I’ve been on a high, a clean high, since last night. I blew my load twice, the much-needed relief I was after. On top of that, I’m making positive progress on my manuscript. Tristan even commented that I was in better spirits, and after a few beers, it led to him showing me how to play this game. Sure, I suck. Tristan said we make a great team, and so five hours later, we’re deep in the middle of a mission when Eric comes over.
Concentrating on the screen, Tristan yells at me to watch out on my left. My palms are sweating, my ammunition low until the screen goes black. Huh?
My head spins quickly to look at Eric. “Eric! It took us hours to unlock that path.”
Eric’s face falls. “Look at yourself, Batman. You should be outside with the rest of the world parading what you got, not holed up in here playing games. Think about the number of women lying in their lonely beds right now wishing a hot man like yourself will save them from their rabbit and personal hell.”
“Hey! What about me?” Tristan argues.
“I’ve still got a beef with you after you dodged our last gym session, and I walked past you at the Dairy Queen stuffing your face.”
“Yeah, well, I was hungry.”
“A minute on the lips, forever on the hips. Anyway, get your asses changed. There’s a happening beach party in Malibu tonight, and I, for one, need some wiggity wang.”
This is a battle not worth fighting, so I stand and head to my room as Tristan pulls me aside. “What the hell is wiggity wang?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Eric has his own language.”
Eric shouts out, “It’s called wanguage, get it?”
***
The drive up to Malibu could possibly have been the longest drive that ever existed only because Eric and Tristan keep arguing over the song choice.
“What do you mean you don’t listen to Jonas Brothers?” Eric asks in horror.
“Eric, as if I’d listen to boy bands. I’m more of a Metallica, Guns N’ Roses kind of guy.”
“Who the hell is a Metallica?”
“Did you just ask me who Metallica is?” Tristan raises his voice in shock.
I grip the steering wheel in frustration. “Oh my God, both your tastes in music are piss poor. Well, maybe not you, Tristan, so let me rephrase that. Eric, your taste in music is piss poor. I’ll not play that in my car and…” I place my hand in the air as I anticipate his rebuttal, “… I don’t want statistics on how many records they have sold, who’s still in the closet, or who you would take to bed. Now, I’ll put on Maroon 5, and let’s all not talk to each other for the rest of the drive, okay?”
Like a brooding teenage boy, he mumbles to himself before pulling out his cell and placing his headphones on.
California in the summertime is just one big party. It isn’t hard to miss it—the restaurant with an open bar area overlooking the ocean is lit up with a string of colorful lanterns, the music blasting over the huge subwoofers, and everywhere you turn, a nice pair of fake tits are staring you in the face. I’m not a fake-tits kind of guy I’m more of an ass man, but big breasts can be an added bonus.
Stop thinking about ass and tits for one second. Beach shorts aren’t made for boners. End of story.
We make our way over to a spare table and order a round of drinks. Sitting around drinking, I spend my time deciding which lucky one I’m willing to take home tonight until Eric yells out in a British accent, “Darling!”
As I turn to look his way, I notice a familiar blonde wave to Eric and start walking our way. Eric stands, and they air-kiss each other on both cheeks.
“Tristan, Julian, this is Kate.” He raises his eyebrows toward me. Kate looks over, and her face responds knowingly. It hits me like a ton of bricks, she’s the blonde I’ve seen often with Charlie at the beach doing yoga. On closer inspection, she is stunning. Would that constitute to shitting on your own doorstep?
She’s wearing a coral-colored bikini top layered with a white crocheted tank. Her shorts are denim with pockets hanging below the hemline. They are very short, but she has the longest lean legs and pulls it off nicely. Her hair is tied up in a scruffy bun, yet something about her is easy on the eyes.
Shit! Tristan won’t remember, will he?
No, he can’t even remember the name of the President, except the President isn’t a hot leggy blonde with an ass begging to be fucked.
My heart picks up a pace as the panic overcomes me. Should I pull him aside to explain? No, just play it cool, he won’t remember her.
“Pleased to meet both of you, finally.” She pulls up a chair and sits beside Tristan. “So, I hear Eric has been showing you around? Oh, my days, did he do his tour of the celebrity homes yet?”
“Yes, although I don’t know half the people he talks about. Who the hell is Shirley MacLaine?”