“Are you sure this is the right place? Why did you send him to a hotel?” I ask her as I press the button for the third floor.
“One of my friends from college is having her bachelorette party there tonight. I may have called and told her that a man, matching Griffin’s description, would be knocking on the door claiming to be a bounty hunter, but he’s really a stripper,” she informs me. “I also told her that no matter how much he denies it, she should just play along.”
Oh no.
“Paige, you didn’t.”
The elevator dings and the doors open up to the third floor and I can already hear screams and catcalls coming from a room at the end of the hall.
“You can thank me later. Take lots of pictures!”
I end the call and shove the phone into my pocket as the screaming and cheering gets louder and louder the closer I get to room 325. Taking a deep breath, I knock loudly on the door. It’s immediately flung open and a woman wearing a tiara and a sash that reads bride to be greets me with a huge smile.
“Yaaaaay, another guest! You’re just in time,” she squeals as she grabs my arm and drags me into the room. All I see is a group of twenty or so drunk women huddled in a circle.
The bride-to-be shoves a few of the women aside and pulls me front and center of the circle and my mouth drops open when I see Griffin sitting in a hotel chair shirtless, with a pink feather boa draped around his neck, swatting away hands that are reaching for the button of his jeans.
“Seriously, ladies, it’s flattering that you think I’m a stripper, but I really need to get back to work.” He tries to get up from the chair and five women all huddle behind him, shoving him back down in his seat by pushing on his shoulders.
“Wow, you guys are freakishly strong,” he mutters as one of the girls gets down on her knees by his feet and starts untying his boot to the tune of Kid Rock’s “Cowboy.”
I really need to help him. It’s all fun and games until some other woman tries to undress him. Watching them manhandle him is making me stabby. I’m kind of struck dumb by the sight of him with his shirt off. He doesn’t have a six-pack—he has a ninety-five-pack. And when did he get a tattoo above his left pec? It’s the United States Army insignia and I have the sudden urge to run my fingers over it. And then my tongue.
“Um, excuse me,” I say loudly to the group at large.
No one hears me except for Griffin. He looks over the head of some woman wearing a headband with a giant plastic penis on it who is currently motorboating his crotch and raises his eyebrows at me.
I’m not going to lie; I feel a little ashamed of my actions now that he’s glaring at me. This whole payback idea was stellar after a few bottles of wine. Now that I’m sober and the entire town thinks I’m a call girl and the bachelorette party will most likely pass around Griffin’s phone number to everyone they know to recommend his stripping services? Not so much.
“Ladies!” I try again, shouting as loud as I can. A few of them turn to look at me and are none too happy that I took their attention away from the main event.
Raising my hands in a please-don’t-kill me way, I try to reason with them.
“Sorry to interrupt, but this guy really isn’t a stripper. It was a big misunderstanding. If you’ll just let me get him out of here, you guys can go back to your partying,” I explain to them.
“Is this part of the show? I think we’re supposed to just play along, isn’t that what Paige told us?” one of the girls whispers to someone behind me.
“Ooooooh, she’s probably a stripper too! I’ve never seen a female stripper!” someone shouts from the other side of the room.
I start shaking my head frantically back and forth when everyone’s attention is suddenly on me, giving Griffin the opportunity to get up out of his chair untouched. He walks through the throng of women who are eyeing me up and down lecherously and I hold his arm, pulling him toward me for protection.
“I’m sorry. I swear to God, I had nothing to do with this. Help me get out of here with my clothes on and we’ll call a truce,” I whisper to him in a panic as a hand smacks my ass.
“TAKE IT OFF, GIRLFRIEND!” someone screams.
Griffin wraps one arm around my waist, pulls my body up against his naked torso, and stares down at me with a calculating grin.
“So now you want to call a truce. I don’t think so, honey. I think you should do as the ladies say and take it off!” he yells.
Twenty sets of arms go up in the air as they all start chanting. “Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!”
Aside from the fact that this is the most mortifying event in the history of my life, I can’t help but enjoy the feel of Griffin’s arm around me. I want to snuggle into the heat of his half-naked body. Even if he IS trying to throw me to the wolves.