So I do, even though the alcohol is probably the most foul shit I've ever tasted. I'm warm and everything is slightly fuzzy by the time we get to Boston, because I’ve finished drinking both bottles.
I pull out my cell phone to drunkenly text Kate.
R u wrng panties?
A few minutes later, she texts back.
LOL. Are you wasted?
I type my response. I mean to type yes, but it comes out "yras" since Joe grabs the cell phone from me.
"Are you texting your wife at your own bachelor party?" he shouts.
I reach for the phone. "Shut up, asshole. She's pregnant."
"Whipped, so whipped," someone says, imitating the sound of a whip cracking. "You can't keep your cell on you at your bachelor party. It's the rules."
"Seriously," one of the others says. "Confiscate the phone."
I protest, but the phone disappears, until I get a chance to slap Joe and take it back.
So I'm whipped. So what?
Kate is pregnant. What if there was an emergency?
My buzz wears off by the end of the first quarter of the game, and I text Kate again, but she doesn't respond. She's probably too busy stuffing dollar bills down the G-string of a stripper, most likely a female one, if Libby and Bailey have anything to say about it.
I look at my friends in their jerseys, drunkenly waiving green foam fingers in the air and hollering loudly ("Come on, ref, don't you have eyes?" "Kill the referee!"). We're definitely the most obnoxious group of fans, which is saying something because there are some total crazies here tonight.
I don't even notice who's near me, until a girl walks over and sits down, leaning forward to talk to me and placing her manicured pink nails slides on my thigh.
"Caulter Sterling," she says.
I turn to look at her, vaguely recognizing her but not recalling her name. We used to date in Malibu, before I was shipped off to Brighton. Well, dated isn't exactly the word for it. We never did much outside of the bedroom.
She looks the same as she did back then, except that everything has been augmented – bigger boobs, bigger lips, and bigger hair. She has that L.A. plastic surgery look going on, and it's definitely not a turn on.
"Your hand is on my leg," I say.
She laughs and leans forward, sliding it down further. "Debra Atwood," she says. "Tell me you don't remember my name."
I shrug, taking her hand and placing it back on her lap. "No offense."
"After all of the things we used to do together, Caulter?" she asks, pouting her lower lip. "I hope you at least remember that."
God, I hate that pouting bullshit.
I don't answer, looking back out at the game in progress. Debra was always clingy, even though we were never a couple. When I left for Brighton, I got love notes and packages in the mail from her for months until she got the fucking hint that I wasn't interested.
She's always given off a crazy vibe, and the fact that she's suddenly shown up somewhere I am makes me slightly concerned she's seriously going all stalker here.
"I followed you in the news for a while," she says. "Until you ran off to Southeast Asia and I was dating a Wall Street guy. We were going to get married, too. I tried to get in touch with you when I got engaged, get your permission. But I couldn't, so I called off the wedding."
"My permission?" I ask. "Why the hell would you need my permission?"
"Oh, you're so sweet," she says. "The way you always let me spread my wings and fly, gave me some space."
Okay, this girl is completely batshit.
"So when are you out in Malibu again?" she asks.
"Never," I say curtly.
I wonder if she's on meds. Or has just been released from a psych ward.
"This is my friend, Amber," she says, gesturing to her friend, a mirror image of her, blonde and over-enhanced and made-up like crazy. She leans in close to me, reminding me that she's always been into men and women. "Amber and I are in a hotel here, if you want to play."
"I'm getting married," I say loudly, over the noise of the crowd. "This is my bachelor party."
Right about now, sirens are going off in my fucking head: Psycho Alert! Psycho Alert!
I turn away from her, focusing intently on the game, but she doesn't take the hint. She puts her hand back on my leg. "Well, if you'd like to celebrate your last night as a bachelor, we can help you do it right."
The offer of a threesome. The old Caulter Sterling would have walked out of the game right then and there with both bimbos draped on his arm – crazy bitches or not -- and fucked them outside in the limo. It's not like I haven't had my share of threesomes.
The problem is, I'm not that guy anymore.
Completely repulsed, I remove her hand from my leg and drop it back in her lap for the second time tonight. "I doubt my pregnant fiancé would like that very much," I say, standing up and walking down to the other end of the group. I send Joe to take my seat, and the two bimbos give me dirty looks across the crowd.
Total psychos.
CHAPTER NINE
Kate