. “He sneaks out of the house without saying good-bye, takes showers when he gets home, and”—her chin dimple pulsed—“I found pubes in the bathroom trash can.”

  The gentle hiss of settling waves filled the silence between them while M.J. considered her response. It was possible to rationalize sneak-outs and showers, but shorn pubes? They were the crumbs of infidelity. But M.J. didn’t dare point that out. Nor did she ask why Britt hadn’t shared her suspicions with Paul. She was enjoying the role of confidant and didn’t want to scare Britt off. Besides, who was she to judge? Maybe Paul had his reasons. Britt certainly believed she had hers.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to be like Gloria Golden and let him get away with it, that’s for sure.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m going to down a keg of wine, then I’m going to catch him in the act, then I’m going to down another keg of wine, and then . . . I have no idea.”

  A frantic wave from Jules, who was seated posture-perfect on a rattan chair got them past the appraising hostess and into the candlelit lounge. Dark and moody with an air of exclusivity, it was the perfect backdrop for their Fifty Shades of Grey gathering, unless one was claustrophobic.

  Britt claimed the love seat to the left of Jules, lowered her clutch to the sand, and extended her bare feet to rest by a plate of bruschetta. “I smell pot,” she said, cutting a smirk to M.J. that said, See? Paul was here.

  Jules unpenned her Pillsbury Doughboy giggle. “It’s not pot, silly. It’s silver sage.” She popped a Claritin. “Gray foliage is hard to come by in the summer, but I called in a favor.” Then she indicated the bottle of Grey Goose by Britt’s feet, the pitcher of pink fruit juice beside it. “Would anyone like a Fifty Shades of Greyhound?”

  “You themed?” M.J. asked, as if accusing her of peeing in the hot tub.

  “Of course I did.” Jules lifted the striped tie that hung over her gray sweater set. It was an exact replica of the tie on the book cover. Beneath it was the ancient key that both Britt and M.J. had dutifully brought but refused to wear. “I’m the Liaison of Love. Atmosphere is what I do.”

  A confounding amalgamation of naïveté and moxie, charm and social awkwardness, it was impossible to tell if she was in on the joke or the unsuspecting punch line.

  As M.J. sipped what tasted like grapefruit-flavored antibacterial soap, she considered Dan. How he had always wanted to have a drink at the Oyster Bar and how M.J. would never be able to tell him that she finally had. Because Dan thought she was at the Downtown Beach Club planning a fall fund-raiser. Between that lie and her ongoing failure to mention the hidden contract in the bottom of her suitcase, M.J. felt like she was having a tryst of her own.

  “I just realized something,” she said. “If you replace the y in the word tryst with a u it spells trust. Funny, right?”

  Jules cocked her head, confused. “Is that Sudoku?”

  “Sudoku is numbers,” Britt snipped, then, eyes wide with distrust, “M.J., why are you talking about trysts?”

  “I wasn’t referring to that. I was thinking about Dan and how I lied to him about where I was going tonight.”

  “Referring to what?” Jules asked, stirring her grapefruit juice.

  Before M.J. could fabricate an answer, Addie appeared. Her cinnamon-colored hair had been plumped and tousled, her eyeliner artfully smudged, and her curves encased in a sleeveless black dress. She looked like a tube of red lipstick. “Which one of you does real estate?”

  Britt raised her hand.

  Addie handed her a manila folder.

  “What’s this?”

  “A terrible excuse for a birthday present.”

  Addie started biting her nails while Britt flipped through the pages.

  “Liddy is giving you the bookstore?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Beats the heck out of my gift basket,” Jules muttered.

  Britt closed the folder. “Why is this terrible?”

  “The store is the last thing I want and they know it.” Addie
attempted to cross her legs but her dress was too tight, so she shifted her body sideways and crossed her ankles instead. “Will you sell it for me?”

  “Do you own it?”

  Addie shrugged.

  “Did you sign a deed?”

  “No, but I can.”

  “Keep in mind,” Britt warned, “once it’s signed you’re accepting the transfer of ownership.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do it tomorrow. I want to cash out before September and first-class the shit out of my trip.”

  “I can’t sell it that fast.”

  “Why not?”

  “That old place would never pass a safety inspection, not with that buckling ceiling. The structure has to be updated to the current building codes, which have changed since Liddy bought it. That’s going to take time and a lot of money.”

  “Ugh!” Addie slammed the armrest. A rugged beer-swigging bunch at the bar, each with mud-stained jeans and day laborer’s tans, took a sudden interest in the buxom redhead with the high-glossed pout. A pout that suddenly transitioned into a coquettish grin when she saw them. “The one in the middle is a babe,” she muttered through a clench-toothed smile.

  “I know that guy,” Britt whispered. “He’s an arborist. He used to work on landscape projects with Paul. They called him Bungee because he has a super-long—”

  “Dibs!” Addie announced. “I’m calling dibs on Bungee.”

  “Why didn’t Bungee have to dress like a hoochie mama?” M.J. asked, adjusting the crotch of her pants in a preemptive strike against camel toe.

  “Staffers can drink at the Oyster until nine because no one important shows up before then. You should see what he’s working on. It’s called a living wall. By August the entire front facade of the hotel will be covered in plants.”

  “What happens if I don’t sign the deed?” Addie asked, cleavage aimed at Bungee, the rest of her parts trained on Britt.

  “If you don’t sign the deed the store stays with Liddy.”