Greetings from Sugartown (11 page)

“YOUR JUNK JUST TOUCHED ME!” I scream, and then squirm as my whole body shudders with revulsion. “Why? Why were your eyes closed, arsehole?”

“I didn’t wanna see your bits,” he shouts back.

“Then run the other God damned way, you dumb fuck!”

“What, you didn’t see me running towards you? Why didn’t you move out of the way?”

“I did. But you moved
in
my way, because your eyes were closed. Who runs with their eyes closed? What are you, six? This is all your fault!”

“My fault? How is this my fault? You’re the one who got naked because you wanted to prove a point.”

“How is this not your fault?” I scream and then mock in a deep “Jack” baritone. “My stomach can handle anything. I’ve won every game I’ve ever played. I’m winning at life.”

I stalk over to Elijah and snatch the blanket from his hands and shudder. “Betcha glad you defied me now, huh, baby girl?” He taunts me, in between his laughter.

“Defy this,” I say, giving him the finger. I wrap myself in the blanket and stalk towards the porch steps. “I need to shower … in bleach.”

Holly has her phone out, and makes no show of hiding the fact that she’s been filming us. “Hols, if this winds up on YouTube I will twat tap you into an early hysterectomy.”

“Boo, you whore,” she says, and slides her phone into her pocket, sniggering the entire time.

“All of you, get out of my house. I’m going to bed.” I breeze past the gathering, slamming the front door with its wide stained-glass panels behind me. Then I flip them the finger, drop the blanket and head toward the shower, ignoring the way the front porch erupts with laughter.

I
SET
the champagne in the ice bucket, and run my hands over the smooth black vinyl of the massage table I borrowed from Holly and Jack—okay, maybe “massage table” is a stretch. I’m going out on a limb here, and saying that the only massaging that’s happened on this table is the kind where Jack massages the back of Holly’s throat.

I cringed a little bit when I tried removing the wrist and ankle cuffs, and found they wouldn’t come off. Apparently they’re bolted to the table. I do not even want to know what those kinky fucks have be doing on this.

I emptied three whole cans of Lysol on that shit the second Jack dropped it off. I wanna give Ana a night she’ll never forget, but the only rash I want her taking away from it is a little chaffing from fucking ourselves raw. Herpes is never your friend.

So, what’s my grand plan for this proposal? An empty house, a roaring fireplace, champagne—obviously—one sexy-arsed full-body massage, complete with a happy ending, and hopefully a happily-ever-after. And a yes; would be awesome, too.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous in my entire life. I mean, laying down a fuckload of money for a ring is one thing, but actually asking the question? I yank on the bowtie I’m wearing. I feel hot, despite it being the only thing I have on—hey, do not judge me. Ana has a thing about naughty manservants. I usually just shrug my shoulders and go along with it.

My skin prickles all over. I scratch at the junction between my forearm and bicep, then behind my knees. Shit. Maybe it’s the sap from the pine needles I used to light the fire that’s playing havoc, but I suddenly want to bathe in a tub of ice.

Okay, you got this, dickwad
. You can do this. When she walks in, you’re just gonna kiss her stupid, pour her a glass of champagne, and give her a nice sensual massage, then you’re gonna tell her you can’t stand the thought of being without her, and you’ll drop to one knee and … fuck. Why is it so hot in here? I scratch at my arm again, and notice a red welt forming beneath my tats.
What the hell?
I pull a piece of ice from the bucket, and slide it over the lump.
Christ that feels good.
On closer inspection, it looks like my whole body is breaking out in these blotchy red bumps.

I need a drink. I need an antihistamine, but I don’t have time to go rooting around in the cupboard for that shit because Ana’s going to be home any second, and I have orgasms to deliver and a question to pop. I pull the champagne from the ice bucket and pour myself a glass, downing it in one go. I scratch, but the itch just spreads. It’s everywhere. My entire body is breaking out in this fucked up rash and …
Jesus Christ, it’s like an inferno in here
.

I haul my arse over to the window, throwing it wide and gulping in deep, heavy breaths of cold winter air. That’s when I hear the van’s door slam. I jack-knife from the window and hurry back to the table. I can’t stop scratching. I swear my skin is crawling with fire ants.

“Honey, I’m home,” a voice sing songs from the hall.

Fuck. That’s not Ana.

Before I have time to cover my junk, Jack and Kick are standing in my lounge room. A heartbeat passes, one in which we all just stare at each other like fuckwads, and then the laughter starts. I close my eyes, and squeeze my hands into fists to keep from ball-punching the both of them.

Kick leans towards Jack and whispers, “I think we’ll call him Jeeves.”

“Dude, when I said you could borrow my table I’d kinda pictured you doing something bad arse and kinky with it. Now I just wanna take it back.” Jack walks forward, and brushes his hands lovingly over the leather. “Don’t worry, baby, Daddy’s gonna take you home and put you to good use.”

“Don’t fucking touch it. I went through three cans of disinfectant to get that thing clean. I don’t want your herpes contaminating it again.”

“Herpes? Fuck you, cunt-burger. I’m definitely taking my table back now.”

“Speaking of herpes, what the hell is going on with your skin?” Kick says, eyeing me from head to toe. “It looks like you fucked a leper and your limbs are gonna start falling off.”

“Feels like it, too.” I’m cupping my pork sword with both my hands when I start to itch again. In order to scratch I have to let go, but Jack and Kick are standing right in front of me, and that seems kinda gay. I think back to tag teaming Jenny, the club whore, with Kick, and decide I don’t give a fuck. Jack will just have to deal with feeling emasculated by my huge man meat on his own. I drop the jewels and start scratching all over.
Fuck, that feels good
.

“Dude, put it away.”

“I can’t. I gotta scratch.”

“Do you have crabs? If you have crabs you are not using my table.”

“Are you breaking out in hives, man?” Kick searches my face.

“No.” I respond on auto-pilot as I chase the itch down my tattooed thighs. “What the fuck are you two doing here?”

“I found this loser at the bar. We decided we didn’t want to pay an arm and a leg for Dave’s beer and his shithouse service, so we got a cab back here to drink your liquor and play Xbox.”

“Well, you have to leave. I have plans.” I glare at Kick. “I told you to make yourself scarce.”

“Dude, what plans?” Kick asks. “I just thought you’d confine that shit to your room.”

“What fucking plans does it look like, cunt-rag?”

“You’re awfully jumpy, Moose.” A huge grin busts out on Kicks face.

“What?” I demand.

“Champagne, roses, massages … and hives?” He chuckles as he says that last word. “You’re really doin’ it, aren’t you? Fuck me. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Doing what?” Jacks asks, staring back and forth between us. I avoid his gaze, and scratch at the spot behind my ear.
Fuck, I wish this itching would just stop.
“What am I missing?”

“Eth—Elijah, here, is about to pop a very important question.”

“Get the fuck out,” Jack says.

“One pussy for the rest of your life. Sure you’re ready for that, Moose?”

“Pretty fucking sure. Now get your arses outta here before you fuck everything up.”

I hear a car door slam outside, and then another, and another. My heart just about stops. Fear twists the pit of my stomach. “What the fuck? One day. You arseholes can’t give me one day alone with Ana? I don’t even need a whole day, just an evening—hell, two hours would do it. Why the hell is this place suddenly Grand Central fucking Station?”

The sounds of a shrieking toddler filter in through the open window, but that’s not the worst sound I hear. The absolute worst thing I could imagine right now is just seconds away from walking through my door.

“Sammy, come carry some of this stuff for your sister,” Bob bellows from the front yard.

“Fiiiiiiiine,” Sammy responds.

“Fuck.” The itching has stopped, and I’m filled instead with cold dread as I stare down at the portable sex table, my exposed junk and then up at my two … well, whatever the fuck they are. “We need to move the table. We need to move all this shit.”

When it becomes apparent they’re not going to help me with this, I resort to threats. “Jack, mate, you’re my closest friend, but I will not hesitate to tell Holly that you hate the way she sucks cock if you don’t help me, here. And Kick, jail is only ever one phone call away.”

“Helping,” Kick says.

“Hey, hey, hey, I didn’t say I hated it. Just that after reading all that Fifty Shades crap she could afford to be a little less of a hoover. Let’s not go throwing around crazy shit that might result in me never getting laid again.”

Kick throws the bottle of massage oil and the silk blindfold on the table, and signals for Jack to grab the other end.

“Dude, where’s the ring?” Kick asks, as I throw on my jeans. I dive into the cushions and pull the tiny box free, tearing past them in order to hide the ring in my sock drawer. “Don’t forget your special little bowtie either, Jeeves.”

“Suck my big fat cock,” I mutter, giving them both a two-fingered salute.

When I come back from stowing the ring, the litre-bottle of oil is laying cracked open on the floorboards, and Jack and Kick are using their shirts to mop up the excess, though they’re not really cleaning so much as smearing oil everywhere.

“What the fuck happened? I give you one task, and you fuck that up.”

“It was his fault,” Jack says pointing his slick, oil-covered finger at Kick.

“Shut up, and get that shit into the back room,” I command. They start shifting the table as I pull towels from the linen cupboard to mop up the mess. I don’t have much more luck than they did, but I wind up mopping as much as I can before throwing the evidence in the washing basket. I emerge from the laundry room as Ana, Bob, Holly, Sammy, and Pepper walk inside. I’m panting, and covered in sweat from operation Hide the Evidence. I’m sure I look guilty as all hell too.

“Hey, baby girl. I wasn’t expecting you home so early.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck, cringing when I feel how greasy my fingers are. I smell like a fucking hippy. I tilt my chin at my soon-to-be (hopefully) father-in-law. “Bob. Holly. Hey, kids. What are you guys doing here?”

“I invited everyone for dinner, remember?” Ana says. She bounds up and kisses me on the cheek, then crinkles her nose as she steps back to study my face. “Are you wearing patchouli?”

“Er, yeah. I tried this new lotion of Kick’s. Stuff stinks.”

“You use lotion?” She runs her hand over my forearm and cringes as she inspects the red weals. “Oh God, have you seen this? I think you might be allergic. You’re kinda clammy, too; are you sure you’re okay? I can send everyone home if you’re not up to it.”

“Nah, I’m good.” It’s only when I glance toward the coffee table and see the roses and the ice bucket sitting there, alongside the champagne flutes, that I panic. Ana follows my line of sight, and her whole body stiffens.

Shit. By now the kids have quietened down, and the whole room gives me an accusatory glare. At least, that’s how it feels. I don’t know what to say, and then the choice of sifting through the shitty explanations in my head is taken away because the idiots in the back room fuck something up, and the noise is so loud that I know everyone here heard it.

“Is someone here?” This from Ana—obviously. I pause. I fucking stutter, and I have no idea why. Ana’s already moving down the hall toward the back room.

“It’s not what you think.” I hurry after her. “Baby girl. Just stop for a second.” I reach for her arm but she shrugs me off and throws open the door, revealing Jack up on the sex table, and Kick cuffing him to it.

Jack yanks on his cuffed wrist. “See, so you really can’t get out of them—” He pauses, and then tilts his head back in order to see us better once he realises they have company. By this stage, everyone is crowded in our cramped hallway, staring at Jack in bewilderment. “Er … Hey guys.”

“Why is it that every time I set foot in this house, shit just gets fucking weirder?” Bob lets out an exasperated sigh and stalks back down the hall, muttering to himself about the things he can’t unsee.

“Is that my kink table?” Holly demands.

“I was showing Kick how to use it.”

“Jackson Rowe, you are in a world of trouble. You better be hosing that shit down for cooties when you boys are done.”

“What on earth is going on here?” Ana folds her arms across her chest.

Holly laughs, and doesn’t stop.

“What the hell is so funny?” Ana demands. I wish I could say she found the humour in this situation like Hols did, but she is really fucking pissed.

Holly slaps her hands on her thighs as she catches her breath. Finally, she straightens and wipes the tears from her eyes. Then she yanks out her phone and blinds us all with the offensively bright flash. “I just wanna commemorate the moment you guys finally gave in and took the bromance to that next level.”