Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Thirty-Eight
Josh
“Sir, do you want—?” the driver begins when Kat and I emerge from the backseat of the limo looking for a place to relieve Kat’s bursting bladder.
The driver’s standing at the back of the car, exactly as instructed, getting ready to set up two speakers currently nestled in the trunk of the car.
“Hang on,” I say, putting up my hand and cutting him off. “My baby-momma needs to take a quick piss before we begin. Await further instruction.”
The driver smirks. “Yes, sir.”
Kat and I creep around the side of the large house and quickly find a suitable bush—and while I keep a lookout, she hikes up her red dress around her hips, squats her tight little ass down, and pisses like a racehorse.
“Ah,” she says as a loud stream of urine blasts out of her. “Delicious.”
I laugh. “Delicious?”
“Yes, delicious. When I have to pee really, really bad and finally get to go, it feels semi-orgasmic. Same muscles releasing, actually. Delicious.”
“Only you, Kat,” I say, zipping down my fly and taking a quick whiz myself.
“Wow, we’re a classy pair, aren’t we?” she says. She stands almost upright, still hiking her elegant gown up, and shakes her pelvis furiously like a wet dog after a bath.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.
“Shaking the extra pee off my cooch. That’s what I do when I don’t have toilet paper—the pee-pee-shake. It’s not just me, trust me—every girl who’s ever gone on a pub crawl or painted her fingernails and then realized she has to pee has resorted to the pee-pee-shake.” She straightens up.
“You good now?”
“Oh yeah, I’m gooood.” She shoots me two thumbs up.
“Okay, then get your tight little ass back into the limo. Freshen up your makeup—I want you looking like you could eat a douche for breakfast, okay?—and then come out the minute you hear blaring music.”
“And stand next to you. I got it, Playboy.” She smiles and looks around. “Where are we, by the way? Who lives here?”
“No questions. Now go.”
Kat shoots me an adorable smile and traipses back to the limo—and the minute she closes the car door behind her, I powwow with the driver at the opened trunk.
“You want both speakers aimed at the house?” the driver asks.
“Yep,” I say. “The song’s all cued up on my phone and connected to the speakers via Blue Tooth. Just point the speakers at the house and press play on the song at my signal.”
“Yes, sir.” He holds his hand out for my phone.
“Hang on,” I say. I tap out a quick text to Henn. “In exactly three minutes, do your thing,” I write.
“You got it,” Henn replies.
“Here you go,” I say, handing my phone to the driver. “The song’s all cued up.”
Three minutes later, I grab my trusty Walmart boom box out of the trunk of the car, position myself on the porch of our host’s McMansion, make quadruple sure the ring box is still in my pocket (it is), raise the boom box over my head, and, finally, with a curt nod, cue the driver.
Here we go.
Whitney Houston begins belting out “I Will Always Love You” at full volume—so fucking loud, in fact, my molars feel like they’re one high-note away from popping out of my head.
My pulse is pounding in my ears.
My hands are shaking.
This is it. Oh my God. The love of my life is about to come out of that white limo and, hopefully, make me the luckiest man in the world.
The door to the limo opens. And there she is. Kat—my fantasy sprung to life, looking as gorgeous as ever... and utterly confused. But when Kat’s eyes land on me and she sees the CD player over my head, her face contorts with instant glee. She sprints toward me as fast as her heels will allow, her eyes glistening, her cheeks flushed. Just before she reaches me, I put my makeshift boom box on the ground and open my arms to her.
“I love you,” Kat cries, barreling into my arms. “I love you so much.”
I kiss her passionately, devouring her, lost in her—until the sound of an aggravated male voice behind us, shouting over the music, breaks us apart.
“What the fuck is this?” the voice shouts behind us. “Turn that music off and get your shit off my—”
“Garrett?” Kat blurts, obviously floored. She looks at me, her mouth agape, apparently trying to make sense of this incomprehensible ghost from her past. “This is your house?”
“Kat?” Garrett yells above the blaring music, obviously as shocked to see Kat as she is to see him. “What are you doing here?”
I motion to the driver to cut the music and he does.
“Hey, Garrett Asshole Bennett,” I say smoothly, my voice cutting through the sudden silence. “Sorry for the interruption—I know you were busy inside wacking off to gangbang-bukkake-porn, but Kat and I have some important business to attend to and it requires your participation. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes at the outside.”