Instant Gratification (Always Satisfied Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  “But sometimes it’s fun to revisit memories in the vault, isn’t it?”

  Laughing, she shakes her head. “Yes, but that’s not the deal we made.”

  I know, but what can I say? I love the chase even if it’ll never go anywhere, just for the sake of it. “So you do admit you enjoy taking a trip down dirty memory lane?”

  “You do realize that can’t happen again?” But a naughty glint crosses her pretty blue eyes. Ah, perhaps the memory is never far from the surface for her either.

  I zip my lips, but then instantly unzip them. “I’m just saying.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Three times.”

  “Jason.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Pretend you don’t remember every detail in triplicate.”

  “I don’t. I don’t remember a single one.”

  “And I die yet again.” I’m about to turn around when my mind snags on something she said earlier. “Who’s your meeting with? A supplier?”

  A grin seems to tug at her lips. “A restaurant and bar investor Charlotte hooked me up with. She’s such a great bestie. Anyway, we’re going to talk about expanding my brand. I pitched him on a new concept bar I want to start.”

  “You’re going to be the queen of Manhattan nightlife. I’ll say I knew you when.”

  “And you’re the king of gentlemen,” she says, a nod to the work I’ve done to establish myself as an expert on all the things a modern gentleman should know. “Are you writing a column tonight? Working on a new podcast?”

  I look at my watch. “Actually, I’m meeting up with Nora, and I need to get going. She won’t want to be kept waiting.”

  She stiffens, her hand freezing around the key in the lock. Her brow furrows as she turns to meet my gaze, her blue eyes inquisitive. “Nora?”

  Do I detect a lovely note of jealousy in her voice? That may be one of the most glorious sounds I’ve ever heard coming from Truly Goodman’s mouth.

  “Who’s Nora?” she asks before I can answer. “You’ve never mentioned a Nora.”

  She mentioned Nora’s name three times. If that isn’t a third time’s a charm moment, I don’t know what is. I decide to have fun with her. “She’s my date to the wedding I’m working this coming weekend.”

  “Oh.” It comes out heavily. “I thought you did those solo.”

  “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t.” I drop a kiss to Truly’s cheek, catching a faint whiff of her freshly scrubbed scent. I say goodbye and let her chew on the idea of me on a date.

  Here’s the thing: Truly has made it abundantly clear where we stand, and she’s 100 percent right that we can’t go there again—she’s my best friend’s sister, and she’s also my very good friend.

  Yet I can’t help thinking about the other things she made abundantly clear one particular night earlier this year. Like how much she liked being underneath me, how much she liked being on top of me, and how much she liked me bending her over the bed.

  I’m not going to say I haven’t gotten her out of my mind, but I absolutely fucking haven’t gotten her out of my mind. Trouble is, there are so many reasons this wouldn’t work standing between us. Reasons that aren’t going to change. Her reasons, and all of mine too.

  So I flirt, and she hate-flirts back, a pretending-she-doesn’t-like-it type of flirting. That’s all we are, flirters and hate-flirters, and that’s all we will ever be.

  2

  Jason

  You know those movies where an Alec Baldwin or Willem Dafoe type shows up for five minutes at a pivotal moment? Blink and you’ll miss him, but that actor can make or break the whole damn film.

  I’m not saying a best man can make a best picture contender out of something no one should have joined together, but when it comes to the speech, if you’re the best man, you’d better bring it like Willem fucking Dafoe. It’s your moment to shine. Or rather, it’s your moment to make the groom shine.

  In a brewery in the heart of hipster Brooklyn on an evening in June, I raise a glass.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for the only five minutes of the wedding that the bride didn’t plan.”

  The bride holds up one finger. “But I tried to. I swear, I tried so damn hard to write the speech for Gavin.”

  The groom jumps in, grumbling playfully. “She’d slip me Post-its that I thought were dirty notes but were just suggestions for the toast.”

  I shoot a glance at the man of the hour. “I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you she did, in fact, write this? And it consists of all the yard work you’re expected to do?”

  “A honey-do list,” someone shouts.

  “Secret to a happy marriage,” another chimes in.

  Guests chuckle, and the blonde woman in the white dress shoots me a huge grin. That smile is like a key turning in the ignition. When the bride is happy, all systems are go.

  I turn to the guests. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, but I do have one simple request before I begin.” I clear my throat, adopting a most serious tone. “If you brought your mobile phone, I highly encourage you to . . . leave it on. You might come across a great joke or a cat meme that we’re all dying for. Send them on to me straight away, along with any Venmo or Square or PayPal payments. I also accept cash and credit cards.”

  More laughter echoes from the crowd, and that bolsters me.

  I feign surprise. “Wait. That’s tradition here too, right? Because back where I grew up, across the pond, it’s customary to tip the best man if you enjoy his speech. And if you don’t enjoy it, it’s customary to tip twice as much.”

  Gavin makes a show of reaching into his pocket for some bills. “How many to make you stop?”

  He tosses some green on the table, and I wiggle my fingers. “More. A little more. Still more.”

  Gavin waves a hand, laughing. “I can go all night.”

  “Savannah, I’ll have you know, this is the only time he’s thrown bills at anyone recently. Scout’s honor.” I make a gesture like a cross between a Vulcan salute and two fingers twined, proving that I was never a Boy Scout.

  Savannah laughs and bumps him with her shoulder. “I know you didn’t take him to a club, because I had a microchip implanted in my husband.”

  Gavin pats the back of his neck then stage-whispers, “I put one in her too. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  Damn, they’re good. They’re fun, they love to rib each other, and they don’t take themselves too seriously. If I didn’t know differently, I’d swear we’d been best mates for ages.

  About a month ago, Savannah and Gavin called me for an emergency best-man-for-hire consult. They’d already booked me as an extra groomsman for the wedding so Savannah could have an even number in the bridal party. But before we could place our order for beers at the bar, she blurted, “I went to a wedding the other week where Gavin’s friend Eddie was the best man, and he told a story that involved a toilet plunger named Fred and a beer bong the size of a baseball bat. All I could think about was Eddie—what was he thinking, telling that horrifying story about the time his zipper was stuck? Love the guy, just love him, but he has zero filters and he knows it. Aunt Ellen, who’s quite old-fashioned, would faint from shock, I know it. And she would never miss my wedding, especially since I’m the only daughter on my mom’s side. Eddie’s cool with the change, probably because he’s not the speech-writing kind anyway, so can we please bump you up to the best man role?”

  Could I help? Of course I could. The guidebook for the modern gentleman would advise strictly against mentioning toilet plungers in a speech, and even more so any misadventure that endangers one’s ability to procreate. It dictates, too, that guys like me, trying to rise up through the ranks of New York’s self-made men, not turn down the opportunity for work. Story of the last few years of my life.

  “As Gavin’s best man, I had many important responsibilities, first and foremost being the bachelor party. We had a long list of activities we were consideri
ng. Cupcake tasting, pottery making, and flower arranging . . . were most decidedly not on the list. In the end, we settled for what all the fellas in the city like to do best: we learned how to crochet.”

  I make eye contact with sweet Aunt Ellen, who beams at me from behind her coke-bottle glasses. She lifts up a canvas bag by her side. A crochet hook pokes out the top. Of course, I knew she loved to crochet.

  “And I know you’re all dying to know who was tops at a slip stitch.”

  Gavin lowers his face, chuckling under his breath.

  Eddie chimes in. “Don’t try to deny it, Gav. You were sick with the hook.”

  “And you were the master of the granny stitch,” Gavin shouts.

  But before Eddie takes over, I slide back into pole position. “But Gavin’s prowess with crochet hooks aside, what stood out to me most from last night’s bachelor party was not the lovely oven mitt he crafted for Aunt Ellen.” I gasp in an over-the-top fashion. “Oh, dear. Was that supposed to be a secret?” I stage-whisper.

  Ellen’s smile spreads across her weathered face. “I can’t wait to use it. Next time, we’ll work on one together.”

  “Count on it. In any case, Ellen, I hope you enjoy it as much as I know Gavin and Savannah are enjoying this day. Because the truth is, even when we were at a pub in Williamsburg last night, enjoying a beer and a baseball game, Gav regaled us once more with tales of what a lucky man he is to have convinced this wonderful woman to be his bride.”

  This is the money shot—Savannah sighs happily, gazing at the groom, her eyes full of love. The rest of the crowd gives a collective aww too. This is why they’re here: to witness one very happy couple.

  “In fact, the night he met her, he rang me up, and I believe his words were ‘I have to tell you something. I’ve met the woman I’m going to marry.’”

  The bride clasps her hand to her heart as Gavin smiles goofily at the woman who took his name mere hours ago.

  “I couldn’t be more delighted to send Gavin off into the land of happily married men. May your love last many lifetimes.”

  I raise my glass once more then bring it to my lips, but that’s for show. I can’t drink on the job. A good understudy doesn’t get pissed when he’s thrust on stage in lieu of the principal actor.

  Eddie lifts his glass and whispers, “Dude, you rocked that speech hard. Rocked it like you were banging a babe behind a pinball machine. Like the buzzers were going off, and the flippers were flapping.”

  “That’s the effect I was going for,” I deadpan as I sit next to Eddie while we chat.

  “Achievement unlocked.”

  “Indeed.”

  Eddie downs the rest of his beverage. “I am so fucking glad they hired you. I was giving thanks last night. All I could think was how, if it were me up there, the whole joint would know about the time I ordered a policewoman stripper for Gavin’s b-day. That was some night.”

  His eyes go hazy with the memory, or maybe it’s the memory that’s hazy, because Eddie suddenly slaps the table in a burst of realization.

  “Hang on!” he shouts then drops his voice. “Fuck. That was my b-day I ordered a policewoman stripper for.”

  “It can be hard to keep track of officers of the law in thongs,” I remark.

  “Wait, wait—I got it! It’s coming back to me. I know what happened.” Laughing, he taps his skull. “I think my brain was trying to forget the whole thing. Because that night with the lady-cop stripper? That was the night my zipper got stuck.” He grabs his crotch, his face contorting as if reliving the pain. “Had to go to the ER.” He shakes his head, sighing. “Then again, it’s not all bad. I took the ER nurse home. She likes scars.”

  Yep, everyone is happy I was bumped up to this post, and my bank account will be quite content too.

  With the toast done, the bride and groom take a whirl on the dance floor, and I grab the seat next to my date.

  Nora has turned out to be the best plus-one an undercover groomsman could ask for. She’s upbeat, fun, and always game for adventure. Flicking her wild brown curls off her shoulders as John Legend’s “All of Me” hits its last note, she tips her chin to the crowd. “So many single women here are eating you up with their eyes. It’s good that I’m here.”

  “Yes, please protect me from them. If too many talk to me, they might find holes in the facade.” That’s why Gavin suggested I bring a date. Not that I’d break character, but it gave me a buffer in case any prying relatives asked too many questions.

  “I’ll never let them. That’s my job as Matilda tonight,” Nora says, using the fake name she picked for tonight, since Nora loves fake names as much as she loves wigs.

  “Then let’s dance. I’m only sorry they’re not playing the alt-rock laced with the banjo. That’s what your Matilda persona loves, right? Dancing to your indie tunes?”

  “Dancing or hula hooping, and boy, do I love it when you let me stay in character all night long.”

  “As if I’d do anything but support your dreams.”

  “And I’d never break character in front of an audience,” she says.

  Laughing, I offer her a hand. “Just shut up and dance with me, Matilda.”

  On the dance floor, she sets her hands on my shoulders, her pink clutch resting against me. Her warm hazel eyes sparkle as she surveys the scene. “This could be you someday.”

  A cough bursts from my throat. “Stranger things have happened, but it’s a safe bet it won’t.”

  She pouts. “Come now. You look so good in a tux. It’d be a shame if you were never the one up there.”

  “And yet it’s hardly a dream of mine.”

  “Sounds like that’s more of a nightmare to you?”

  More like a thing I don’t care to discuss with her, or hardly anyone. “We’re talking full-on night sweats and terrors.”

  Laughing, she says, “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Like when the groom called you when he met Savannah. I’m dying to know how that went.”

  Ah, this is easier territory, since it doesn’t sting. How could it? It’s a fable. “I was first on his list. He had to share the news with his old pal from uni.”

  “Naturally. And I’m sure you had so very many things to catch up on. Stories from the quad, all-nighters in the dorm.”

  That’s the story we cooked up when both Savannah’s and Gavin’s parents inevitably asked about the best man switcheroo. The groom and I met in college and kept in touch even after I returned to England. And that it was a terribly tough choice between Eddie and me, but Eddie understood and was chill with it.

  In this business, that’s the great thing about not being from here. It’s easy to explain a friendship no one’s heard of with a gent from another country. Oh, that’s my buddy from London. We met in school and then he returned to England, and so on.

  The reality is, Gavin found me the way my other clients do: word of mouth and my website.

  I twirl Nora in a circle then tug her close. “That’s the truth, and I’m sticking to it. And the truth has been very good to both of us this summer.”

  “So good. It’s been the best—”

  She flinches as something buzzes against my back. Yanking open her clutch, she snags her phone, and her eyes widen when she sees who’s calling. “I need to take this now.”

  She scurries out of the reception like she’s just learned she won an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji.

  As soon as she’s gone, a redheaded bridesmaid with pouty lips and swipe right flashing in her eyes taps my shoulder.

  “My turn, handsome,” the auburn-haired woman purrs.

  “Let’s have a whirl, then.”

  “Mmm. I love whirls.”

  I glance around the dance floor, steering the conversation toward the event. “Having a lovely time?”

  “I am, but it’s better now. And I bet we could find a way to make it even more fun.”

  “Hmm. That would be tough when it’s already beyond a barrel of monkeys.”

  “I bet
I could find a way. I know how to make nights real fun.”

  I do my best to sidestep the pass. “I’m best during the day, personally.”

  She tries a new line of attack, gesturing to my bow tie. “You sure know how to wear a tux.”

  “Thank you. I’m proud of my ability to dress myself too.”

  “How are your undressing skills though?”

  “Still working on shoe untying, but I’m pretty solid on the rest of it.”

  “Did you enjoy the cake? I thought it tasted like sin.”

  “Or maybe like heaven,” I try, deflecting yet again as she makes another attempt.

  “But the frosting was yummier,” she says. “I’d like to take some home with me.”

  “They probably have doggie bags.”

  At the end of the song, she nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Let me be straight with you, Jay Bond. I’d really like your digits.”

  “Double-oh-seven.” Well, she started it.

  “How about the real ones, Mr. Tall, Dark, and British?”

  “Thank you for your interest, but I’m involved.”

  “Too bad. I wouldn’t mind fucking you and your accent.”

  “Well, we are a package deal,” I deadpan.

  As guests straggle out an hour later, Nora tells me she’ll wait for me on the sidewalk, and she can’t wait to share her news. I make the final rounds, saying good night to the deejay and the bartender; the mother of the bride; the mother of the groom; and Eddie, who wiggles his eyebrows and points to the doorway, thanking me profusely in a series of dude, dude, dudes. As it happens, I’m conversant in Dude. He’s getting lucky tonight.

  “No problem, mate. Happy to help.”

  “You are the best man. You are the motherfucking best man.”

  And what can I say to that but dude.

  “Also, she likes scars, so I am in luck,” he whispers as he leaves, making his way to a redhead—the same bridesmaid who danced with me. I’m glad she found someone to bang. Good on her.

  “Hey, sugar,” he says.

  “Hey, babe. Let’s get down to business, because I’m in the mood for screwing you and your scar.”