by Ann Denton
I stifle a giggle. Then I knock, signaling that time’s up. I open the door, put on my professional face, and wave my hand toward the hallway to let Peter Brown know his time has ended.
He saunters off with a wink and I tell Heather, “I’ll be right back with the next ‘contestant.’”
She nervous laughs. “Did you hear any of what he said?”
I grin. “The ass-sex bit, you mean?”
She busts up laughing. “Yeah. At least he was honest, I guess. He bet he could talk me into it.”
“Come on, Heather! You know you’re thinking about it now.”
“I dunno.”
“You might like it. You might love it!”
She bites her lip. “I never let Shane Paul go there.”
“Don’t be a pussy!”
She looks me dead on and says, “That’s exactly the issue!”
I leave her, laughing the whole way to the dining room. I have a feeling that this entire trip is gonna be surreal.
I spy on the other interviews, curious about why each guy is interested in being one of many.
BJ from Brooklyn says he’s bad with emotional stuff, so he figures he’s better off letting some other guy handle it. I roll my eyes at that.
Some guys say they’ve always wanted a best friend to hang out with whose girlfriend isn’t a barrier but a bond. (I’m pretty sure those answers are rehearsed.) My doctor pick, Andrew, says he knows his surgery schedule is going to be intense, so he figured this was fairer than a traditional relationship. We haven’t decided on gold stars in our ranking system (only strikes) but I’d totally give him a star for that answer.
After his interview with Heather, as I’m escorting him back to the other guys, Anthony Drake (aka the blondie) asks me, “So what kind of stuff does Heather like?”
“The slideshow didn’t tell you enough?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It was silly. Silly faces and little pranks. Flashing the cop was funny. Awful high school hair. But who doesn’t have that? What’s she really like?”
I keep my answer generic, favorite TV shows and whatnot. But I am somewhat impressed that he asked. Until he says, “That’s all pretty normal, too. Hmm.”
What a fucking weird thing to say. Like did he expect her to be a weirdo because she wants a harem? Why sign up? I furrow my brow “I don’t know what to say to that.”
But when Jeremiah Bible goes in and confesses he writes backward poetry because he writes poems about people who stole time, that takes the cake. Heather thinks that’s funny. I think that’s borderline psychotic. But I think chihuahuas are borderline psychotic too, and plenty of people like them. Backwards poetry does not get a strike.
The interviews take two hours and afterward, we are all exhausted. I dismiss the guys before I go grab Heather.
Heather punches me in the arm for the slideshow once we’re alone. “I can’t believe you did that!” she says. “You let everyone see me with crimped hair!”
“You hired a liar and docked my pay five grand!”
Her eyes narrow. “So now we’re even?”
“Nope.” I leave her at her door and start to trek toward my own villa.
She calls out after me into the darkness. “We are totally even! I had good intentions: helping you grow!”
I just yell over my shoulder. “I had good intentions, letting these guys know what they’re in for.”
“Bitch!”
“Double bitch!”
She laughs, “Fine. Night!”
“Night!”
Everyone’s allowed to sleep in and explore the island on day two to let the jet-lag recovery commence. But that night is an event Heather insisted on.
Naked Friendships is incredibly awkward to watch. Like watching porn with my sister. Um, no. I stare anywhere but at the guys as they roam around the pool in the buff. While we were researching events online, Heather stumbled across this tradition in Japan where people go to hot springs naked with people of the same gender. Supposedly, being naked removes inhibitions and people love it. They just bond with strangers, quickly. Heather thought it would be the perfect opener for the guys to get to know one another.
“Think about it, Katie,” she’d whined, when at first, I’d said hell-to-the-no. “In all those harem books, the guys are usually BFF beforehand. Like, they know and trust each other and know what’s gonna happen. My guys don’t have that advantage. We need to help them bond. Fast.”
And what happens when Heather wants her way? I cave.
So now, Heather’s back at her villa, all the guys are nude and strolling around the pool with one poor waitstaff dude serving drinks—and me, standing off to the side awkwardly answering questions and drinking a little too much.
My announcement when the guys came out was brief. “Drop your trunks, enjoy the drinks, and get your bromance on.”
The waiter had looked over at me, alarmed.
I’d clarified, “I mean that in a very platonic way.”
A couple of the guys had chuckled. One of them, a guy with beautiful eyelashes—Tim maybe? —had looked slightly disappointed.
I’d continued, “Heather wants you guys to be best friends. So, tonight, this is your locker room and y’all are free to guy it up. Apparently, there’s an online article that claims doing it nude is better. So, you know … if you read it online …”
No one argued. Not a’ one. They all took a couple shots and dropped trow. Now, they’re mingling.
Kenneth stops by and takes one look at this event and whispers to me, “Thought this wasn’t a sex cult. You needa’ get the staff to bleach those chairs!” before he storms back to his kitchen, or dungeon, or ‘art studio’—whatever he calls it. I stare after him longingly, kind of wishing there was someone else to suffer through this with me.
Because … awkward. I debate leaving but then a couple of the guys start arguing about sports. I don’t want things to get out of hand. So, I linger. Gilbert, the guy who told the crap warehouse story earlier, can’t help one-upping everyone else every time they talk. “Yeah, well the injuries our quarterback got last season were way worse.”
Andrew—the doctor I picked—ignores Gilbert and asks, “Anyone watch the new documentary with those walruses that climb cliffs to avoid people?”
His question is glossed over as someone else brings up the lack of boobs on the new hit show Striptease.
I spot Heather crouched in the bushes, hiding and eyeing the man-candy. While she said she was gonna let the guys bond without her interference, I’m totally not surprised she’s spying. My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from her.
You see Peter Brown’s skinny dick? No wonder he likes butt sex.
Not looking.
I don’t look, but I can hear Peter Brown trying to get another guy to make a bet about which guys will make it through and end up in the harem. I roll my eyes.
My phone buzzes again. Ohh—look at this one!
I open the next text to see a dick pick and an X.
Bitch! She’s fucking giving a guy a strike for his dick! I care way less about that shallow strike than the fact that she only sent me a picture of the dick and not his face. I’ve been studiously avoiding looking down there … because this is not my sausage fest. Ugh.
Who is it? I text.
She does not respond. And I just know it’s on purpose. Motherfucking traitor. She’s trying to force me to eye their junk.
Not doing it, I text.
No response.
You have to tell me a name if you really want a strike, I text.
No response.
Curiosity paws at me like a kitten batting at yarn. My will unravels thread by thread. As does my professionalism. I mean, eleven yoked, naked guys are lounging around laughing.
The twins finally got some drunken takers and have started up a chicken fight and there’s a lot of hot male on male riding and splashing going on. What woman could resist?
I open the text again to check the penis in question. It’s l
ong, so probably a ‘show’-er, not a grower. But it’s thin. And—eww, eww, eww—it’s uncircumcised. That’s been a thing for Heather since we started talking about sex. There are things that float your boat and things that make it sink. To Heather, uncircumcised weenies are shipwrecks.
My eyes flicker up to see who might have the little love warrior wearing a helmet. Even as my eyes slide up, my heart starts hammering. I do not want to get called out for eyeing the goods. Subtle. Subtle. Professional face. Keep on a professional face.
I scan the guys standing by the bar. One, two, three—not it. I let out the breath I’ve been holding with a whoosh. I glance back at my phone and pretend I’m doing something important. My fingers tap away like I’m sending a message. Really, I’m just typing XXXXX into my phone. I’m a super spy. It’s what I tell myself to keep going, even though my stomach is roiling. Fuck. I fucking arranged this naked time. I shouldn’t be nervous, right? But dammit, that was before. I didn’t think I’d end up having to secretly ogle. I should have had them all put dick pics in their files.
My eyes slide toward the waterfall. I can’t fucking see clearly around the little splashes and mist the waterfall makes. Shit.
I look at the guys in the lounge chairs, heart hammering. One of the guys, Karl Nork (a former military man and a hottie who’s got this amazing nose that gives him this lion, alpha-predator feel) makes eye contact with me and I give him a professional nod and then go back to typing on my phone, trying to ignore the raging blush that takes over my entire face.
When I glance up again, Nork isn’t in his seat anymore. Fuck! Did he realize what I was doing? Is he telling people? Crap! I’m gonna end up being the creeper lady. I’m gonna have to resign and find someone else to run this gig. I’m gonna be the first person Alec flies out of here. The thought of being on a plane alone with Alec only doubles my blush.
Karl Nork is suddenly in front of me. All five foot eleven, naked, muscled goodness.
Busted.
My mouth is suddenly as dry as sex without foreplay. And this moment feels just about as bad, too. Painfully uncomfortable. All I can think about is how I wish I wasn’t here right now. I want a body swap. Any body swap. I don’t even care. I just don’t want to be me right now. Crap!!! My eyes have trouble meeting Karl’s. He’s gonna call me on it. I just know he’s gonna call me on the staring. An uncomfortable laugh starts and I clench my teeth together to stop it.
Karl’s eyes study mine for a long second before he holds up his cell and asks, “What’s the wifi password?”
If I was a kite, I’d crash into a tree right now. His question makes all the tension holding my body taut just stop dead. Like a wind that just disappears without rhyme or reason. My resulting smile is far too wide for the question, but little does he know, it’s a smile of relief and not just a fake, little professional showing-of-the-teeth.
My fake hostess voice clicks on automatically. “Sure. It’s island222, all lowercase.”
He types it into his phone and smiles. “Awesome.” He turns and I cannot believe my luck.
Until he turns back.
“By the way, in case you’re wondering, I’m just over six inches when hard, a good four inches in girth. Heather’s having you send the details, right?”
Caspar’s got nothing on me. My face is white as a sheet. I’m pretty sure I’ve just died, too. Half from humor, half from humiliation. I don’t have it in me to respond. I just stare blankly at him.
He winks and walks off.
I deflate. Gah! Weddings are not this stressful. Angry mothers-of-the-bride are not half as bad as spying on nudie-patootie men. I am all out of energy after that tension. If there was a couch behind me, I’d totally sink into it. As it is, I just take off my heels. I’m done. Officially done for the night. One more tense moment and my heart’s gonna explode.
I pick my heels up. Heather can just deal with the foreskin dude. I’m not giving anyone an X for that. Especially if she can’t give me a name.
I straighten up, heels in hand, about to tell the guys that they should turn in during the next hour or so because we’ve got a busy day tomorrow. But before I can speak, there’s a crunch, right in my ear. I jump a little. I turn to see Danny Walsh, liar and supposed tennis player, standing next to me, eating a bag of chips and staring without shame at the naked frolicking. A couple more guys are in the pool now, and the twins are really trying to convince them to join in the chicken fighting.
“So, this is weird,” Danny comments conversationally.
“Give me a chip,” I grouse, reaching for his bag.
He lets me dig in and I’m thrilled to find he’s eating my favorite flavor. Vinegar. “Mmm.”
Several guys turn their heads and I wave my hands while staring up at the palm trees. “The chips. Not you. The chips. I wasn’t looking!”
Danny chuckles beside me and calls out, “She means she doesn’t want to admit she was looking!”
That earns a laugh and I turn as red as a boiled lobster.
“Lie,” I mutter.
“No, it’s not,” Danny grins and stuffs another chip in his too handsome mouth. If only he knew.
I glare at him and grab the chip bag away. “I’m starving. I didn’t have dinner. Where’d you get the chips?"
"Not from the kitchen that's for sure," Danny grumbles. "If I'd have known that coming here would mean I'd be on a five-star diet, I would have packed a gym bag full of junk food."
“You don’t like the food?” Damn, I’m glad Kenneth went back inside. He’d have a conniption.
“I asked that Kenneth guy for a snack and he made me a beet salad.” Danny snorts. “That’s not a fucking snack.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
No wonder he’s so hot. All twenty-four-year olds… he lifts the chip bag and pours some chips into his mouth and his six-pack peeks out at me again. Okay, nope. Not all twenty-four-year olds are that hot. But only twenty-four year olds can eat like that and still be hot. I swipe the chip bag back before he can finish it off. Three fucking chips left. I eat two and hand over the last grumpily, wishing for more.
I ask, “The golf course doesn’t have a vending machine?”
He shakes his head. “They don’t even have regular water over there. Seltzer. That kind in the green bottle. Blech.”
I glance at him, evaluating as Danny stares unabashedly at the twins, who are demonstrating how to play naked chicken without their junk dangling all over the guy in front of them, which involves a very precarious balancing situation.
My eyes roam over Danny’s classic American good-boy features. The seltzer comment was unusually specific. I think back to the story about his brother’s ‘car accident.’ There were a lot of details in that, too. I form a theory as I watch his square jaw crunch down on the last chip.
“Where’d you get the chips?” I ask.
“Had one bag in my stuff. Must have thrown it in there when I was packing.”
I hazard a guess, “Lie!”
He turns to me, eyes wide. “No! It’s not!”
But there’s a panic in his tone that makes me suspect I’m right. That there are normal snacks somewhere. And he’s hoarding them.
I bolt toward the golf course. It’s a nine-hole course set back a bit from the villas. I run until I realize Danny isn’t following me. He’s not trying to stop me. That realization makes me slow down.
He double-lied. He knew I’d think he was lying … so like any good con man, he offered up a red herring.
Fuck me.
I think hard and I remember the last time I saw Danny eating chips. It was on the plane.
I hoof it over to the tarmac. If my horny ass is gonna have to work while watching nearly a dozen dudes try and get with my bestie then I’m gonna need a shit ton of junk food to cope.
Chapter Eleven
The door to the plane is firmly shut. I smack on the side, but the crash of the ocean waves next to the runway is louder than m
y puny smacks. There are directions on the door about how to open it properly, but they are hard to read by starlight. Plus, it’s a door. You pull the handle. I pull the handle and wham! The door falls straight down—fast—smacking me in the shoulder.
“Ahh!” I scream, scrambling out of the way and clutching my shoulder. My entire arm instantly pulses with hot pain. That door was fucking heavy.
Alec appears in the doorway of the plane. “Katie?”
I don’t respond. I’m too busy moaning and cursing my stupidity for wanting goddamn chips.
Alec descends the stairs connected to the inside of the door and comes over. He touches my lower back, and despite the pain, the touch has me looking up through my tears to stare into his eyes.
His brow is creased in concern. “Can you move your hand? Anything broken?”
I just groan.
He slides his hand up my back, and the throbbing heat in my shoulder is in stark contrast to the shiver that trails up my spine at his touch.
“I’m going to check, okay? Just stay still.” His fingers slide up along my neck and then slowly down my arm. I’m sore, and tender, but nothing he does causes shooting pain. I’m more fascinated by how tender he is, and how intent his deep brown eyes are as they study my arm.
“You look like you know what you’re doing.”
A tiny grin cracks on his lips. “Broken a few bones in my time.”
I smile, “Okay, grandpa.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Watch that lip, whippersnapper.” Then he winks. “I think you’re fine. But you definitely need ice because otherwise you’re gonna end up looking like a hunchback.”
“That’ll match my witch nose perfectly,” I say with a grin.
“Witch nose? Nah, your nose is cute. Not as good as your smile, but…” he trails off, suddenly shy.
I swallow hard. He likes my smile? I get a bit lightheaded. And I don’t think it’s from my injury.
Alec holds out his arm. “Let me help you get on the plane and we’ll get you that ice.”