Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Keep your voice down!” I say, purposely ignoring the tsk-ing senior citizen passing in the other direction, the wheels of her shopping cart almost running over my toes.
“When I’m getting to the dramatic and painful ending?” Before my mind can run with that, Beth adds, “Because I woke up to the thing still buzzing and glued to my thigh. The cheap piece of shit had overheated and burned me!”
“Oh, Jesus. I bet that’s scarred you for life,” I say, wincing, feeling a phantom flash of that pain.
“Literally. I have a scar on the inside of my right thigh in the exact shape of an eight-inch penis.”
“Oh, no!” I roll my lips inwards, my shoulders already starting to shake.
“Yuck it up, my friend. And then imagine trying to explain that to a new OB-GYN.”
We giggle almost all the way back to the clinic, conversations bouncing from one topic to the next. But as we reach the clinic entrance, the way she says my name causes me to pause.
“What is it?” I turn to face her, my fingers retracting from the door handle.
“I have a favour to ask you.” Her eyes dart away, and she looks suddenly uncomfortable. “I have this . . . party to go to, and I really don’t want to go alone.”
“Oh. You want me to go with you?” If I sound surprised, it’s because I am. I know we get along, and we’ve had fun working out of the same office, but she’s much closer to Marta than she is me. They’ve been friends longer for a start.
“Would you? Come, I mean? I hate going to parties by myself.”
“Let me know what date.”
“Really?”
“I don’t see why not.” I’ve had fun this afternoon, and she did help me find somewhere to live. I was going to buy her a houseplant or some chocolates and a bottle of wine to say thanks, but I can do this. “I mean, if I can get a babysitter. Just text me the details.” There must be a reason she doesn’t want Marta to know or else we wouldn’t be standing out in the chilly air having this conversation. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re amazing!” I’m suddenly enveloped in a Chanel-scented hug.
“Okay!” I find myself laughing. Laughter that’s very short-lived as my brain belatedly recognises something tense in her body language. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
“You’re putting those therapist skills to use already, I see.” Making a fist, she play punches my arm. “Great observation, there, but—”
“But nothing,” I mutter firmly. “Spit it out.”
“It’s a kind of a singles party.”
“A kind of what?”
“A very elite singles party. Please don’t say no—I desperately need someone to come with me.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not going to be me,” I reply with an unhappy chuckle. And now I know why she hasn’t asked Marta.
“Please. There’s no one else I can ask. All my friends are either married or dating or—”
“Joining a nunnery?” The prospect is almost preferable.
“Come on, Fee. It’ll be fun!”
“You know, I can’t tell if it’s the drugs you’re taking or the drugs you should be taking that made you think I’d be up for this.”
“But you’re nice. So nice. And you’re single, too. And I did help you find an apartment.”
“So that’s it? Blackmail.” A box of chocolates and a plant would’ve been so much easier.
“No, not at all. Just say you’ll think about it at least.” Beth presses her hands together in supplication, her pleas bordering on desperate. “Think of it as an anthropological kind of outing. Meet the New York singles in their natural habitat. You don’t have to get involved if you don’t want to. Just be my wing woman, that’s all.”
“This is going to cost me so much more than a potted fern, I can tell.”
“What was that?”
I shake my head as I turn back to the door. “Just text me the details.”
“Thank you! I’m so pleased you didn’t say no!”
Yet.
16
Carson
I stare at the half-open package on my desk, the torn wrapping heralding the unexpected arrival of something that seems to be called The Ripstarter.
“Jesus.” Turning back the cardboard to read the address, I note how the ink has run thanks to the rain, though I can still make out how it’s addressed to Kinky Carson Hayes III. I shake my head as a reluctant grin begins to creep across my face.
These fuckers . . .
Oh, man. I feel a phantom pinch as I lift out the contents, dropping the box to the floor.
Where the hell do they get this sort of shit? And who the hell could take this . . . this thing. I find myself musing, unsure what else to think. Whether it’s ribbed for his or her pleasure, how does one refer to a huge chain of black rubber anal beads? The kind of anal beads that look solid enough to moor a yacht.