Her Two Billionaires and a Baby(BBW Menage #4)

Her Two Billionaires and a Baby(BBW Menage #4) By Julia Kent


Chapter One

The waitress's giant set of balls always threw her off.

Jeddy's was one of those neighborhood holes in the wall that had probably been a breakfast joint since Laura's grandma was a kid. During the height of factory shift work it had been open twenty-four hours and, as a relic to the Industrial Age, had never stopped. Even as the fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked and the streets were empty in that surreal hour between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. when everyone in the world is asleep and you're not, Jeddy's still had the cheap red vinyl bench seats, gummed-shut sugar containers and a few ancient men scratching their balls and chewing on a piece of something from 1983.

And then there were the waitress's balls. Someone, years ago (since Laura and Josie were in college) had taken a cut-out cardboard life-size person, put a Jeddy's uniform on her, and attached a pair of those truck hitch plastic balls to it.

It had, uh...stuck. So the waitress with balls greeted every customer with a smile, except that the cardboard cutout was actually Julian Sands from the old '80s movie, “The Warlock.”

The stuff of nightmares and cheap Netflix thrills. Everything about Jeddy's screamed old, forgotten, ratty and dated.

Except the food.

One of the owners had passed the restaurant on to a family member who had earned a degree at Le Cordon Bleu in Boston, and this had created as schizophrenic a restaurant as ever there was, for as Josie and Laura greeted the ball-bearing waitress, which involved giving her nuts a squeeze and saying “How you doin'?” in the best Joey Tribiani imitation, the aroma of the restaurant was strictly gourmet. Better than gourmet. Cheesy roadhouse Top Chef Gordon Ramsey F*cking Awesome gourmet.

Chipotle maple sausage. Cinnamon caramel ricotta crepes. Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake. You name it, Jeddy's had it, including honest-to-God real fried green tomatoes, but with a dill agave tarragon cream sauce for dipping instead of ketchup.

All served on chipped, ancient industrial-grade restaurant wear by an old woman named Madge who'd been working the booths since 1948. And could still walk and talk faster than Josie on three espresso shots.

“Whatcha want, Sweets?” Madge asked Laura, her breath the graveyard where old cigarettes and Chanel go to die. The woman had to be at least eighty but looked fifty – except for her mouth, where smoking lines were grooved so deeply her lips looked more like an elephant's puckered a*shole than anything resembling human flesh.

“Oh, let me see,” Laura said, amazed at how quickly she downshifted into comfort here. The glare of the overhead strip lights and the cracked vinyl held together with duct tape didn't faze her. Madge's bags under her eyes, though, were mesmerizing, with caked-up foundation in the creases. Who knew undereye circles could have wrinkles in them that would hold enough makeup to cover a small community theater's needs?

China blue eyes reminded her of Mike, and when Madge started tapping her stylus on her ordering tablet, the incongruity hit her.

“You guys use a wireless ordering system?” She pointed to the smartphone-like device in Madge's hand.

“No. This is a chisel and a chunk of marble. Grog back there deciphers it all with hand puppets and grunts. Now what are you two eating? I've got work to do.”

Josie craned her neck around, surveying the nearly-empty joint. “It sure is hopping.”

Madge smirked. “The silverware don't roll itself.” Those eyes. Mike. A pang of despair hit her – hard. His hands on her. Dylan's tongue on her.

Josie shot Laura a skeptical look and turned to Madge. “What are your specials?”

“At 4 a.m. you get the fryer and the desserts. And maybe a limp salad. Jeff ain't here now to cook the good stuff.”

“Do you have coconut shrimp with that aioli?” Laura perked up. Despair faded a notch.

“Yep.”

“Two of those, an order of chipotle maple saus – you got that tonight?” Madge nodded, not looking at them, hand flying with the stylus. “With cheesy potato pancakes. One piece of Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake and a giant peppermint hot fudge sundae,” Josie declared.

“And drinks?”

“Just water,” Laura replied.

“Watching yer weight, huh?” Madge snickered, walking away. Fortunately for Laura, she'd looked at Josie when she said it. The last thing she needed right now was a comment on her weight. Eating comfort food – even at 4 a.m. – no, especially at 4 a.m. – was exactly what she needed.

“What about coffee?” Josie asked.

“I'm not making you any.”

“Hah. I'll order some after we pig out.” Each booth had an old-fashioned jukebox attached to it. “You have a quarter?” Josie begged.

Laura fished one out of a pocket. Josie slipped it in as Laura wondered how they got away with still just charging a quarter. She remembered long car trips to visit her relatives in Ohio and stopping at the L&K Diners, the jukeboxes identical, a burgundy red she only saw in ancient Italian restaurants and rest stops in the Midwest.

Back then a quarter got two songs. Now, one. Josie punched some buttons, fingers more accustomed to glass phone screens than analog squares, and soon Gloria Gaynor crooned.

Laura groaned.

“First I was afraid! I was petrified,” Josie sang, using her rolled silverware as a microphone. Seriously? The song was bad enough. Josie's tone-deaf performance would be worse.

“Kept thinking I could never live without them by my side...”

Them?

“Stop it,” she hissed, whacking Josie's forearm. The fork slid out and shot across the room, hitting a table leg. Madge strode by without missing a beat, picked it up, and threw a clean one on the table in front of Josie, her stride completely fluid.

“And then Thor and Superman, they came to me in the same bed, and now I'm half dead, ooooooh now I am half dead!” Josie wriggled and thrust her neck out as if singing, her voice a cross between an eight-year-old's earnest choir attempts and something out of Killer Karaoke.

“You have the music ability of William Hung.” And the stage presence.

“I will menage! I will menage!” As Josie parodied the familiar chorus, Laura lunged across the table and clamped her hand over Josie's mouth. That was quite enough.

“No brawling,” Madge chided as she used a bissel to sweep the tattered carpet a few tables away. “Don't make me call the bouncer.” She hooked her thumb over at the old homeless man sucking on a cup of coffee. He looked up and grinned, two teeth total in his mouth, eyebrows shooting up to a bald pate and creased, greasy hand waving. The girls laughed and Laura settled back down in place.

“You are such an a*shole.”

“But you love me.”

“Well, now you're buying.”

“No way.” Laura reached for the triangle game with pegs. All the writing had worn off long ago, and the wood was a solid block – this was an old stand-by that had probably been original to the place when it opened. The pegs were worn down and the colors faded, but the premise was the same: get down to one peg.

Laura played. Three pegs.

Josie played. Three pegs. “Doo doo doo doo,” she teased, like music from a creepy movie. “The universe it telling you something.” Laura snatched the damn game out of Josie's hands as Gloria Gaynor went into her second verse.

Just then, Madge appeared with the potato pancakes and a huge, steaming pile of coconut shrimp. Three cruets of aioli and she and Josie dug in before Madge could croak out with “Anything else?”

“Mmmmmmmm,” Josie groaned, her mouth nibbling on the end of a fried shrimp the size of her hand. “Uh, yeah.” Brow furrowed, she caught Laura's eye. “Did we forget the fried green tomatoes?”


Before Laura could reply, Madge said, “Got it,” striding off.

“We are going to be so full,” Laura said, using the side of her fork to cut a pancake.

“Is that a complaint?” Josie opened her mouth and panted, trying not to burn her tongue.

“Nope. Can't you wait until it cools down?” She pointed at Josie's mouth.

“Nope.” The two sat in silence, the only sound now their masticating, jaws working furiously on dissembling the amazing tastes before them. It was a relief for Laura; too many hands, too many mouths on her, too many feelings that didn't have a home. Eating was easy. Order delicious food. Have it delivered. Open mouth. Enjoy. Repeat ad nauseum.

Food was always there for her. It never changed. Hot fudge was hot fudge. Butter crunch ice cream just was. Coconut shrimp were steadfast and tasty, filling time, her belly, and whatever aching hole was in her that needed to be sated.

Cheesy potato pancakes didn't send out confusing signals. Cookies didn't judge her. Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake would serve her, would be at her disposal, would meet her needs.

With no expectations.

Screw Dylan and Mike. F*ck them.

F*ck them in the eye.

At the thought, she punctuated the air with her fork, imagining poking them with it. Josie looked up from her plate, mouth stuffed now with the cooled-down shrimp.

“You conducting a symphony?”

“Fork you.”

“Paradise by the Dashboard Light” wafted through the restaurant, a group of college kids snarking on the old tune and torturing poor Madge with half-drunk requests. She'd probably served their parents. Maybe even their grandparents. Laura rolled her eyes and dug in, her turn at coconut shrimp heaven.

“Ahhhh,” she moaned. Josie's impatience made more sense now. Each bite was like something out of a food porn movie, like Coconutty * Lovers with Clam Sauce or – no, scratch that. She had just grossed herself out. Did she make that joke aloud? If not, why was Josie staring at her like that?

“Coconutty what?” Josie gagged, her face in a confused snarl. Laura could feel her cheeks turn a hot red as she felt the room spin a bit, overwhelmed by what she now realized was nearly twenty-four hours of being awake, the most intense sexual experience of her life just a few hours behind her, and Madge's lined face twisted into a pantomime of smoking, her fingers against those leathered lips and sucking away at an imaginary cigarette.

Her thousand-mile stare bore through Laura, who pulled her eyes away to look down and see the last coconut shrimp on the plate. Grabbing it, she shoved the entire thing greedily into her mouth, only to hear Josie's confusion shift to a self-righteous howl.

“Hhhheeeeyyyy! No fair! What the hell is wrong with you?” Josie's sulking face was an after-thought for Laura, who right now felt like an animal in the woods, all instinct and no thought.

“Nothing,” Laura muttered. What the hell was wrong with her? “It's just – this is soooooo good.” She ate the tail and all, the breading and the crunchy outer shell making her gag.

“Coconutty...Laura, you need some sleep.”

Madge turned and nearly ran into the kitchen, then emerged with a still-sizzling plate of friend green tomatoes and more cruets filled with sauce from heaven.

Palm outstretched, Laura flicked her wrist toward Josie, the gesture meant to allow her friend first dibs on the tomatoes. Appeased, Josie dug in, playing hot potato with the breaded delight. “Hot! Hot! Hot!”

Chipotle maple sausage appeared out of nowhere, followed by an enormous piece of green cake smothered in hot fudge and peanut butter sauce, sprinkled with pistachios and surrounded by two huge scoops of vanilla ice cream coated with a crunchy brown sugar sauce.

“It's as big as your head, Laura,” Josie gaped.

“It's bigger. It's the size of my ass.”

Madge pointedly peered behind Laura, pulled back, and pursed her lips, contemplating. “Nah. Not quite, honey.” Laura gave her a grateful smile. Madge was Laura's new best friend. “You girls need anything else?”

“No – thanks!” Josie had a sausage on one fork, was spearing part of a potato pancake, and had a spoon attacking the ice cream. Laura dipped a piece of pancake in the aioli and stabbed her fork into the luscious pistachio cake, made green by the nuts.

“Who needs sex when you have Jeddy's?” she muttered, filling her mouth with the cake.

“Hello! Me?” Josie waved her hands like an air traffic controller on an airport runway. “Right here. I'd give all this up for what you just had tonight. Wouldn't you?”

Laura stared plaintively at the spread before her. “Uh...”

Josie stabbed the dark chocolate and mint rose off the top of the cake and ate it. “You don't have to choose. Lucky you.”

Lucky. Lucky? Here she sat, drowning her sorrows in fudge-covered cake the color of infected snot while her body still hummed from being double stuffed (note to self: get Oreos on the way home) and as the sun began to make its first entrance on this glorious day, Laura had to go to work in a few hours. Then there was at pesky issue of needing to deal with the fallout from storming out of Mike's cabin, leaving the two people in the world she most wanted to forget wondering what the hell was wrong with her.

“Madge!” Laura shouted. A quick glance down showed her cleavage covered with green crumbs and an embarrassing number of hot fudge drips. It was a meal unto itself. For Dylan...or Mike...

Stop that!

Madge didn't even blink, just tilted her head up, painted-on eyebrows lifting up. If she'd been bald she could have given Tim Curry a run for the role of Pennywise. “Whatcha want?”

“Got any caramel sauce?” That shit cures everything, like Windex or Robitussin.

“Nope. How about peanut toffee swirl?”

“You're a good woman, Madge. My new BFF.”

“Hey!” Josie mumbled, her face stuffed with ice cream. “Wha' 'bout me?”

“You're my old BFF.” Laura heard the door behind her creak and the sound of loud voices. More college guys. Swiveling around, she took a look. Fresh, unlined faces. Wet t-shirt contest-looking tops and running shorts. Sneakers. Backwards baseball caps. Why did they all look twelve?

“Henderson Cross Country” read all the wet shirts. Ah. High school. That's why they looked twelve.

The sound Josie made caused Laura to pivot back, whiplash a distinct possibility. “You pig! At least try not to burp,” she hissed.

“In some cultures it's a compliment, you know.”

“In some cultures, a woman who did that would be stoned to death.” Josie stuck out her tongue and stifled another belch. “How can I be your old BFF when that woman is like a thousand years old.”

“She's young on the inside.”

“She could be the cryptkeeper's mother. Grandmother. Uh – ”

The door behind her creaked open again and she heard footsteps. Then a low whistle from Josie, who peered around Laura. “Hot damn!”

Madge slid a cruet of peanut butter joy at Laura, who speared a chunk of green cake and dipped it in the creamy mixture. “Whuh?” she asked, tipping her face up to watch her friend.

Josie pitter-pattered her fingertips over her heart. “Some day my Thor will come. And this one is mine, Laura. All – ” She halted, eyes growing alarmingly huge, her words ending abruptly in a strangle. Mouth dropped, Laura could see parts of Josie's meal in her tongue.

“Jesus, Josie, shut your trap.”

“Hey – I didn't say anything bad.” Squinting, Josie cocked her head and flinched, suddenly nervous.


“No, I mean literally. Your jaw is almost on the table. Shut your mouth. I can see what you just ate. We're not in third grade.”

“Right,” Josie answered absentmindedly. What the hell was wrong with her? Laura's feeling of comfort, of relaxation was dissipating fast as Josie's distracted body language just added to Laura's feeling of exhaustion and confusion. As she shifted to look behind her to see what on earth Josie was staring at, her friend shouted, “No!”

Huh? “What the hell is wrong with you?”

When she turned around, though, she understood exactly what was wrong with Josie. There stood Thor, cupping the waitress's balls, with a more muscled version of Joey Tribiani grinning madly at him and saying “How you doin'?”

Dylan hadn't been back at Jeddy's in, what, two years? Last time he was here was with a group of guys from work, after a fire, when in the bowels of the night they'd found themselves embraced by soot, dead tired, and starving. No ramen noodles or scrambled eggs back at the station would do, so they'd come here.

His balls greeted him nicely. OK – their balls. Because it had been the trio who had invented the famous cardboard, be-balled icon at Jeddy's, a combination of some wicked bad peyote and Mike's college job working at Newbury Comics. Old Madge had helped, offering up an ancient server's uniform, and the balls had been Jill's idea. Dylan's Joey Tribiani imitation stuck – a little too well, because he was known as Joey until they'd finished college.

“You two,” Madge greeted them, shaking her head, lips pursed in an expression that was either pleasure or disgust. Dylan didn't think the difference mattered much at her age. Or with her temperament. How the hell do you serve drunk frat boys, homeless glue sniffers and post-coital munchie seekers for six decades and not become –

Was that? Mike elbowed him. No way.

No.

F*cking.

Way.

From behind, he couldn't quite tell whether it was Laura, but he had to be dreaming. She sat at a booth, hunched over a plate, blond hair in need of a combing, the woman across from her looking like a greasy chihuahua posing as a human dancer. Teeny tiny and hyped up, eager and craning to look at something.

Him?

Them?

“Is that Laura?” Mike whispered furiously as they followed Madge, who threw two menus down on the scarred formica table and walked off unceremoniously. Dylan slid in on his side, ass catching something, impeding his fluid movement. Duct tape. He wiggled his ass to settle down the torn edge, then froze.

“What? You're crazy, man. What are the chances she'd be – ”

“Come to claim your third?” Madge's gravelly voice nearly made Dylan laugh. She sounded like a caricature of an old South Boston woman combined with Harvey Fierstein.

Mike's eyes bugged out of his head, shifting between the blond in the booth and Madge. “Our third?” His voice sounded like Peter Brady going through puberty.

“Someone grab your balls too tight tonight?” Madge rasped, clenching the plastic balls in her hand. She nodded toward the warlock waitress. “You ever gonna cart this monstrosity away?”

“Oh!” Mike groaned. “You mean him?” He pointed at the cardboard cut out.

“What other third would I be talking about?” she asked, incredulous, her hand batting the testicles and shooting Dylan a dirty look. “You two are too old to come in here drunk,” she chided.

Mike sighed, his lips buzzing as the air left him and he and Dylan buried themselves in the menu. “God damn, Dylan. We need to figure all this out.”

The last notes of some Meatloaf song faded out and then the all-too-familiar first chords of AC/DC's “You Shook Me All Night Long” filled the air. The blond's head began tapping out the beat and the ratty little brunette with her looked like Will Ferrell playing a cowbell. Could that really be Laura?

Nah.

Why did the brunette keep staring at him? She huddled with the blonde, who fake-scratched her head and tried to do that sly thing where you look behind yourself without making it obvious.

“Chipotle maple sausage and a five-scoop sundae for me,” Mike announced. “Fried green tomatoes, too. Double order.”

“Swear to God, Mike. Look at her. It's Laura.” Just then, Madge appeared, dragging the warlock waitress with her. Julian Sands seemed to be judging their meal choices.

“The third in your threesome,” Madge announced grandly. The frat boys at the other table all did a spit-take in unison, bursting into good-natured laughter.

And then the brunette froze. The blonde turned slowly, the folds of her neck reluctant to complete the motion, her arm reaching back as if through water, her body needing to know but so –

Yes. It was Laura.

And boy was she pissed.

“Motherf*cker!” she hissed. “They're following me?”

“So that is them? Holy shit, Laura, they're more scrumptious in person than online.” Josie actually licked her lips and said, “I wish they were on the menu.”

Threesome? Had Madge actually said something about a threesome with them? Were they that open with everyone but her? Why on earth would a dried-up old octogenarian speak openly about their sex life like this?

“Warlock Waitress here wants you to take her home. Have your way with her. Give her the complete sex change she's entitled to,” she heard Madge joke, a raspy smoker's laugh rumbling after.

“You mean make Julian into Julia?” Dylan dished back. All three laughed.

They had no right to laugh! Not when everything in Laura's mouth turned to sawdust and Josie stared at her like something in an insane asylum under twenty-four hour watch.

“I'll make a scene and you can crawl out through the kitchen,” Josie suggested.

“What?”

“And then I'll go over there and hang with them and we can be besties and I'll,” she licked her lips again, “get my own taste of Superhero Sandwich. I can be the meat.”

“You are a sick woman.”

“I got the fever and they got the cure.”

“I know you're joking, but this isn't funny anymore.”

Josie dropped the act instantly. “Sorry. You're right. What can we do?”

Crawling on hands and knees was starting to look like a great option, except she would have to abandon the rest of her cake. Was saving face worth leaving this luscious, green-tinted pistachio chocolate mound of salvation?

With ice cream? And the untouched homemade mint whipped cream?

No. She would stand her ground.

For the sake of gastronomical integrity.

Someone had to. And she would make that sacrifice. Determined, Laura took another enormous bite of cake, ice cream, whipped cream and all dipped in peanut butter sauce.

The moan that escaped her body rivaled anything she'd made in bed with those two.

Which is why they both turned in unison, she imagined, staring as she devoured her true love. Thor could have his hammer. Dylan looked enough like a short Christian Bale to be Batman. Right now, though, she was going green, getting her most important hole stuffed by the Hulk.

Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake allowed her to be the avenger now.

Could those two be any weirder? Following her here to Jeddy's, where she still had their funk on her. In her. In places no man had ever been before on her body. Places she suspected no one except maybe, once, the gynecologist had touched during a routine “Hi! Welcome to 25!” exam.

Was it getting warm suddenly? “Are you hot, Josie?” she asked through a mouthful of cake.

“No. But they are – hey! One of them is coming over. Thor,” she drooled.


“Not funny.”

“It is when I'm not you, hon.” She nodded behind Laura. Shit. Mike really was walking over here. Covered in food splotches from haphazardly digging into the delights, she wondered if the rest of her was as disheveled. Barely able to look, she forced herself to anyhow. The ratty old sweats that seemed like a good comfort choice at home made her look like Tori Spelling after giving birth. Her hair was shoved into a knotted mess and makeup – what makeup? It had been smeared off long ago. Hell, some of it was probably still on Mike's torso.

Her mouth watered. And not from the food.

“Hey.” Why did his voice have to have this reaction on her, like a warm breeze on wet skin, her every pore attending to his presence before she even looked back? Why did his tone make her body inhale sharply, every part of her lungs ready to sigh with pleasure at the very thought of his presence?

And why, for the love of all that is holy, was Josie goggling at them both like this was some sort of side show at a carnival?

Oh. Because it was.

“Grab his balls!” Josie's words made Laura glare, wide-eyed and wild.

“What?” she hissed.

Jumping up, Josie skittered around Mike as if he were a pillar holding up the restaurant. “Hey! Grab his balls!” She ran over to the cardboard cutout and began chatting up Dylan. All Laura heard was a handful of words from Dylan's sweet mouth:

“...I know, I...”

“...no, the balls weren't my...”

“...four? No, we never considered...”

and Josie's rat-a-tat-tat machine-gun fire conversation. Don't look at him, she told herself, though she could feel him, inches away, the hair on her skin like hundreds of thousands of little *oral hoods, all aching for him, for release, for this yearning to go away, no matter what.

But especially via his touch. As if on command, his hand touched her shoulder. Involuntarily, she flinched. He pulled back. This dance? Really?

It sucked.

“Hi, Mike,” she said reluctantly. Couldn't ignore him.

Fluid grace poured into his limbs as he deftly slid into Josie's space, his movements belying his size. How could he – oh, she knew. Hands eager for connection, she pulled them into her lap, then sat on them, her ass pinning errant fingers in place, knowing damn well what she'd do if she didn't.

Wait. No. She was supposed to be angry with him. Them.

Everyone.

“Hi.” The shy act wasn't going to cut it tonight. She went for the throat.

“Stalking me? Isn't that Dylan's specialty?” He flinched and winced, then arched one eyebrow and took a deep breath. Target hit. So why didn't she feel victorious? Instead, her stomach roiled and nausea crept in. Why did he and Dylan have to ruin this? Her one refuge – food and Josie, together – and now what had been the beginning of sorting through threads entangled between the three of them had turned into even more enmeshment, confusion, and hurt.

“No – we – uh – ” He gave up, not making eye contact. Eyelids fluttered shut and he splayed his palms on the grooved table top, his right index finger worrying someone's carved name. Jane. Who had Jane been? Could have been Madge's mother, for all they knew.

Or one of Mike and Dylan's lovers.

Using his arms as leverage, he slowly stood, back curling and shoulders flaring, leaning in toward her. When his face tipped up his eyes locked with hers.

“Whatever you think right now, you're wrong. And when you're ready to talk, we'll be there.” One hand reached for her, steady and firm, the touch like tissue paper against a rose petal. An apologetic smile twitched in his lips and the skin beneath his eyes softened.

“We won't come after you, Laura.” He glanced over at Dylan, who was laughing at Josie, who had removed the warlock waitress's balls and was teabagging in front of an audience of golfers and hungover college boys. Mike rolled his eyes. “OK, I won't. Can't guarantee what Dylan will do.”

“He and Josie seem to have hit it off.”

“Is she twelve inside?”

That made Laura laugh. Bingo. His thumb stroked the underside of her cheekbone and she went liquid, all muscles melting and everything warm became wet. Mike leaned in and softly kissed her temple.

“When you're ready.”

Was Mike seriously kissing Laura right now? Right now, as Dylan was stuck with her friend, who was mouthing the very balls thousands of people had manhandled for the past decade? The very balls Jill had grabbed and stuck on the warlock in what now felt like another life?

Cool.

Whatever it took to thaw everything, to get Laura to believe that they wanted her, that they wanted a we that no one else really understood. Hell, they didn't even understand it. Who could blame Laura for feeling conflicted and fearful and –

Oof. This Josie chick just whomped him in his very real balls with those very fake balls.

“Hey! You paying attention there, Thor's sidekick?”

Thor's what? “My name is Dylan. Who is Thor?”

She laughed, rubbing the plastic testicles against her cheek, like stroking a kitten. “Like I don't know your name. You and Mike are all Laura talks about.”

“Really?” So they call Mike 'Thor'?

She shot him a look. “Really? Like you don't know. You aren't exactly conventional. I haven't seen Laura eat that much food in one sitting since Ryan left her. Some wicked show you two got going on.”

Show? “We didn't mean to – ”

Placing one long finger with an even longer fingernail against his lips she shook her head slowly. The rest of her fingernails looked like peacock tails. “You don't get to speak right now. In fact, I hope Mike there doesn't try to talk too much.”

Dylan snorted. “No worries,” he said. Except it sounded like “mo uhwees” with her finger pressing against his mouth. “He's a quiet giant.”

She made a face like she was impressed. “Then you might have a shot. Too bad you guys set her up. The last thing Laura needs is to feel manipulated.” She glowered. “Why am I telling you this?”

Whack. She smacked him with the rubber balls. “Ow!”

“You deserved it.” She was right; he did. They did. His stomach rumbled and he checked the wall clock. Pushing 5 a.m. Shit – he started a new shift in two hours. Whatever they needed to do to get Laura to believe that they wanted her – wanted more – and that this wasn't some pervy plot, they needed to do it fast.

Turning on the charm, he shot Josie a warm grin, his arm going up around the back edge of the booth, the gesture intimate and inviting. “You're her best friend. What would you tell some amazing guy – ”

“Guys.” She turned it into two syllables. Geye – ZUH. Which made it all sound rather pervy.

He kept going. “Guys. OK. What would you tell us to do to get her to explore this with us?”

“Explore? That sounds so...eww. Would you say that to someone if you were just in a one-on-one relationship? 'I want to explore this. Explore you. Explore your hoo-haw' – ”

“Hoo what?”

Just then, Mike approached. Thank God, Dylan thought. He was starting to feel a little too...something. Flinching, he pulled back from Josie and shot Mike a pleading look. Rescue me?

“Hi,” Mike said to Josie, extending his hand to shake. She grasped it and Dylan got a good, long look at those weird, long nails. Yep. Peacock tails. Golden, glittering streaks interspersed with some weird, glittery green and a bunch of colors you'd only see in nature.

She smiled real wide at Mike, clearly drinking him in. Some part of Dylan's ego felt chipped away, irked that she didn't look at him like that. What the hell was he thinking? Whether Laura's best friend found him attractive or not wasn't exactly top on his list of issues right now. Besides, Josie had asked him earlier if he and Mike had ever been in a foursome. Her intent was hard to read; sarcasm? Or – worse – an actual offer?


Mike's return grin was polite. Hesitant. He gave nothing. Atta boy, Dylan thought. Josie's face went a bit tentative, the first sign of any social filter in the woman. Mike could do that to people. He was so centered – not self-centered, but grounded – that his openness unnerved people. It was yet another aspect of him that drew Dylan, and probably Jill and Laura, to the giant –

Ah. Thor. Studying Mike's features, Dylan suddenly got it, chuckling at the women. Taller than most men, Nordic features, the dark blonde hair and those glittery eyes. Legs like tree trunks and a cobra chest and back. Thor.

Did that make him Loki? He shuddered at the thought, his chuckle fading fast. He was waay more built than that guy. More Captain America than –

“Earth to Dylan.” Mike was waving a hand the size of a catcher's mitt in his face. “Josie was just telling us some important information about Laura.” Mike widened his eyes and his look said Hey, dumbass, show some respect.

“Yeah. Sure.” Movement at the other booth caught his eye as Laura stretched her neck from one side to the other, then slid to the right, out of the booth and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. Her gait caught him unaware, and – yep, he was hard. That fine, round, soft ass sashayed away from him, her hips encased in some loose yoga pant fabric that clung to her curves, disappearing around the corner as she opened the door. It was unsettling when what he really wanted was that ass on him, in his lap, or in front of him, hands feeling every –

“...so I'm not going to sit here and pour out all of Laura's secrets to you two idiots, but you obviously need someone to hit you with a clue bat.” Josie held up the plastic balls. “Or clue balls. Whatever. You should have been upfront with Laura and told her that you know each other. And that you're gay – ”

“Nope.” Dylan crossed his arms over his chest. Here we go again. “Not gay.” Mike shook his head.

She smiled slyly. “OK, not gay. But...not not gay?”

Dylan pursed his lips, eyes narrowing, face hard. Mike had closed up, too. “We're not having this conversation with you.”

“No offense,” Mike jumped in, palm up and facing Josie in a gesture that asked her to give them a second to explain. “It's complicated.”

“It's always complicated.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Dylan muttered. Now he was getting pissed, and he could tell Mike could tell he was getting pissed, and he was hard from watching Laura walk away and now this little yippy drowned rat of a friend wanted to tell him allll about him and Mike. Judgment was all fine and good until the other person was just plain wrong.

Then it was torture.

“You don't know us from Adam,” Mike said in a soothing voice. Josie looked at him with rapt attention, her mouth open slightly, lips parted and face softened. It made Dylan like her a bit. Just a bit. Mike had that effect on women. On men. On dogs, for that matter. He could make almost any living being feel like they were the center of the world.

“And we hope you respect that. We know you're Laura's best friend and we know you know her far, far better than we do. Someday we hope to rival you on that,” he added, his grin widening, eyes lasered on Josie's.

She smiled. Dylan dropped his hands from his chest. Now they were getting somewhere. He couldn't stop surveying the women's room. A glimpse of her was what he wanted.

Not really. What he wanted was to storm over to her table, slide in next to her and charm the pants off her. His pants tightened. Damn jeans.

“If you really want to understand Laura, you two need to back the f*ck off.” The profanity caught Dylan's attention; her tone was nasty but matter-of-fact. “You're not asking for anything she's ever experienced. Or that most people, much less most women, have experienced. You lied to her – ”

“We didn't lie,” Dylan sputtered. Mike tried to shut him up with a look but Dylan wasn't having any of it. “We just didn't tell her everything.”

“You Catholic?”

“How'd you know?” he asked, bewildered.

“You have the Irish-Italian Catholic look. So you know the difference between lies of comission and lies of omission.” She said it flatly. It wasn't a question. Mike pinged between the two of them, a confused look on his face.

“Yeah.” She had him. Omitting the truth was as bad as telling an outright lie.

“Fill me in?” Mike asked, waving at them both. “Lapsed Lutheran here.”

“You guys didn't tell her the truth,” Josie said, exasperation coating her words. “You have a lot of trust to regain. A lot.” She screwed her face into a disapproving look that was a bit too reminiscent of those nuns Dylan dealt with back in elementary school. “I don't see how you ever thought that was a good plan. Date her separately and then assume you could just shift into threesome mode?” Hissing the word “threesome,” Josie twisted her head back and forth, making hard eye contact with each. “Not the smoothest of moves. Who came up with that one?”

Both men dipped their heads, suddenly entranced by the silverware, Mike fingering a fork while Dylan polished his spoon with his old t-shirt.

She snorted. “Yeah. Well, whatever led you to surprise her like that – don't do it again. Not if you hope to get her back.”

“Any ideas?” Mike asked, a half smile trying to coax some allegiance from her.

She shook her head. “Don't stalk her?” As she stood to walk back to her and Laura's booth, Dylan caught a glimpse of a blonde pony tail, Laura's face down as she hurried back to her booth.

“We didn't stalk her,” Mike protested. “We just wanted Jeddy's as much as you guys did.”

“Everyone has a big appetite after a menage,” Josie joked. Madge appeared, arms laden with plates of hot sausage and more, just as Josie spoke. Plates delivered, Madge pivoted three steps, stopping.

“Menage, huh?” Madge muttered as she filled salt shakers the next table over, pointedly taking in Dylan and Mike. “I wouldn't mind surviving that.” She shot Josie a sideways look. “They must have crushed you to a pulp.”

Laughter filled the restaurant as Josie plunked the rubber balls in front of Dylan and Mike and walked back to her friend, leaving Dylan with no appetite and a million questions. Go slow? How do you go slow after...

Madge waggled her eyebrows. “You buys ever need a third, you know where to come.”

Ewww. Dylan's pants loosened instantly. “Uh – ”

She threw an arm around the warlock waitress. “I meant him. Her. It.” A choking laugh carried down the aisle as she shouted back, “Sorry, boys. I'm taken.”

Laura hyperventilated in the bathroom stall. Calling it a stall was a bit of a stretch. Years ago, someone had removed the metal door and replaced it with a cheap shower curtain with an outline of an arm wielding a knife and red splotches. All that stood between her and the mess out there was Psycho. Nice.

Crying on the toilet felt like an accomplishment. Hell, just walking down the aisle into the bathroom was a victory, her legs shaking from nerves and anxiety and panic. If her heart rate was any indication of what those two men could do to her, she should be in an ambulance on the way to a cardiac center for immediate surgery to fix...to fix...

Whatever they'd broken in her heart.

This was not how she'd envisioned seeing them next. If at all. No, Laura. Stop it. She hadn't even gotten to the point where she could think about whether she wanted to see them again after what they did to her. With her. In her...


Gah! Now motormouth Josie was out there spilling all her secrets. She knew Josie well enough to know what was happening out there, and that it was useless to try to stop her. The tongue lashing those two were getting from her friend –

OK. Bad choice of words. The nagging lecture Mike and Dylan were likely getting would turn them off her anyhow. She chuckled through the tears. Served them right. They knew each other? Were double-teaming her in every sense of the word? Had planned this big threesome night without telling her the little, trivial detail that oh! hai! I can haz menage?

And they were together? But not gay? Neither had touched the other – not once – during their lovemaking. So how did that work? It was complicated enough to figure out one guy's needs, his wishes, his quirks and such. In a hetero relationship.

Two guys? Double the fun and double the trouble, and then the dynamic between them that would mean – what? – for her? If she were in some sort of permanent relationship with both men, would they always have sex together? Or would they pair off and rotate nights? Would it be like something out of Big Love but in reverse – with Laura the one they shared?

If she wanted to cuddle on the couch could she pick one and hang out, or would they always be three? Her head hurt and as she relaxed enough to pee she felt a stinging that took her by surprise. Oh. Yeah. That whole area was still sore from those two.

Who had lied to her.

Lied. Not told. Same thing.

Snot covered her face as she wiped her nose with the palm of her hand, misjudging how full her nose really was. Cheap, scratchy toilet paper cleaned her up but just made everything feel raw now. Would any part of her ever not feel raw, so shaky and vulnerable? As she finished up and washed her hands in the sink she found herself staring into the mirror, her eyes puffy and red from crying, the bloodshot whites in great contrast to the shiny color, the stained walls behind her covered in graffiti that probably extended back to Madge's youth.

Big sigh. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale – just as the automatic air deodorizer pushed out a little spritz, filling her lungs with some God-awful fake Lily of the Valley scent that mixed with the stench of the bathroom and made her gag.

Great. Like this couldn't get any worse. She fled the bathroom, gasping for fresh air, and the sight before her told her that why, yes, Laura. It could get worse.

Josie was whacking Dylan with a set of rubber balls.

Retreat! Retreat! Had they seen her? Ducking behind the coat rack, she crouched, feeling stupid and ridiculous. Mike sat down and introduced himself; she had a full view of the scene from behind someone's cigarette-soaked tan barn coat. He shook Josie's hand and then Josie yammered at him. From afar, the interaction was almost comical, Josie's mosquito-like buzzing a stark contrast to Mike's slow, steady existence. Dylan sat, cocky and comfortable, arms stretched out behind him across the top of the booth. Josie whacked him in the lap with the balls and Laura giggled. The way he folded in half told her it hurt.

Good.

Tears filled her eyes. Good? Jesus, Laura – Good? Now you're wishing harm on him?

No. Not OK. Time to go out there and – what? Confront them? Confront yourself?

Nope. Time to go back and have your cake.

And maybe finish eating it, too.

The more she talked, the calmer he got. Zen. Focus on what is. Just breathe. Let her existence interfere with nothing. What she said, she said. Who she was, she was.

When she whacked Dylan with the balls, it just was.

And it was funny as hell.

Mike pulled out every meditative awareness technique he could think of, with more than ten years of reading, practice, conferences, and seminars under his belt. Nothing seemed to work very well with Josie, though; she was spitfire and alllll reaction. Completely unaware of how she seemed to everyone else kinetically, she just moved through time and space as sheer energy.

He remembered a time when he was like that, years ago, a time when he was so exhausted all the time. So busy searching for something, judging everything, fiercely protective and loyal to his loved ones and scanning, yearning, sorting and journeying to find – what?

He hadn't known. Still wasn't sure, but he definitely understood now that slowing down, acting rather than reacting, and just being present helped him to find it.

All this back patting must be tiring, Mike, his inner voice said, clearing its throat. He sighed.

Touché.

Nothing about the night was going as planned. Plans. His plans; Dylan had been very kind back there, not blurting out the truth. Having Dylan surprise them at the cabin had been Mike's bright idea. Stupid stupid stupid, the voice said now, a taunting, lilting tone.

It wasn't supposed to look like they'd ganged up on her. He'd envisioned a different outcome, not the threesome they'd enjoyed but more of a quiet talk, some soul bearing, and a gentle discussion about possibilities.

Dylan had changed the plan, coming far later than planned and interrupting them at the most delicate of moments, then broaching the subject like a bull in a china shop. Delicacy and tact were never his strong suits, to say the least.

When she'd agreed, Mike had been as shocked as she probably was. Never in a million years would he have pegged her as someone who would, in the heat of the moment (and oh, what a hot one it had been...) make a snap decision like that and just jump. Leap. Go for it.

Have her fill.

The thought made the corner of his mouth shift up, not quite a smile, definitely not a smirk. Washing his face with his hands, he wondered how he and Dylan appeared to Josie. Were they freaks? Jerks? Guys who were somehow mindf*cking her best friend?

From the look on her face right now he guessed the answer was All of the Above.

He made himself seem like he was paying attention to the conversation that unfolded before him between him, Josie, and Dylan, but all of his focus was on Laura. She'd gotten up and gone to the bathroom and her skin was still on his lips from that simple kiss. Why had he been so bold? She seemed moved to tears, unable to walk straight.

Maybe that was a result of something earlier. He made a face at the thought. Dylan frowned, watching him. “What?” he mouthed. Mike shook his head imperceptibly and resumed paying attention to Josie, who was giving them hints on how to handle Laura.

If being whacked over the head by their own stupidity could be categorized as a hint.

Right now, he'd take any advice if it had half a chance at working. Why did he know when to back off and give someone space, but was utterly clueless when it came to drawing close? Josie assumed they'd been stalking Laura, coming to Jeddy's at the same time, and he knew trying to explain that it was a weird coincidence – Jill would have called it “the universe speaking to us” – was futile.

Josie and Laura would believe what they wanted to believe, and nothing he and Dylan said or did would make a difference.

So why were they even trying?

Because.

Because.

That's all Mike knew. Because. Laura staggered back to her booth and Josie walked away. The old waitress made a lewd comment. Mike inhaled. Mike exhaled. Mike inhaled. Mike exhaled.

And then Dylan stood, eyes flashing and intense, body aimed for Laura's booth, and Mike stopped breathing.

“F*ck,” Laura whispered.

“What?” Josie asked, sucking the last remnants of ice cream from her spoon.

“F*ck me, Josie!”

“I don't do girls. Well, except for that one time in college when – ”

Laura grabbed Josie's arm, her fingernails sinking in. “They're coming over here.”

“And you're surprised?” Josie looked at Laura like she had three heads.


Three.

As if he owned the joint – no, as if he owned her – Dylan slid into the booth right next to Laura, arm stretching across the back of the booth, his chest against her shoulder. Mike had the decency to stand at the side and look awkward. Because he was awkward. This much, she knew.

And Dylan was being a strutting ass because he was a strutting ass.

This she knew, too.

What she didn't know was why they had decided once again to come after her. One f*ck. She had been just one f*ck, right? They'd convinced her (you convinced yourself) to have her first threesome and she'd reveled in it. Still felt it on her skin, inside her, in her mouth, on her thighs – everywhere.

But this wasn't how she wanted it to go. Her guilt at dating two guys at once was bad enough. Learning they knew each other and were an item (sorta) that wanted her to complete them was too much to absorb at nearly 6 a.m. When she needed to go to work on zero hours of sleep. She still needed a shower, was starting to get a headache, and now six eyes stared at her with expectations that turned into a churning soup of hope and dread.

“Can you people pick one table and stick to it?” Madge croaked, refilling Laura's water glass. “Breakfast rush is about to start and I'll need the table.”

“We're over here now, Madge,” Dylan replied, winking at her.

“You done with your food?” She nodded at the half-full plates. Mike gave her a closed-mouth smile and nodded. “OK,” she sighed. “I'll bring your check here.” Laura pretended Madge was the most interesting sight ever and watched pointedly as the old woman cleared the table in about three seconds, delivered the checks, and pointed a new group to an empty table.

“Man, how old is she?” Josie asked, admiring her energy.

“She's been here at least since we were in college and put up old Warlock,” Dylan joked, nudging Laura. The heat from his chest made her feel like she couldn't breathe, as if the warmth itself, made true from his blood, his flesh, his movement and soul, were some sort of force field that stopped time, stopped her heart, stopped everything and made her want to bathe in him. His presence. His scent.

Wait. What?

She looked up at Dylan, the muscle of his upper arm poking through the thin lines of his cotton t-shirt. Could she lick it without being caught? Bad Laura. Bad.

“You made the Warlock Waitress?” Laura's hold on reality was tenuous at best. Learning these two had been responsible for a local culture legend would send her over the edge.

“Not quite,” Mike chuckled. “It was really Jill's idea.”

If Mike had thrown a bucket full of cold ice water on her head, he couldn't have jolted Laura out of her slump any faster. Jill. Of course. Of course it was Jill's idea. Some part of her that had been churning and unfocused came into play again, sharpened by competition. She wasn't seriously threatened by a dead woman, was she?

Even one who looked like she'd been hand-chiseled by Ralph Lauren?

Dead, Laura. Dead. You can't compete with the dead.

And maybe that was part of the problem here. Two very real, very alive men breathing next to her, both with heartbeats and fingers and raspy stubble and soft smiles. Both in love with a woman who had died not quite two years ago, someone they had spent early adulthood loving. Surfing and skiing and forging a very unique relationship that few would ever dare to try.

They had ten years of this to draw on.

She had a handful of hours. And was competing with a dead woman.

She wasn't feeling stifled for no good reason. And Josie saw something in her face, could read Laura so well, because before Laura could open her mouth to fumble through an explanation, Josie stood, ushering Mike away from the edge, and kicked Dylan in the shin.

“Hey! What was that for!” he shouted, rubbing his leg bone.

“Out. Give Laura some space.”

“But I – ” Her glare cut him off. Rolling his eyes, he huffed – but moved. Biceps flexing under that Rush t-shirt, Dylan's body moved away, leaving a vacancy, a coldness where he'd been, that made her feel a little bit abandoned. Ping-ponging back and forth emotionally like this wasn't her style at all, and she was weary. Just wrung out and ready for this night to end.

The sun blinded her out of the blue, the restaurant's windows unshaded. Madge went down the line lowering the blinds. Laura checked her phone. 6:07 a.m. Time to put the night to rest.

Scooching over, she stood, Mike's arm inches from her, his eyes purposefully not meeting hers. She smiled at Dylan and he took it as an opportunity, stepping closer to her until Josie blocked him with an arm the size of his –

Josie shook her head slowly, piercing him with her stare. “Don't be that guy.” She looked up at Mike, tipping her head way, way back. “Those guys.”

As the sun radiated through the filthy glass and illuminated Jeddy's, a renewed sense of...something struck Laura. She lacked the right word for it, but knew the feeling. Not hope. Not promise. Not quite possibility.

Willingness.

Mike took a microstep toward her. “When you're ready,” he said, echoing his earlier words.

“Can we make you dinner some night this week?” Dylan asked, pushing – ever pushing.

She made a mirthless laugh. “Last time Mike did that, dinner wasn't just dinner.”

“We swear,” the men said in unison.

“Unreal,” Josie muttered.

Laura grabbed the rubber balls from the table, where Josie had propped them up against the jukebox. Fishing a quarter out of her purse, she leaned over, giving anyone who walked by a nice money shot of her ample ass. She knew both men were staring and she cared – more than she knew.

Plunking the quarter in and making a choice, she turned and attached the balls to the cardboard cutout's crotch. Giving them a squeeze, she and Josie sauntered out as the opening chords of “Call Me, Maybe?” wended their way through the early breakfast crowd.

Calling in sick was the best decision Laura had made in the past five days. Not that this was a week for exhibiting stellar judgment, though. As her fingers punched in the number for her boss's personal cell phone, though, she felt legitimately ill. So ill, he just said, “Do what you have to do to recover” and made sympathetic noises.

Off the hook for the day, she stared dully at the back of her front door. “Do what you have to do to recover” was easier said than done.

Josie came out of the kitchen using one talon to peel a clementine. “And?”

“I'm off for the day.”

“Cool. I don't work until three, but I need some sleep.” Yawn. “For once, I won't ask you to make me coffee.”

Laura was too tired to smile. “Help me, Josie. What the hell do I do?”

“You're asking the woman who hasn't been laid for seven months for romance advice?” She shoved a wedge of citrus in her mouth. “I'll tell you what I would do.”

“That's what I'm asking!”

“I would hear them out. Let them make you dinner. Spend time with them – together. Don't f*ck them, though.”

“Josie!”

“You can't blame me for saying that, Laura. 'Cause you did. F*ck them. And it freaked you out. They caught you off guard and I'll bet it was the hot Italian dude who made it all happen.”

Laura's face must have revealed all, because Josie pointed and said, “I knew it,” as she shoved the rest of the clementine in her mouth, standing and crossing the room to throw the peels away.

“He's a charmer,” Laura answered. Choke. Not that Mike wasn't, but Dylan. He could talk the pants off a prison guard.


“And the other one – Jesus, Laura. Did you need stilts and a stool to f*ck him?” Josie cringed and held up one hand, fingernails radiating from her palm like a metal sun sculpture. “TMI. Don't answer that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I have no filter. Duh. You're my filter. And I have no filter when I'm talking to my filter about her positions when f*cking a guy the size of a streetlamp.”

Laura pretended to mull that one over, then threw a couch pillow at Josie, who seemed to know it was coming and ducked well ahead of time. “Dinner? Really?”

Josie blinked hard, rubbing one eye. “Yeah. I think you need to just get to know these guys. Spend time with them. Not the kind of time where you sit there, all anxiety-filled, wondering when you'll end up in bed. I mean the pal-around, cuddle on the couch, watch a movie and cook dinner for each other kind of time.”

“That's called a date.”

“Yes. You need to date them.”

“Date them. Double date by myself?” Both laughed. “Josie, I don't even have a language for this!” she wailed.

“That's the problem, hon. No one does. And I think,” she added, pensive suddenly, “I think that's why they care so much about you. Because you are the first person they've met in a long time who is even willing to learn whatever rare language they speak. So far, most people don't even view it as words. Just offensive gibberish.”

“I find it lovely,” Laura whispered. Yawn.

Josie laughed quietly, grabbing another clementine and her purse. “I know you do, sweets. But right now the only language you need to speak involves a lot of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Go to bed.”

“I need a shower.” Laura sniffed one armpit. “God, that bad?”

“Sleep first. Shower after.”

By the time she heard the door click as Josie left, Laura's living room was spinning, the air washing before her like waves of water, her eyes heavy and lids drooping. As she heard footsteps waning down the hall, before she knew it she was fast asleep, vulnerable now only to whatever her subconscious conjured for her in her dreams.