I know what you’re thinking. Stop wasting my time. Can we skip the bullshit and get to the good stuff already?
I’m working on it.
Besides, I think you should enjoy the good times while they last. I did. I have a feeling things are going to get real crazy—real quick—from here on out. ’Cause our next stop? That’s Vegas, baby. And there’s a reason it’s called Sin City.
Chapter 6
When it comes to swanky hotel rooms, you might think the penthouse is top-of-the-line. In most cases, you’d be right. But the Bellagio has something better. The villa. It’s the kind of place only royalty, heads of state, and highly overrated actors get to stay. Five bedrooms, formal dining room, office, library, and a huge kitchen—all trimmed in elegant woods and marbles—decked out with the finest appliances, accessories, and Italian fabrics. It even comes with a full-service maid and butler staff.
Money can’t buy happiness—but it makes it a hell of a lot easier to stay happy.
Since we’re the guests of honor, Kate and I get the master suite. Our adjoining bathroom has a steam shower and huge Jacuzzi that I definitely plan on putting to good use later. Steven and Alexandra, Delores and Matthew, each pair gets a room too—complete with fireplace and king-size bed. Erin claims a slightly smaller room with a queen, while Jack and Warren bunk together in the last room.
It’s a good thing their room has two double beds, because if there’s one thing a guy will never do, it’s share a bed with another dude. Sleeping naked on sharp gravel? Totally acceptable, when faced with the risk of waking up to a loaded rifle in your back.
After the butler—we’ll call him Mr. Belvedere—gives us the grand tour and the maids take our luggage to unpack, the nine of us relax in the living room, talking about the agenda for the day.
Sitting on the dark brown love seat, with Delores on his lap, Matthew goes first. “There’s a water-volleyball tournament down at the pool in twenty minutes. I figured we’d start there—get our burn on. And they’re having a pig-roast barbecue—you know how I love a good swine.”
All the guys nod their consent.
Dee-Dee begins, “Our goddess party starts at five. . . .”
Goddess parties . . . for guys they’re a dream—mythical. Like the fabled pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or the topless pillow fight at a sleepover. It’s pretty much a female-only sex party, minus the actual sex. Legend has it there’s a wide array of toys for sale—dildos, vibrators, bondage gear, and lingerie. And there are lessons—women are instructed on all kinds of acquired skills, such as deep throat, masturbation, pole dancing.
“. . . but before that, we ladies have appointments at the spa, to get beautified for tonight.”
I run my hand through Kate’s dark hair as she sits beside me on the couch. “That’s a waste of time,” I tell her. “You can’t improve perfection.”
She blushes slightly. Still so fucking adorable.
Dee-Dee counters, “You say that now—but wait until you see us after. We’re gonna get wrapped, waxed, plucked, and massaged. I swear, Kate—after Ricardo works you over? You’ll never be the same. It’s like being touched by an orgasm.”
My curiosity gets the best of me. “Who’s Ricardo?”
“Kate’s massage therapist.”
Huh. “Ricardo’s a weird name for a woman.”
Delores rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, it would be—but Ricardo’s all man. He’s got the body of a Greek god, like Arnold Schwarzenegger in his steroid days. And he knows how to use it—especially his hands.”
Some guys would be okay with this situation. Men who are laid-back like Matthew or understanding like Steven. They’d kiss their lady on the cheek and say, “Have a good time, honey.” But—despite my emotional growth these last years—that’s just not how I roll.
So what I say is “Yeah, that’s not fucking happening.”
Kate puts her hand on my leg. “Drew, it’s just a massage.”
“I’m aware of that. Two words—happy ending. Two more words—no way.”
Alexandra tries to be helpful. “Relax, little brother. There’s no reason to be jealous.”
I open my arms wide. “Who’s jealous? I’m not jealous—’cause it’s not fucking happening.” I turn to Kate and explain calmly, “You really think I’m gonna be able to just sit here knowing you’re out there—with your goodies covered only by a thin cotton towel—while Ricardo-frigging-Montalbán has his hands all over you? Making you moan? Screw that. All your moans belong to me—they’re paid in full with that rock on your finger.”
Dee-Dee holds her hand out to Matthew. “I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it. Pay up.”
He pulls his wallet out and slaps a twenty in her palm. I shake my head in disappointment at him. “You thought I’d be okay with this?”
He shrugs.