10. I Wear my Sunglasses When I Say What the Fuck
10
I WEAR MY SUNGLASSES WHEN I SAY WHAT THE FUCK
Hunter
Over the years, I’ve gone bungee jumping in Oregon. I’ve snowboarded down steep slopes in the Alps. I’ve ziplined through tropical jungles in Costa Rica.
I’ve learned that, one, it’s a damn good thing I never joined a fraternity because I have a hell of a hard time resisting dares. And two, adrenaline rules.
I’m hopped up on it as I leave my hotel on Friday morning, bounding down the stairwell and through the lobby to the Lyft waiting at the curb.
“Good morning,” the driver says as I slide into the backseat.
“Good morning, indeed. It’s going to be a good day,” I say. A wicked thrill rushes through me as the car swings out of the city.
I’m doing this.
I’m cliff-diving into twenty-four hours of sexy adventure.
I picture it as the car goes down 101 to the airport, and while my fantasies are vivid, the real details are vague. By the time the car pulls up to the departures entrance, I can’t ignore some misgivings.
Am I ready to spend twenty-four hours with a guy who’s wildly experienced, ridiculously gorgeous, and…
See? That’s the issue.
I know very little of Nate, except what I learned from our chat that one day in June—he didn’t like the ending of That’s What She Said —and from my quick tour of his condo, I could also tell he donates money to save endangered animals.
Okay, fine. I know a little more than that.
He’s playful. Challenging. He’s direct and dirty. Rough and tender. I know, too, he’s recently divorced—I looked him up online after we met. He’s still nursing wounds from it—he told me as much during our brief time together.
But all we’ve truly done is flirt and fuck around.
Is a one-night stand worth all this maneuvering? I did have to change my flight to make this impromptu trip happen. Fine, I’m still returning to London on Saturday as Bernard wants, so he shouldn’t care. But still, what if my boss asks a bunch of questions about my travel?
I already have my father’s reputation to live down. Don’t need one of my own.
But I can’t linger on what-ifs when it’s time to get out of the car.
“Thanks so much,” I say to the driver, then immediately whip out my phone. I need friend therapy and I need it straightaway. I text Sarah as I head through the jumbo revolving door at the terminal.
Hunter: Tell me this is a bad idea.
Sarah: It’s a brilliant idea.
Hunter: Is Bernard going to give me the third degree for leaving from the Vegas airport tomorrow instead of SFO?
Sarah: OMFG. Why would he care what airport you fly out of if you arrive in London the same day?
Hunter: Fair point. Okay, you’re right. I’ll keep you.
Sarah: Go pop your cherry.
Hunter: I’ve always wondered though, is that the right term for a guy?
Sarah: Go pop your banana, then. How’s that?
Hunter: It’ll do. Love you.
I channel Sarah’s brazen confidence as I drop on my shades and march to security, feeling like that famous line from Risky Business.
Sometimes you gotta say what the fuck.
At the head of the line, I hand the TSA agent my passport and flash a smile. “I’m going to Vegas for the evening,” I say.
“Take off the shades, Bond,” says the bored agent.
“Oh, right,” I say, then whip them off.
After she checks my passport, she sends me through. On the other side, I tuck the shades away in my messenger bag. I stride down the concourse, heading to gate twenty-six, adrenaline setting the pace once more.
This is the real what the fuck.
I’m spending a night on the town with a hot guy. I bet tonight is better than all the ziplines in Costa Rica.