Tied (23 page)

My grip on the phone tightens. If I were a superhero, it’d be dust by now. But I manage to keep my shit together.

Steven comments from behind me, “Buck up, little camper—they’re not so bad.”

Then I slide to the final image.

Jack says, “Oh, that one’s bad.”

Bad? Bad
is a kid who wipes out on his bike, taking off several layers of skin.
Bad
is Derek Jeter getting sidelined with an injury during the play-offs. This photo isn’t bad. It’s a blasphemy.

She’s leaning back on a dark-upholstered couch, with a guy on top of her—lined up just right to dry-hump her through his black, shiny thong.

If he put her legs on his shoulders, they’d be in one of her favorite positions. And she’s smiling. She’s looking away from the
camera, off to the side, but her mouth is open. Frozen in a wide, laughing scream.

Not exactly the picture of the loyal, devoted fiancée is it?

Every muscle in my body demands that I reach into the device, grab the son of a bitch on top of her, and choke him the fuck out. But the final blow is when I see the writing under the picture. The message Dee-Dee probably gleefully sent. Take a look:

Drew who? :D

Remember what I was saying before? About how when you’re in love, the choices you make can have huge effects on the person you love? Well, I wasn’t just talking about my choices. I meant Kate’s too.

Something inside me cracks. Breaks. Matthew—the only one who senses just how perilously close to the edge I am—tries to pull me back. “It’s just a lap dance, dude. It’s her bachelorette party. Tomorrow everything goes back to normal.”

I laugh and my mouth tastes bitter. My movements are dangerous and desperate. I shove Matthew’s hand away and toss Warren’s phone back to him.

“You’re right, Matthew, it doesn’t mean shit. None of it’s real, right? It’s Cinderella’s motherfucking coach, a one-night freebie—then tomorrow, it’ll be like it never even happened.”

Matthew frowns. “Drew—”

Warren interrupts, “Would you stop being such a fucking hypocrite?” He holds his hands out wide. “Do you see where we are right now?”

I don’t think about how he’s once again correct. I don’t think about all the wrongs I’ve committed, or all the promises I’ve made.

Because back in the caveman days? They didn’t have time to consider the ramifications of their actions when a woolly
mammoth was bearing down on them. All they could do was react. That same primal instinct is pushing me now. Driving me to do something—anything—to get rid of the jealousy that’s burning through my chest.

Once upon a time there was a guy, and he was awesome. He had a perfect life—good-looking, a great job, money to burn, and woman tripping over themselves to fuck him. He was the ace in the hole. A number one. Mr. No Apologies, I know exactly what I want and I get it, if you’re not with me, you’re against me, get on board or get the fuck out.

I liked that guy. He called the shots. He was in control. And there was never a time he felt as bad as I do right now. About anything.

I know what he would’ve said at a time like this: Stella can lick Chomper’s balls; Drew is the one who needs to get his groove back. Then he would’ve grabbed a stripper and paid for a raunchy lap dance—maybe paid for more. To even the score.

But if you think you know how this goes, you’re fucking wrong.

’Cause I’m not going to do
any
of that stuff.

As shitty as this is, as sick and jealous as seeing those pictures makes me feel? I know something that feels even worse.

Letting Kate down. Breaking her trust. Making her cry.

Kate has forgiven me my screwups and she trusts me, even when I don’t always give her a reason to. Mercy is a gift—given out of love, not worthiness. And that’s what Kate will always be to me.

She’s my mercy.

And I will be damned if I punk out and fail to be the man she adores—the man I know I can be. For her. For James.

I rub my eyes and take a breath. The guys watch me as I walk to the bar and sit down.

“What are you going to do?” Warren asks.

“What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Try and make yourself feel better? Hook up with a stripper?” Matthew offers.

I just shrug. “Been there, done that—it never ends well.”

Besides, you know as well as I do that she didn’t get that lap dance ’cause she wanted it—any more than I wanted a goddamn thong in my mouth. The girls put her up to it, and she was just going with the flow.

Still sucks, though. Which is why when Jack repeats Warren’s question, I say, “I’m going to do what any guy in my shoes would do. I’m gonna fucking drink.”

The perky bartender appears before me, smiling. “What can I get you, Mr. Evans?”

I shrug. “You got anything that will erase the last five minutes from my brain?”

I meant it as a joke, but she smiles thoughtfully. “Actually, I think I have just what you’re looking for.”

She walks to the end of the bar and retrieves a long-necked, glittery, sparkling bottle. Someone went a little crazy with the BeDazzler. She holds it up. “This is Pandora. It’s part of an in-house contest. Eight hundred dollars a bottle. If you’re able to drink the entire contents without passing out, vomiting, or requiring medical intervention, you win an
I DOMINATED PANDORA IN PARADISE
T-shirt. And we put your name and picture on the Wall of Studs.”

She points behind the bar, where
WALL OF STUDS
is hung on a glowing neon sign. With no pictures underneath.

“If you fail to drink the contents or engage in any of the aforementioned behaviors, your picture and name are relegated to the Wall of Pussies.” She gestures to the opposite wall. Where
a shitload of pictures hang. Every one featuring some poor slob who’s passed out or puking—sometimes both. One guy looks as if he’s having a seizure.

I stare at the bottle. “What’s in it?”

“Our own blend. I can’t tell you the exact proof, but I must warn you, it’s quite high. So what do you say, Mr. Evans? Up for the Pandora Challenge?”

Here’s a fact for you—men will do practically anything for a T-shirt. Free throws till our backs give out, hot-dog eating until our stomachs rupture. If there’s a chance to acquire a cheap cotton garment that proclaims our accomplishment? We’re helpless to resist.

“Hell, yeah.” I smack the money down on the bar. She hands me the bottle and offers a glass, which I turn down.

I uncork the top and toast the guys. “Party on!”

The liquid is sweet, warm. Not the bitter, burning taste of most hard liquors. I’m sure that I’ve got this in the bag. Might as well put my T-shirt on right now.

I look at Matthew, who smiles back. “What’s the worst that could happen, right?”

Y
our body’s ability to absorb alcohol and still function depends on several factors: weight, liver health, past patterns of consumption. Most adults already have this figured out, but just in case you’re one of those who don’t know—I’ll tell you. There are different levels of intoxication.

First, there’s that warm, happy feeling the average person gets after a drink or two. Most could still operate a car safely and, unless you have a low body mass index, would probably pass a Breathalyzer. We’ll call this buzzed.

Then, in the three-to-five-drink range, some people get a little silly. Talkative. Possibly annoying. You’re beyond happy at this point, and even the most mundane events seem hilarious. This is often referred to as tipsy.

Next, there’s actual drunkenness. By now, you’ve lost count of the number of drinks you’ve had. You could bite a hole through your tongue, but you wouldn’t feel it. You’re slurring your words, and swaying on your feet. We’ll call this shitfaced.

The final level of intoxication is completely fucking obliterated. Coherent thought is pretty much gone. Coordination—nonexistent. And your self-awareness equals that of a fruit fly.

About an hour after popping that cork from Pandora’s mouth, I am fucking obliterated. Moving is a bit of a challenge. It’s similar to those nightmares when the ax murderer is chasing you, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t get your legs to move? It feels like a thick, invisible force field of Jell-O is encasing my body—every action is slow and strenuous.

Time has no meaning. Apparently the brain cells are dying off so fucking fast, only short, disjointed moments make it into my actual memory. Like pictures taken with an old Polaroid camera.

As far as I can tell, most of the patrons at Paradise have taken their leave—and my bachelor party has more or less taken over the club.

There’s Jack’s face, just inches from mine, his mouth open, tongue hanging out, yelling, “Waaaassssuuuuuppppppp?!” There are Steven and Matthew, behind the bar, throwing bottles to one another, pretending to be Tom Cruise doing the Hippy Hippy Shake. There’s Warren, getting striptease lessons from a dancer—trying to swing around the pole and falling.

Like that guy needs another blow to the head.

Then there’s all of us—onstage—my arm thrown around Warren’s shoulder as we belt out “Making Love out of Nothing at All” by Air Supply, while Steven, Matthew, and Jack sing backup.

Christ Almighty.

When the fog clears next, I’m at the bar, my cheek resting sloppily on my hand. Sitting next to me is the dark-haired stripper who rode me onstage. I know I should know her name, but I can’t remember it. She’s talking animatedly—her hands moving as fast as her mouth. I only hear every third word or so.

I look at the bottle that’s on the bar next to me. It’s about three-quarters empty. I shrug—bring the bottle to my lips—and just manage to take a drink. A little of the red liquid trickles down my chin and soaks into my shirt. That’s embarrassing—I’ve never been a sloppy drunk.

“. . . so, you’re okay with that, right, Drew?”

Hearing my name gets my attention, and I turn toward the sound. Like a dog. “Huh?”

She smiles. “I don’t usually do this, but you guys are a lot of fun.”

I agree. “Yeps . . . tha’s usss. We’re the GT . . . yeah . . .”

With a compassionate smile, she hops off her barstool. “Take it easy with that stuff, handsome.”

I try to hold up two thumbs—the universal sign for
It’s all good
—but my fingers don’t cooperate. I hold up all ten instead.

She laughs, gives me a high five, and walks away. I sit for a moment. Then—because that’s the fucking genius I am—I decide I want to play darts. I drag myself off the bar stool in search of a game.

This won’t end well.

Sometime later—could be three hours or thirty minutes—I realize I’m sitting in a chair, at one of the back poker tables. Five cards are in my hand and a stack of chips is next to me.

I can’t feel my face—and for a moment, I fear it might have fallen the fuck off. I slap my cheeks.

Still there.
Awesome
.

Across the table, Matthew holds his own cards in his hand. Behind him, a statuesque blonde in a black mesh body stocking is rubbing his shoulders, giving him a massage while he plays. Next to Matthew is Steven. He also has cards in his hand . . . and a hot Asian chick on his lap.

Both seem to be at shitfaced level, so . . . that explains a lot.

On the stage, Billy Warren strums a guitar he must have pulled out of his ass, singing “Mandy” by Barry Manilow.

My phone vibrates, but when I try to fish it out of my pocket, it jumps out of my hands and onto the floor. I push my chair back and get on my knees under the table to look for it. I find the slippery bastard, but when I start to stand back up, my eyes land on the bar.

And there is the one of the most glorious sights I have ever seen.

It’s Kate.

She’s in jeans and a T-shirt and her back’s to me, but I still know—I’m certain—it’s her. I’m so fucking relieved, I kind of get a little choked up. I can’t explain why, but it feels like it’s been so long since I’ve seen her—goddamn ages. Like so much has happened.

I’ve missed her. And now she’s here.

They must have come here to surprise us. What a great surprise! I pull myself up and stumble forward. I wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her close against my chest. I bury my face in her neck, in her hair, and breathe her in—enjoying the soothing wonder of being surrounded by all things Kate.

Somewhere, in my Pandora-marinated brain, I recognize that Kate smells . . . different.

Wrong.

But I brush it off. Because I’m too stupidly happy to give a shit about something so trivial.

I lick my lips and put all my energy into not slurring my words as I whisper in her ear, “I’m so glad you’re here. Let’s just . . . leave. You and me. They won’t notice we’re gone. I don’t care about any of this stuff—I just want to be with you. I want to go back to the hotel and invent new ways to make you come.”

My eyes close, and I skim my nose against her cheek. My hand finds Kate’s chin and I turn her face toward me. So I can taste her, so I can press my lips to hers and show her how badly I want her—how much I need her.

But before our lips meet . . .

There’s a crashing sound in the distance. A commotion. And a Bitchy-sounding voice calls out, “Oh, hell no . . .”