A Very Dirty Wedding (15 page)

Yes.  Nove ur busines.

I hit
send
, and stop to think.  What the hell do you dial for directory assistance?  The phone rings, and for a second, I think its directory assistance calling me.

“Where the hell are you?”

It takes me a minute to recognize the voice.  “None of your business.”

“Your voice is slurred, Princess,” he says.  “You’re drunk.  Tell me where you are.”

“At a party,” I say.  “I’m a grown up, and you can’t boss me around.”

“The fuck I can’t,” Caulter growls in my ear.  The sound reminds me of the last time we screwed, and I feel a tingling sensation between my legs.  “Tell me where you are.  I’m coming to get you.”

“I’m trying to call a cab,” I say.  "Get off the phone."

“I’m getting in the car now,” Caulter says. 
How is he moving so quickly? 
He’s like a superhero.  I giggle at the thought.  “Where are you?”

“At a house.”

“Where?”

I exhale.  “Somewhere,” I say.  “I don’t know.  I’m wearing that red dress, not even jeans.  I really like it.”  I can hear my voice slurring now.  There should be a number on the house, I think.

“The red dress.”  He speaks the words low, and I think he’s angry.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask.  I don’t know why I find it funny, but I giggle.

“What’s the address, Kate?”

“I’m looking, geez,” I say, stumbling forward to look at the house.  “Thirty-four.”

“Thirty-four
what
, Kate,” he asks.  “What’s the rest of the address?”

“Well, how am I supposed to know that, smarty pants?” I ask.  “Thirty-four.  It’s what it says on the house.  Hey, you’re calling me Kate.  Not Katherine.
Kate
.”  That seems significant, I think. 
Kate.
  I like the way it sounds when he says it, so I repeat it a few more times. 
Kate, Kate, Kate.

He ignores me.  “Ask someone.  Or look at the mailbox.  Are you on the lake?”

“Nope, not the lake.  I'm somewhere not far.  Hey!  Do you know where we are?” I yell as I walk toward a couple making out.  “They’re just looking at me like I'm a weirdo, Caulter.”

“Ask them the address.”

“Are you annoyed with me?” I ask him, then more loudly toward the couple, “What’s the address?”  When they tell it to me, I repeat it slowly to Caulter.  “You're irritated, aren't you?”

“I’m not annoyed with you, Kate,” he says.  “It looks like it’s fifteen minutes from here.  Where are you?”

I exhale.  “I just
told
you.  Why are you asking me the same questions over and over?  My head hurts.”

“I mean, are you outside?” he asks.  “Are you somewhere safe?”

“Yeah, I’m totally safe.”  I stumble back toward my spot on the side of the house.  “I need to sit down.  It was hot in there, and the guy that was dancing with me was too grabby.  And he was hard and it was nothing like --”

“What guy, Kate?” he asks, his tone menacing.  “Who was fucking touching you?”

I laugh.  “Some guy,” I say.  “We were just dancing.”

“In that red dress.”

“I look hot,” I say. 
Am I slurring more now?
  It feels like I have a wad of cotton in my mouth.  “I have to admit you were right.  Dresses
are
good on me.  Hey, has anyone ever told you that you say
fuck
a lot?  Because you do. 
Fuck fuck fuck.
  You also do it a lot -- the fucking, I mean.  A lot more than I expected.”

Caulter growls.  “Do not
fucking
move an inch,” he says.  “Nobody lays a hand on you, do you understand?”

“You don’t own me, Caulter.” I say, but the phone cuts out.  Or I’ve accidentally hung it up.  I’m not sure.  I sit down on the grass, cross-legged, not caring that someone can totally see my crotch. 
Where is Jo, anyway?
  I type slowly and methodically, sending her a text.

Outside.  wher ru

I don’t get anything back, so I try to keep my eyes open and wait for Caulter.

CHAPTER

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Caulter

She hung up on me.  Kate fucking hung up on me, after telling me some asshole was grinding his hard-on against her all night, while she’s drunk at a party.

She’s out at a party, drunk off her ass, and wearing that
fucking
red dress.

I chose that red dress.  I did not imagine her wearing it to a party where some guy would run his hands all over her.

That red dress was made for Kate, crafted to perfectly accentuate her long legs and that curvy ass.  I can imagine what she looks like in it right now, at a party full of horny guys.

I step harder on the gas pedal.

I’m beyond irate.  I passed that a while ago, back when I realized she’d gone to a party.  I don’t know what’s a million times more angry than
irate
, but that’s me.

I’m flying down these windy roads, taking the turns without breaking.  If some guy so much as lays a finger on her…

I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

I can’t think straight, even when I reach the house.  Cars line both sides of the street, so I just stop mine in the middle of the road and leave the lights on.  Tearing down the walk that leads up the lawn, I see her.

There she is, leaning awkwardly against some guy who’s trying to steer her away from the house.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell.  Kate’s eyes open wide at the sounds of my voice, but she's obviously intoxicated.

“I’m just standing,” she slurs.

“She’s with me,” the guy says.  “Who the fuck are you?”

Kate wrinkles her forehead and pushes her hand against his arm.  “No,” she says.  “He’s helping me stand up.  He’s a cab driver.”

“Mind your own business,” he mouths, but he lets go of Kate, who stumbles a step forward.  I don’t think about anything -- I just hit him, hard, my fist connecting with his face.  I can hear the crunch of cartilage, and he falls back.  “My fucking nose, you psycho!”

I sweep Kate up in my arms, carrying her across the lawn toward the car.  “You had better not puke in my car,” I say.

“Did you hit him?” she murmurs.  Her head is against my chest, and I inhale the scent of her shampoo, jasmine and lemongrass.  It smells like Thailand, and I wonder if she’s been there.

“I hit him.”

“He wasn’t a cab driver.”  Her voice is soft.

“Just some asshole.”

“You rescued me.”

I don’t answer, turning so I can angle myself to open the car door with the same hand that’s holding up her ass.  I’m trying to ignore the fact that the fabric of the very short skirt is barely covering it, her smooth skin pressed into my palm.  I deposit her in the seat and buckle it and she smiles at me.  “You like me.”

I roll my eyes before I shut the passenger door and get behind the wheel.  We’re silent for a few minutes, and I think she might be passed out.

“You
like
me,” she says.  “You came to get me.”

“You were incoherent and drunk at a party.”  I keep my eyes on the road, refusing to look at her, sitting in the seat with that skirt riding up her thighs.  “I would have to be the worst person in the world if I didn’t come to get you.”

“You punched that guy in the face,” she says.  “For me.”

“It doesn't mean I like you, Princess.  So don't take it personally.”  I don’t look at her.  I don’t want to look at her as she insists that I like her.  Because it's the truth.

When we get back to the house, she stumbles against me as I help her out of the car.  “How much did you have to drink?” I ask, my arm around her as we walk.

“One beer,” she says.

“What the hell -- were you roofied?”

“And --”

“And what?”  She starts to step away from me, but stumbles again, and I pick her up the same way I did before.

“I don’t need carried,” she says.  “I’m perfeckly -- perfectly -- able to walk.”

“Yeah, you’re real steady on your feet, Princess,” I say, carrying her inside the house and up the stairs to her room.  I’m trying really hard not to focus on the fact that my hand is cupping her bare ass again.  My cock is more than aware of that fact, though, pushing up against the zipper of my jeans like it wants to be unleashed.

“I took something,” she says.

“Something like what?”

“A pill,” she says.  “I was anxious.  Jo gave it to me.”

“Your friend, Jo?” I ask, thinking about murdering Jo.  “Was she at the party?”

“Yeah,” she says.  “But I don’t know where she went.”

“Was she drunk too?”  I exhale heavily as I set her on her bed.  “Give me your phone.  You could have told me this before we left, so I knew if I had to go get her ass out of there too.”

“Don’t read my messages,” she says.  "That's private."

“Relax, sweetheart,” I say, my tone sarcastic.  “I’m not interested in reading your text messages.  I’m trying to make sure you’re friend isn’t at some party being gang raped by who the fuck knows.”

Her eyes go wide.  “You think that’s what’s happening?”

“No.  It’s not.  Calm your tits down.”  Still, I scroll on the phone until I hit Jo’s number.  The phone rings a bunch of times before going to voicemail.  I dial it again.

I swear, if I have to go back to that party to track this fucking chick down, I will strangle someone.  A female answers the phone.  “Is this Jo?”  I ask.

“Yeah, who the hell is this?”

“Jo!” Kate yells.  “It’s Caulter.”

“Oh.  Caulter.”  She hushes someone in the background.  “Hang on, I’ll be right there, Maverick.”  Maverick?  Are we in New Hampshire or a fucking eighties movie?

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Now I’m irritated.  “Are you still at the party?”

“As if it’s any of your business, I’m hanging out with someone.”

“So you left your friend at a party alone to go screw some guy?”  Kate reaches for the phone, and I move away.  “She’s trashed.  What the hell did you give her?”

“I thought she was hanging with someone,” Jo says, her mouth away from the phone as she talks to the dumbass she's there with.  “What’s your friend’s name?  Dan?  Derek?”  She pauses.  “She was hanging out with Dan.  She wasn’t drunk; she only had a beer.”

I’m breathing deeply to keep my voice calm, despite the fact that I want to reach through the phone and rip Jo’s fucking head off.  "What exactly did you give her?"

"What's your problem?" She laughs.  "Kate was right, you
are
a real asshole.  She took some anxiety medication to calm down before the party.  She'll be a little loopy but she'll be fine."

"And then you gave her beer," I say. 
Deep breath.  Calming breath.
  I'm practicing that yoga shit my mother is constantly doing.

"One beer," she says.  "It's not going to kill her."

"And after that, you left her at a party with some guy whose name you don't even know," I say.  "Are you fucking
stupid
?  Do you know what could have happened to her?"

"Calm down, cowboy," Jo says.  "I think she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

"You stupid bitch."  I throw the phone across the room, incensed with Kate's
so-called
friend, before I whirl around to look at Kate, where she's lying on the bed.

Naked.

The red dress is in a crumpled heap on the floor, her bra and panties casually tossed on top of it.  Kate is lying on her stomach, her legs kicked up, her cheek against the pillow, looking at me over her shoulder.

I have the impulse to walk over to the bed and grab her thighs, to pull that perfect curvy ass up onto my lap and slap her flesh hard, for being so colossally stupid as to trust that friend of hers.  I'm so livid I can barely breathe.

"Come here," she says.

I shake my head.  "Not tonight, Kate."

She pouts.  "I'm naked, lying on the bed, telling you to come over here because I want to suck. your. cock."  She punctuates each of the words.

Groaning, I shake my head again.  "It's not happening, Kate."

My words come out harsher, gruffer than I intend, and she rolls over, sitting up on the bed, her tits bouncing.

Those fucking tits.  My mouth practically waters at the sight of them.  They're perfect.  The girls out in Malibu have fake ones, even chicks my age.  It's like a joke -- get a pair of tits for your sixteenth birthday, you know?  It’s the same thing in New York, except no one’s getting implants -- they’re just skin and bones, starved to the point of being so rail thin there’s nothing there, ass or tits.

But Kate’s tits aren't like other girls’.  They're perky, on the smaller side, but I like the way they fit in my hands, a handful of perfect flesh.  They make the tits on the girls I usually screw look just...tacky.

And they're right there, staring me in the face.

Kate is giving me this look of complete and utter disappointment, like I'm rejecting her.  Shit, if she knew how hard it was for me not to go over there right now and slide my cock into her warm willing pussy…

“You’re going to turn down a perfectly good blow job?” she asks.  Hearing goody-goody Kate, her hair disheveled and her words slurred, say
blow job
makes my cock so hard it feels like it’s going to explode.

“You’re drunk, Kate,” I say, angry.  “Sleep it off.”  I need to get out of here before my resolve weakens, but I’m wondering if she’ll be okay.

She pouts.  “You called my friend a bitch.”

Raising my eyebrows, I look at her sharply.  “That girl who gave you pills and booze and left you there is not your fucking friend.”

“You shouldn’t use that word.”

“It was the only thing that came to mind.”

Katherine gets on her hands and knees, crawls forward across the bed, and grips my waist, unbuckling my pants.  “My father isn’t going to be home tomorrow,” she says, looking up at me with big eyes, her mascara smudged along the edges.  “You can fuck me as loud and hard as you want tonight, and get up tomorrow and fuck me again.”

I cover her hands with mine.  “Cut it out, Kate.”

She wrenches her hands away from mine and slides her palm down the front of my jeans, rubbing it along the length of my hard-on.  “You’re just as ready as I am.”

Peeling her hand from my crotch, I take my shirt off and hang it over the end of the chair by her bed, then slip out of my jeans.  “Get in bed,” I order.

She rests back against the pillow, leaning on her forearms, her back arched so her tits are high in the air.  “I knew you’d see reason.”

“I haven’t seen reason,” I tell her, flicking off the light before I slip into the bed with her.  “Someone needs to make sure you don’t stop breathing tonight.”

“But I haven’t washed my face or brushed my teeth,” she whines.  "And I'm not ready to go to sleep."

“Neither have I,” I tell her.  “Deal with it.  I’m not getting out of bed now, and I’m not kissing you.”

“You’re just
mean
tonight.”

“Says the girl I rescued from a predator at a party,” I say.

“So, that’s a
no
then?” she asks.  Her hand finds my chest, and she rests her head on it, sliding her hand lower until she finds my cock.  “You’re wearing underwear?”

“That’s right,” I say.  “Now get your hands off my dick.”

She does, and it’s not more than thirty seconds before I hear her breathing become heavy and rhythmic.

And I'm the one lying there wide awake, wondering what the hell I’m doing, holding the hottest naked girl I’ve ever seen while I've got the biggest case of blue balls in history.