43. Dani #3
Francois yelps when Magnus lets loose a stream of playing cards at him. Francois shoves the magician. Several doves fly out of his suit.
“You don’t want to fight me. I did boxing in high school.” He takes a swing at Francois, who shoves him into the magical table.
The rabbit freaks out and runs loose in the room, and Lulu chases it around, barking, while the Girl Squad stands on the furniture, screaming.
“Rat! Rat!”
Magnus grabs his wand and his hat and chucks them in Francois’s direction.
“Stop it, stop fighting!” I swat at them as the two men roll around on the floor while Gran hollers “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Magnus picks up the dildo and hurls it at Francois, who ducks.
“Ow!” I yelp as it hits me square in the face. “God freaking d— Get out!” I scream. “All of you, get out!”
“He didn’t even finish his show!” Gran complains.
“We have dinner reservations!” I scream.
The wholesome nonstripper bachelorette is truly and irrevocably off to a horrible start.
“Geez,” Piper says as the chef, who is drunk as hell and very French-Canadian, leers at all of us.
“He’s the best in the biz,” Gran tells me smugly. Somehow she’s wearing the skimpiest outfit of all of us.
I tug awkwardly at the hem of my dress, trying to shimmy it down.
My eye hurts, though I’d slathered makeup all over it.
I had to wear a thong with the dress, and I really feel like I’m flashing people. For something so expensive, it sure feels cheap. Dad’s right, Costco is a way better bargain.
“The boyfriends aren’t here, ladies, so let me know if anyone wants the chef’s special for dessert.”
“Um, barf.”
“Seriously? I mean, I bet he knows how to fuck.” Piper looks semi-interested.
The chef kisses her hand then sets down the plate of poached celery that’s the palate cleanser between courses.
“I have my address in this fortune cookie. I live above Le Club du Cervin.”
“I thought we weren’t going to a club. This is supposed to be a nice, wholesome bachelorette!” I remind everyone.
“Don’t be such a wet blanket. It’s a bachelorette par-tay!” Gran kicks me. “We’re here to blow off some steam.”
“Yeah, work hard, play hard.” Maya raises her wineglass. “That’s life in investment banking, baby.”
“Wall Street, whoo!”
“Whoo!” I lamely shake my fist. I’m tired. I want to go home and call Graham.
The food is amazing, even if the chef almost spills some sort of flavored foam in my lap because he’s busy trying to stare down my shirt.
“Do you have chest hair or no chest hair? We have a bet going!” Greta laughs drunkenly and paws at the chef’s shirt.
The chef rips his shirt off, and his hairy pecs jump in time to the techno music pulsing from hidden speakers.
“You girls need to come to the club with me,” he says, dancing around the table. “It’s your last night of freedom. Live a little. You especially.” He grabs my hand and tries to dance with me.
“She’s in a relationship, but I am single,” Piper offers.
“Pack up those snacks. Let’s go!” Gran whoops. “Partay!”
“We have to be up early for the spa.”
“It’s my bachelorette,” Colette snaps. “We’re going out.”
This was not on the itinerary. It’s not even going to look good on social media.
It’s a sex fest in this club. There’s a bachelor party of guys from Eastern Europe, and Colette immediately has us crashing their table.
Not like they seem to mind. Piper and the chef are dancing in the middle of the pulsing crowd.
Gran is dancing on the bar while eighteen-year-old girls hype her up.
One of Gran’s boy toys dances on me and grabs my top. I yelp.
Several of the bachelor-party guys try to grab me, trying to get me to dance with them, drink with them. Pushing away from them, I try to keep to the periphery of the crowd.
There has to be a bathroom in here, right? Why don’t they ever serve food at clubs?
And is Gran seriously having guys younger than me after her?
Gran sees me in the crowd and waves me to the dance floor.
Hell freaking no.
I look around, trying to find an exit.
And for a second, in the crowd, I think I see—Is that Kraig? My heart races. My head pounds. I peer through the smoke and gyrating bodies. But the man disappears.
Two guys in shirts unbuttoned all the way down to their belly buttons surround me, gyrating.
“No, thank you. I have terrible rhythm, and I have a boyfriend.” Hopefully still.
Colette’s just talking crap, right? This isn’t like a guilt bachelorette party so that he can not feel bad when he comes to his senses and dumps me later, is it?
Also—was that Kraig? He couldn’t have followed me here.
I’m tired. I need real food. I’m ordering room service.
“I’m heading out,” I tell Greta. She nods imperceptibly then goes back to flirting with the older rich guy who seems to really like all the attention from my friends.
The club is apparently a secret club at one of the hotel’s properties, and I slip back down into the tunnel that connects it to the hotel so that you don’t have to ruin your shoes.
If I pay for a hotel room, I do want to use it.
“We’re so not making the spa day in”—I check my phone—“four hours.”