Tied (16 page)

“New underwear?” I keep a mental catalog of all of Kate’s undergarments, organized by color and style. I’ve never seen these before. I definitely would’ve remembered them.

She turns her hips, showing me the goods. “Yeah, aren’t they cute?”

Cute? No. Boner inducing? Definitely.

“There’s a La Perla boutique downstairs. I bought them before our spa treatments.”

I can’t help but contemplate what she was thinking when she bought them. I mean, a steamy night at home after James is asleep is one thing—a new outfit always makes that more interesting. But tonight we won’t even be hanging out together. Depending on what condition we’re in when we make it back to the room, we’ll be lucky if we even pass out next to each other.

“Huh.”

That one syllable gives her pause. The hand that was applying eyeliner stops and she looks at me. “What?”

I keep shaving. “You don’t have any . . . other . . . underwear with you?”

Her brow wrinkles. “Sure I do. You don’t like these?”

I rinse my razor in the sink. “No . . . they’re fine. I just thought maybe you could wear something different. Something whiter, cotton, more full coverage.”

A triple-locked chastity belt would also suffice.

Her head tilts, trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “No, Drew, I didn’t bring any granny panties with me.”

You think I’m crazy, I know. But I’m not. I told you a long time ago—I play chess. I don’t just think about the next move; I think about the move five moves from now. So I can’t help but question why the hell would Kate buy new panties that would make any man with half a pulse want to sink to his knees in front of her and shred them with his teeth? It’s like . . . when a woman shaves her legs before a first date, even if she’s wearing pants. Maybe she doesn’t realize it, maybe she doesn’t want to
admit it—but the only reason she’s doing it is because some part of her brain is hoping she’ll get laid.

“Huh.”

Kate just looks sideways at me. I pat my chin with a hand towel while she finishes her makeup. As she smooths gloss over her succulent lips, I can’t help but speak up.

“Flavored lip gloss, huh?”

“Okay, that’s it.” She puts the cap on the gloss with a snap and drops it in her bag. Then she turns toward me quickly. “You need to stop. Right now.”

“Stop what? I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I know what’s going on in that deviant head of yours.”

I cross my arms. “You think so?”

“I
know
so. You’re having this whole conversation with yourself about why I would buy new underwear and who I’m going to let see it. Then you’re thinking, why am I putting on flavored lip gloss? Why not just
plain
lip gloss—unless I want someone to taste it?”

God, she’s good.

“But the truth is, I bought the underwear for
me
. Because having bras and underwear that match make me feel more put together. And you should know, Mr. I See Everything, that the flavored lip gloss is the only gloss I use. Every day.”

“You sound awfully defensive, Kate.”

“This isn’t defensive. This is a natural reaction to having to deal with the twisted way you view the world.”

We stare at each other for a few seconds, arms crossed, not giving an inch. Until Kate does. She plucks a tissue from the box on the back of the toilet and wipes the gloss off her lips. With a ring of sarcasm in her tone she asks, “There. Happy now?”

I should be. I mean—I won, right? But it’s kind of hard to be happy when you’re acting like a douche.

“And since the underwear concerns you so much”—she slides the scrap of silk and lace down her legs and tosses it to me—“I won’t wear any.”

She moves to exit the bathroom, but I step in front of her. “Whoa! Wait up—let’s pause the crazy talk for a second.”

I hold Kate’s gaze for a few seconds. Then—thoroughly contrite—I sink to my knees in front of her.

Her arms are still folded, but her eyes soften. Kate likes me on my knees.

“Your point is well taken.”

Her eyebrows rise in feigned innocence. “What point is that?”

I smile. “That I should trust you. That I do trust you.” I pick up one foot and kiss her light-pink-painted toes, before sliding it through the leg of the underwear. Kate drops her arms, using my shoulders for balance, as I repeat the action with the other foot. I slide the panties up her legs, kissing each thigh reverently as I go. “Every flavored-lip-gloss-slathered, fuck-hot-panty-covered inch of you, I trust.”

She smiles forgivingly as I retrieve the gloss and replace it on those flawless lips. She rubs them together, then she sighs. “I already told you this bachelorette-party thing is not worth it if it’s going to cause problems between us. Be honest if you can’t handle it. Do you want me to tell Delores to call tonight off?”

Doesn’t
that
just make me feel like the biggest insecure pussy that ever walked the face of the earth? But we should examine this moment more closely for a second. Because in life, we make choices—ones that seem completely harmless and totally insignificant.

Until they play out.

Only in hindsight do we realize the monumental effect our decisions have. It’s the businessman who decides to go in to work a few minutes late and misses a fatal collision by seconds. The teenager who chooses to hold a grudge against her mother, and it turns out to be the last conversation they ever have. The guy on the street who finds a dollar and uses it to buy a winning lottery ticket.

Small choices can lead to huge consequences.

I was trying to be unselfish. I wanted to do the right thing.

You can bet your ass I won’t be making
that
mistake again.

“No one’s calling anything off,” I say confidently. “I had a jealous-dickhead seizure—completely temporary. The green-eyed monster will stay in his cage the rest of the weekend. The
one
-eyed monster will want to play with you later on.”

She laughs and takes my face in her hands. “My panties are for your eyes only.”

“I know.”

Kate stretches up and kisses me. And I taste strawberry. “You’re going to go out with the guys and be assaulted by money-hungry strippers—and I’m okay with that.”

I nod. “And you’re going to go out with the girls and be surrounded by horny, half-naked men—and it won’t bother me.”

“We’re the stable couple in the group now.”

“We’ll have a good time—no problems.”

When I told her that? I honestly believed it.

S
ome men wear expensive suits because they want to feel as if they have money, even if they don’t. Others wear them because they want to show people how much money they have. For me, it’s all about the mind-set. The attitude. I’ve never had a problem with confidence, but for guys who do, a custom-fitted suit makes you walk taller, stand straighter. It makes your balls bigger and gives off that
GoodFellas,
don’t-fuck-with-me kind of vibe.

I unbutton the jacket of my charcoal Ermenegildo Zegna and pour myself three fingers of Scotch from the wet bar in the living room. Jack, Matthew, and Steven share my affinity for a well-made suit and are decked out in their own Gucci, Newman, and Armani respectively. Our stud quotient is high—any female within a twenty-foot radius is bound to get caught in our tractor beam.

Then Warren walks out of his room. Wearing a wrinkled green T-shirt, tan carpenter shorts, and sandals. Yes—frigging sandals.

I take a sip of my drink and stare at him. “If I’d known we were going to the skate park, I would’ve brought my board.”

He’s perplexed. Then he looks at the rest of us and back at his own attire. He shrugs. “I like to be comfortable. You guys look like you’re going to a funeral. I look relaxed.”

“You look like a loser,” I argue. “And that’s unacceptable for tonight. My guidance will only get you so far. If you wanna attract quality snatch? You need to step up your game. That means a half-decent suit, or at least a pair of pressed slacks—preferably ones not made from the same material as prison jumpsuits.” I toss back the rest of my drink. “And what the hell is with your hair?”

Warren’s wavy, light brown locks are less tamed than usual. They’re higher—poofier—like an old lady fresh from the hairdresser. He pats the top of his head self-consciously. “I forgot my gel. But it’s cool—chicks dig the curls.”

“Yeah, if it’s 1998 and your name is Justin Timberlake.”

Jack intervenes. “I’ll hook you up, dude. I always bring my buzzer along. We’ll trim the mop-top, slick it back—your own mother won’t recognize you.”

Steven sets his Scotch down on a coaster. Then he taps his chin thoughtfully. “And I’ll call the concierge—have them send over something from the Armani boutique near the lobby.” He eyes Warren up and down. “You’re a thirty, maybe a thirty-two waist, with a slim-cut jacket. A light blue tie will really bring out the color of your eyes.”

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to another edition of
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
.

And Matthew makes it so much worse. He claps his fingertips together daintily and says in a high-pitched voice, “Makeover time!”

My eyes narrow in his direction. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Too much?”

“Definitely.”

Twenty minutes later Warren is decked out in a slick navy suit, black shirt, and shiny Prada shoes. His hair has a neat wet look—short on top, combed back at the sides. He looks . . . passable. Extremely awkward and uncomfortable—but passable.

I stand in front of him and brush off his shoulders, inspecting his clothes like a general at boot camp.

While he whines like a bitch. “It itches.” He rolls his neck and steps from one foot to the other.

“Stop fucking fidgeting.”

He pulls at the collar. “It’s stiff.”

“It’s new—it’s supposed to be. Stand up straight.”
Jesus
, do I sound like my father or what?

I drape the blue tie around his neck, to demonstrate how to tie one. But then I think better of it.

There’s an excellent chance I’ll end up strangling him with the damn thing. And a trip out to the desert to bury a body would be a major inconvenience right now.

Steven, who has turned patience into an art form, takes my place. “Okay, Billy, the rabbit comes out of his burrow, goes around the tree . . .”

You can tell a lot about a person by the game he or she plays at a casino. Adrenaline junkies, those willing to take big risks for an even bigger payoff, they orbit the craps tables. Craps is a game of skillful luck. It requires a certain finesse—quick thinking and
decisive action. Then there’s blackjack. Unless you’re a freak-of-nature card counter, you have to stick to the rules. Assume each card’s a ten, stay at fifteen even if every fiber of your being is screaming to hit, and wait for the dealer to bust. If you don’t know how to play, stay the fuck away. Blackjackers tend to throw quite the hissy fit if you take “their” card. After blackjack, there’s roulette. Roulette is all about odds. Play black or red and you have a slightly less than 50 percent chance of winning. Statistically speaking, it’s your best shot at beating the house.

At the low end of the gambling totem pole are the slot machines. A monkey could play them. Put your money in, pull the lever; money, lever; money, lever. They require no proficiency or knowledge and they’re programmed to favor the casino. The longer you play, the more likely you are to go broke.

The only people who play slots are the aged, the mentally infirm, and suckers.

“Cool—slot machines! That’s all I play. I’m so good at them,” Warren says.

Saw that one coming a mile away, didn’t you?

I slap him on the back and steer him toward the high-roller section. “Tonight you’re gonna play craps.”

“I don’t know how to play craps.”

“Then you’re going to watch and learn. Craps is a man’s game. All the hottest girls hang out at the craps table because that’s where the money is. If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, than he has to go to the motherfucking mountain.”

“What mountain?”

For a second I forgot I was talking to a real, live sphincter. “Never mind. Just pay attention.”

Matthew, Warren, and I get our chips while Jack heads over to blackjack. Steven gets comfortable at a $5,000-minimum roulette
table. He’s all about statistics and odds. At the craps table, I’m rolling and Matthew handles the bets. Right out of the gate, I roll a seven, and the crowd goes wild.

Matthew pounds my back excitedly. “Yes! Mickey fucking Mantle! Keep ’em coming!”

Fifteen minutes later, we’ve tripled our money. The number of bystanders around the table has doubled. Warren still has no idea how to play the game, but he takes his cues from the crowd and responds accordingly. Everyone is laughing, drinking, elbowing in to place money on the table—trying to get a piece of the action. It’s wild. Fun. It feels like the old days—just me and the boys out for a good time. There are no worries about kids or weddings, no stress about work or any of the bullshit that real life abounds in.

Then real life taps me on the shoulder.

Dice in hand, I turn around. And come face-to-face with the dark-haired, blue-eyed flight attendant from the airplane. She’s wearing a black, strapless cocktail dress and heels high enough to put her at eye level with me. She’s not alone. In triangle formation behind her are two equally attractive women. One is blond and baby faced, shorter, with fuller curves. The other is a brunette with blond streaks, olive skin, and full, ripe lips.