I need it, though, partly because of this throbbing headache. Partly because since revisiting that strip club and remembering everything that went on in there, I keep thinking of Julia. Not the way she rolls her eyes, or how annoying I thought she was yesterday afternoon, but the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, the way she sounded as I thrust inside of her. The way she dug her nails into my back, keening low in her throat as I fucked her, filled her.
See, right there. This is why I’m not swimming today. I don’t need to fantasize about last night’s hook up, pitch a tent in my swimming trunks, and then get in the water. This is a family pool.
Damn. I’m getting, ah, excited just thinking about it. As I pretend to deliberately hunch over, giving myself time to go limp again, Stacy walks over to us. Apparently last night’s party didn’t faze her at all. She’s in her hot pink bikini, towel around her waist, cowboy hat on her head.
“You boys awake at last?” she says, looking past Mike to me. Her forehead creases slightly. “You okay with the fuzz now?”
“Hilarious,” I say, taking a sip of really warm, shitty beer. “Like I said, it was just a few questions.”
I haven’t told them about the fountain. I will never, ever be able to talk to them again if they find out. Mike and Stacy are the type to never let a funny story die, even if it was twenty goddamn years ago. At their children’s future bar mitzvahs, I’ll still get regaled by stories of my illegal skinny dipping.
Stacy purses her lips. She’s not buying, but at least she’s not going to push it.
“Babe, we need to go for lunch soon. I’m starving,” she groans dramatically, hands on her stomach. Mike laughs and pushes up his sunglasses.
“You can really be this cool when you’re hours from the altar?” he asks, mock serious.
“It’s not an altar, it’s a chuppah in Las Vegas. No worries at all.” She brushes a hand through his hair. It’s a familiar, intimate, happy gesture that I have to look away from.
“Get Casanova in here, then,” Mike says, laughing as he watches Tyler pick up one of the shrieking girls and dunk her in the pool.
Stacy puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles, long and shrill. Everyone at the pool startles, and Tyler actually tips over, going underwater.
“Ouch. That’s at a level only dogs and future husbands can hear,” Mike says, taking her hand and kissing it. He fakes her out and pulls her down into his arms. She laughs wildly.
God, they’re so happy. They should remember they’re in public. Love should be secret and shameful, something you apologize for experiencing.
All right, even for me that’s a little harsh. But not by much.
“Dogs and future husbands are a similar breed,” Stacy says, kissing Mike. He grins.
“Tongues hanging out all the time? Fleas?” He kisses her chin. “Shitting in the house?”
“Scruffy and adorable. And yes, pooping indoors, but nothing a little training can’t fix.” She wraps her arms around his neck. “It’s why I love them. Dogs, I mean.”
“Good. I was afraid you’d say you loved me. I don’t know what I’d do with so much emotion.”
While they keep kissing and giggling and I keep ignoring them, I look over at Tyler in the pool. Stacy’s whistle did the trick; he’s sloshing over toward us, leaving the girls behind.
I should be like him, fucking my way around the greater Las Vegas area. Maybe get a penicillin shot beforehand, of course. Clearly I’m capable of having hot, random sex with strangers. But that one particular stranger . . . .
I can’t get Julia out of my head. Smart mouth and all, I wonder what she’s doing right now. I want to feel her underneath me. Last time it was pitch black in that closet; I want to see her eyes widen, her mouth open as she comes calling my name.
Or maybe I want to go upstairs and jerk off, because this hard-on situation is getting distracting.
“Hey. You.” Stacy nudges me with her foot. She’s seated on Mike’s lap, her arm around his neck. “Things seemed to go well with Julia Stevens last night, huh?” She grins.
In addition to not talking about the fountain, I also don’t want to go into the details of my blackout. That kind of thing makes you look sad in people’s eyes. So I simply nod.
“She’s . . . fun,” I say at last. Stacy snorts.
“Only you can say fun like it’s a disease.” She looks at me, thoughtfully arching an eyebrow. Whatever’s coming can’t be good. “Hey, Nate. Guess what?”
“I can’t even begin to guess,” I say, as blandly as possible. “Your mind is a mystery. You’re the Las Vegas sphinx.”
“If we were at the Luxor, maybe. Listen, buddy,” she says, leaning toward me. I have a bad feeling about this. “It’s my wedding day,” she says.
I get the feeling she’s winding up to ask for something.
“And?” I say.
“And I want you to call Julia and invite her to have lunch with us.” Stacy has that look in her eyes, the I am prepared to fight and win expression. She’s a Chicago social worker, which means she has a ton of experience with impossible cases.
Lunch. With Julia. I groan, showing Stacy how much I’m opposed to the idea by my body language. I don’t let her see the hard-on, though; I keep that under wraps as much as possible.