I can tell Victor isn’t too thrilled to be here, either, but he’s a better sport than I am in every way.
“It’s one night. Let him have this one night. Before he marries The Ice Queen. Alright?”
That much, at least, I understand. In just a few days, he’s marrying a woman who will, quite literally, make his life a living hell. The bitch of bitches. But at least he’ll be driving a new Mercedes through his misery.
We’ve all tried to talk him out of it in our own ways, but he’s hell bent on rolling forward. People marry for all sorts of reasons, love being the least of them sometimes. Who am I to judge?
Nobody, that’s who.
“If I do stay, I’m not placing a single fucking bid. We clear?”
“Completely. I’ll buy you the best bottle of bourbon they have, now come on.” Victor tries to placate me as we head inside to find Lennon.
Before they’ll let us inside the mansion, we have to register. But it’s all fake names and cloak-and-dagger shit. The Dallas Men’s Club Auction, my ass.
The whole fucking idea pisses me off so bad that I see a red mist. In what universe is it acceptable to put all these girls in this position? In what universe do men think they can pay for a girl’s virginity and not be bothered by it forever?
In Lennon’s universe, apparently. On the registration form, he puts his name down as Zach. He writes it fast, without hesitation, like he’s been thinking about it for a while. It’s all I can do to not snatch the pen out of his hand and break it in half. Ice Queen or not, this isn’t right.
“You’re getting married, you dickhead. In two days. Or did you forget already?”
“I’m still a free man,” he answers, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “And anyway, when the fuck am I going to get a chance like this again? Plus, bonus, no STDs with unbroken ground.”
Asshole.
“I’m not doing it.”
“Come on, dude. Stop scowling. You look like you’re here to kill someone, not get laid.”
“How about I punch you in the throat?”
“Seriously, this could be what solves your problem,” he challenges.
“What problem?”
“This problem: You bought that sweet-ass house in New Orleans. Eight bedrooms and a hundred acres? So you can do what? Sit around alone in your boxers and watch the Saints lose? Make frozen pizzas seven days a week? Buy a dog and scroll Facebook all day? Jesus, man. You need a woman. Now.”
And you need a swift kick to the nuts.
“You do realize that Dallas Vice are probably staking this place out, waiting to put all you motherfuckers in jail, right?”
“It’s not illegal. They’re all of age. It’s all consensual,” he counters with a bourbon-thick slur that makes him fuck up the pronunciation. Conshenshual. “And anyway, see that guy over there? With the mustache and the gut? That’s the Dallas County Chief of Police.”
The guy in question is right then taking a body shot off a blonde with braided pigtails and a bright pink plaid mini skirt.
“Pillar of the community,” I say, looking away.
“Relax. Have a drink. Chill the fuck out.”
No way. I’ve been here for five minutes; I’ve already had enough.
“Sorry, man. I’m not doing this.” Turning over my shoulder, I see our limo pulling away, so I pull my phone out. But just as I’m dialing the driver to get the fuck back here, I glance up.
And everything around me disappears.
All the other girls. My friends. The noise.
Right now, fuck, there’s only her.
Holy shit.
Her.
Fucking perfect in every way.
She’s beautiful but that word is insufficient—natural sandy blonde, freckles, deep brown eyes, a yoga body if ever there was one. All the other girls here are all push-up bras and miniskirts, little fleshpots in sparkling lotion. But not her. She’s a fucking vision of elegance. Grace. She wears a floor-length silky dress, no sleeves, the color of champagne.
And now she’s turning to face me. We lock eyes. Boom.
My heart thumps in my jugular. She looks me up and down, then smiles this killer fucking smile that makes my balls ache and I almost double over like I’ve been gut punched. And then, then, she puts her thumb to her lips, and nibbles her nail as she looks at me.
Sugar and spice and everything fucking nice.
Some asshole in a three-piece sharkskin suit slides up next to her. He’s talking like an inch from her ear, sloshing his martini as he runs his fingers up her bare arm.
Motherfucker.
But all the rage I feel at seeing another man close to her is fanned into desire because the whole time, she’s looking at me. Right at me. Whispering to me with her eyes. Saying yes. And please. And you and me.
She turns to Sharkskin Suit, smiles all sweet, touches him softly on the lapel and then turns away. And now she’s coming right at me.