22. Hard-on Chutzpah
HARD-ON CHUTZPAH
Asher
The lady wasn’t kidding.
About five minutes after we help carry their luggage up to the largest suite, Hannah opens up a crate to reveal fifty miniature glass and brass lanterns, plus a bevy of crafting supplies.
She sets up shop in the huge, white living room, with the three of us as her minions.
“Mark, please cut each ribbon to exactly sixteen inches.”
“Sixteen. Got it,” he says, because she definitely asked the right man to do the right job.
“Asher, tie them into a bow, please. And Flip, you can add one of these tea lights that I’m unpacking. After this job is done, we’ll move on to the Jordan almonds and the goodie bags.”
Great. I have to get through almond bagging before I get my hands on Mark again. That also means I can’t give Mark the lingering glance I crave. My face would give me away to Hannah. I might as well rent a billboard with six-foot letters reading: I WANT YOUR brOTHER TO BANG ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW.
After fifteen minutes of hard labor and zero eye contact, I put some jazz on the stereo speakers and raid the beer fridge, then grab a soda for Hannah.
“The room looks like the wedding aisle at Michaels exploded,” I point out, as I seat myself on an armchair across from the happy couple.
“Wait. How do you know what the wedding aisle at Michaels looks like?” Hannah asks, a smile lighting her sweet face.
“Woman, a photo shoot can go sideways in a million ways. Ask me sometime about the dozen plastic tiki torches I bought to get just the right flickering light for a Halloween shoot.”
Mark’s amused eyes lift to mine for a split second before darting away again.
He’s avoiding me too. We’re in the same room together, but he’s on the opposite side of the space, in an armchair that I swear he chose for its distance from mine.
But now I can’t help staring. My eyes dart over to where his muscular legs are propped onto a leather footstool. And the open collar of his shirt gives me a view of his neck—and the smooth column I traced with my tongue not so long ago.
I rein in a whimper.
“So how are you taking this change?” Flip asks me.
“Hmm?” I drag my gaze off Mark. “It’s uh . . .” Wait. I have no idea what Flip is talking about. “This change,” I repeat.
My friend tilts his head, studying me. “You seem distracted.”
“No! Just tired . . .” I protest. From twenty-four hours of sexual tension and sexual release . “. . . from a long day of running wedding errands.”
“He won’t ask you to be the photographer, will he?” Flip asks. “Garrett?”
I blink. Now I’m sure I’ve missed something. “The photographer?”
“At his wedding,” Flip says gently. “I just asked you if you saw the Instagram announcement and you nodded.”
“Right,” I say quickly. But inside, I’m reeling. Garrett is getting married? Already? “Of course I’m not taking wedding photos for him. He wouldn’t want me to anyway. That’s not my thing. And that would be super awkward.”
“That’s your ex?” Hannah asks, tying a satin ribbon around the last little bag of almonds.
“My ex,” I repeat dully. “We broke up a while back. Actually, it was only eleven months ago. But who’s counting.”
“Oh, ouch,” Hannah says.
I am very busy not looking at Mark, because I don’t want to know what he thinks about that.
And I’m also very busy not looking at Instagram, just for confirmation.
It’s probably a cheesy photo. Two guys in preppy clothes on a golf course somewhere, looking snazzy and well-organized as they plan their future together.
Ick, right? Who needs that? I wouldn’t be any good at it either. I’m much better as a sex concierge?my role for the next few nights.
Still . . . something isn’t sitting right.
When I look up from my glass, three people are still studying me. Maybe because I’m tapping an anxious foot against the sleek marble floor at the tempo of machine-gun fire in a mobster flick.
So I stop doing that. There’s nothing to be anxious about. I’m just staring down a long tunnel of lonely nights in New York while my ex gets married and my best friend starts his life as a husband and a father.
Yeah, I’d really like to steer this conversation away from me and my ex. “Speaking of photographers, I talked to Simone, and she’s all set for Saturday. She’ll get shots of you getting ready, Hannah. The candids you want,” I say. “Let me just reply to her text from earlier.”
Since I already texted Simone and she’s all good, I yank my phone out of my pocket and text Lucy. Any word from FLI?
Nothing, she replies immediately. Sorry .
Yeah, me too. They must have gone with another photographer.
I didn’t need that job, but I wanted it. Not only would it have been fun, but it would have been very distracting.
After I close the text app, I raise my face. Mark’s peering at me again, but his expression is unreadable. So much so that I wish Hannah were yawning and ready to hit the hay so I could just ask Mark if he’s still onboard for tonight’s festivities.
“Guys, it’s Wednesday,” Hannah says, setting aside her crafts. “You know what that means?”
“Hump day!” Flip announces with a chuckle. “I’m surprised Asher isn’t out hitting the nightclubs right now.” He gives me a knowing smile, and I try my best to return it but I’m pretty sure I fail.
“No, it’s our new game night ,” Hannah says firmly. “Let’s start with a few rounds of Wits and Wagers. And after Mark crushes us, we’ll switch to a bloodthirsty game of Scrabble. Who’s in?”
“Me!” Flip raises his hand.
“I’m in. I just need to call Rosie to say goodnight,” Mark says, shoulders hunched, like he doesn’t want to play either.
Hannah reaches into a shopping bag and pulls out the travel edition of both games.
She’s going to be the greatest mother in the world, I bet.
She’s always prepared. And Flip will probably be a great dad, because he’s good at everything he tries.
Mark will probably rule the world with his spreadsheets.
And I’ll still be a fuck-up, hot mess, living gig to gig and hitting the clubs until I’m eighty-seven years old.
These thoughts brought to you by my ex announcing his wedding on Instagram.
It shouldn’t bother me.
Yet it does.
Our game of bloodthirsty Scrabble takes a million years, but it might be drawing to a close soon when Hannah snags a triple-word score on chutzpah , and Mark counters with whizbang .
They are a fierce family. Fiddling with my tiles, I rearrange them until . . .
Ha!
Not even sure this is a playable word, but fuck it.
And fuck exes.
And fuck their engagements that I don’t care about anymore tonight, or hell, at all. What I really want is to get my hands on Mark again and soon. So I’ve got to do my part to end Scrabble.
Setting the tiles one by one on the board, I spell a word off chutzpah .
And maybe send a message to him as I play . . . hardon .
I sneak a glance at Mark.
His lips twitch.
His expression is no longer unreadable. He’s an open book as those eyes swing to me, then away. He fights like hell to rein in a grin.
I want to wipe off that grin with a hot, searing kiss.
“Dude, that’s not a Scrabble word,” Flip puts in.
I arch a brow at my buddy. “But are you sure?”
Flip grabs his phone and asks Google as Hannah leans in to read his screen.
Perfect timing. I meet Mark’s gaze, and his baby blues are filled with dirty wishes. I got you, Banks. I am going to take care of those filthy desires.
“It’s not a word. Hard is, though, and Asher can leave it at that,” Hannah offers, always the helpful one.
“So is boner, ” Flip says, which is not helpful.
“Thanks. I’ll just whip out the extra boner letters in my pocket for that,” I say, spelling hard instead.
Gets the point across.
Flip hauls Hannah in for a peck on the cheek. “We could play dirty Scrabble,” he murmurs.
Yes. Do that. Elsewhere.
Her eyes flutter closed as he kisses her jaw, and that gives me another chance to catch Mark’s attention. I lift a brow. He lifts one in return, and that ?just knowing he’s still up for us?makes me, well, harder.
This game must end soon, or I’ll combust. Florida is known for strange occurrences, right? I’ll wind up on that Twitter feed people make fun of. Florida man erupts from sexual frustration, leaving behind only a pair of Andrew Christian underwear and one testicle .
Okay, that’s dark. But this is the same state where a man recently set an alligator on fire while trying to shoo it away from his inflatable chair with a cigarette lighter.
Another eon later, the game mercifully ends. Hannah wins. Mark comes in second, Flip is third, and I’m last.
I could probably have played better, but my concentration is shot. As we put the game away, all I can think about is Mark’s mouth on my hard cock. And his hands on me too. And, fine, his hard dick in my ass.
And Hannah still hasn’t retreated to their room.
I’m here, waiting in this mansion, wanting to escape to the guest house. Basically, I’m a living, breathing sex spreadsheet tonight while the minutes tick by slowly. As they chat, I drink some wine and try not to stare across at Mark the way a hungry cat stares at a fish in a sealed aquarium.
Finally, as midnight approaches, Hannah puts a hand on her growing belly and yawns. “I should get to bed. We’ll put in a long day tomorrow, right boys?”
I’m on my feet as quickly as if someone had pulled the fire alarm. “Good point. Let’s get some Zs.” I stretch my arms over my head for effect.
Flip gives me a curious frown. “Right. Are you guys staying upstairs too?”
“No, we’re in the, uh, guest house,” Mark says, his eyes on his shoes. “Our families will get those rooms upstairs. There’s one for your parents and one for ours.”
“Ah! That was nice of you,” Hannah says. She crosses to her brother and hugs him. “Night, Mark. Thanks for your hard work.”
I’d like him to thank me for my hard work in, say, about an hour.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says. “Anything for you.” He sounds a little guilty.