Fox nearly convinces me to have sex in my childhood bedroom while my mom and Ruben are out in the yard. I remind him that after Ruben moved in, Margaret had repurposed the room into his “man cave.” If I ever stay over with them, I sleep in the guest room. Fox is visibly disappointed and I’m a little relieved. He tells me I’m “in for it” tonight.
“After the karaoke showdown?” I ask.
“Oh, shit, yeah!” he yells, gunning the engine of his truck. “Just wait until you see my costume.”
“Oh, good,” I say drily, narrowing my eyes at Fox. “Now I can be afraid.”
His grin confirms it.
Costumes were never required when Nora and I started the showdown. Nora’s cousin owned a karaoke bar at the time, and let us take it over. It was originally a graduation party-slash-farewell to everyone going off to college. Every summer, we’d get talked into doing it again as a pre-semester blowout. Obviously, college students need a reason to party until they lose valuable brain cells. By the time we started graduating university, it was deemed an annual tradition for a core group of us.
Being that this year is the ten-year anniversary, the showdown is special, so a bunch of our old classmates used the opportunity to come in from out of town for the only class reunion most of us are interested in. Since the ante on performances is upped with every year, costumes became expected. A big anniversary like this is basically code for: dress up or go home.
I arrive at The Post around eight thirty, and it’s already packed. When Fox comes in about twenty minutes later, I automatically smile. He’s dressed in the most ridiculous costume. This idiot simply cannot resist the urge to go all out. You gotta love that about him. Today, he’s dressed as Elvis. If there’s one outfit I did not want to see on Fox, it’s that white jumpsuit. At least he’s not dressed as Britney Spears, which he did threaten to do.
When he walks up to me, I none-too-subtlely gesture to his crotch. “You’re kind of showing everyone the goods,” I say. “Are you even wearing underwear? I assume that’s rented.”
He barely blinks. “So? No. And yes, but it’s a replica.” He makes an Elvis impersonator face as if somehow all this information is now sexier.
“Well, you just lost your deposit.”
“It’s not like I didn’t have it cleaned first,” he argues.
“How about after?” I ask.
“That’s their problem.”
“Oh God,” I groan, my head falling back and off my shoulders. Sort of. Yeah, not really, but I let it hang there for a moment. “You’re adorable,” I say, reaching up to pinch his cheek. Then I slap it.
“Don’t get me excited in this suit,” he hisses. I’m at once excited myself, but also entertained. I hug him. He hugs me back. I pull away quickly because if I don’t, I fear I’ll linger too long.
I grab a beer out of the communal ice buckets and hand him one as well. We twist off the caps in unison and smile at each other. I lick the neck of the bottle before throwing back a huge gulp. I wink after I swallow.
His face falls slack. That means I got him. I smirk.
“So, ‘Blue Hawaii’?” I ask. Actually, I kind of shout the question because the preshow playlist is cranked up to eleven.
It takes him a second to get his upper brain back from the lower one, but a quick adjustment-slash-wrestling match fixes the issue. Finally he just looks at me as if to say, “What are you on about?”
“Your song choice,” I say, leaning forward toward his ear. Hopefully, my tone makes him feel like this should have been obvious.
“No, no,” he says, waving me off and adjusting himself one more time. Dudes. “It’s a surprise.”
“ ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ is not a surprise, Fox,” I tell him. His eyes go wide—too wide and his mouth drops open in mock shock. “Well, that’s good because that’s not it either.” His grin is contagious.
“ ‘My Way.’ ”
“No.”
“ ‘Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love.’ ”
“Will you stop?”
“ ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’ ” I’ve got my game face on, so he starts laughing. “You’re seriously not going to tell me?”
“I don’t even know if I’m on your team!” he shouts. Three people passing us startle like he yelled “Gun!” in a crowded bank. They very nearly drop to the floor. In fairness, Fox did manage to pick the lull in music to make the exclamation.
I give him the hairy eyeball in response.
“Who says it has to be one of his songs, which you know a disturbing number of, by the way?” He sips his beer and scans the room.
“Everyone knows those songs, Fox.”
“Not telling you.” He legit gets in my face like a seven-year-old.
“Asshole.” I make a hissing sound, but I clearly don’t mean it.
“You love me.”
“It’s a default setting,” I say, winking. Why did I wink? It’s a tic. Yeah, that’s right. A tic.
The audience titters.
Sooner or later, we finally get our increasingly drunk act together and separate into two huge teams. Fox and I are, in fact, on the same team, though he’s somewhere by the actual bar when I decide to take one for the team and go first. I, too, have a costume but it’s super easy.
I have acid wash cutoffs I dug up in my mom’s costume trunk—they were hers and I will never stop laughing about that—high-top Converse, and a denim vest I pinched from the lost and found just as I walked in—pure luck, that one. Before running up on stage, I rip off my sweatshirt to reveal a vintage Def Leppard T-shirt and slap on some faux leather stud cuffs and bright red lipstick. I’m so ready to rock the shit out of this.
The pièce de résistance is a blond mullet wig I pull on just before I run up the stairs onto the stage. Naturally I get lots of wolf whistles. Because mullets. Am I right?
I hear Nora hooting at the back of the room, and instantly know she is shoving her way up front to get pictures. I’m surprised but flooded with joy when I see Cameron is with her. Cam is dressed as Madonna. I almost cry with how happy it makes me. I vogue at him after strutting up to the front of the stage, and he gives me the “rock on” bullhorns. The mic stand has a Steven Tyler-approved number of scarves attached to it and I wonder who added them. Or who will be blessing us with some Aerosmith today. I steal the white one off the stand and add it to my outfit.
When my music comes on, I feel electricity in my veins, the guitar riff of Def Leppard’s “Photograph” kicking it off. My style is a little bit Jagger, but I’m all about being overdramatic and overexaggerated. Doc, who was obviously not part of our class but adopted himself anyway, jumps up on stage to shred some air guitar, which is totally kosher as far as the rules. I sidle up to him and we commence with the whole hair band singer and lead guitarist rubbing up together. He sort-of sings—no, shouts—into my mic with me and I nearly lose my composure because he’s so into it but so off-key. I might not be Adele or whoever, but I can hold a tune. Zeke, who drove in from Santa Barbara tonight, slides onto the stage on his belly and squats on a stool in the back, air drumming. I’m so pumped it’s almost like we’re a legit ’80s hair metal band. I damn near jump in the air to do stupid air splits.
Once I get to the bridge, I drop to my knees for the dramatic high note. Doc slides past me on his knees for the requisite guitar solo. I writhe around on stage because it’s ridiculous, and frankly, I need a breather. When I roll up for the rest of the song, I crawl toward the edge of the stage to see Elvis—excuse me, Fox—staring at me. No, not just staring. The look on his face is straight up predatory. If it were even remotely socially acceptable, he would climb up here and fuck me right on the stage. And the way he’s looking at me? I would let him.
As I psych myself up to belt the last high note, I reach the end of the stage. Fox is right there, so I sing straight to him. Well, karaoke sing. God knows I can’t sing sing. Nora exploits this all the time. I can at least hit the notes I intend, but the fact that I’m up on this stage singing this song is a feat. Good singers can’t sing this song. Luckily the whole point of this competition is to make the biggest ass of yourself as you possibly can. I do quite well in that respect.
For the final line “I want to touch you” and then the screamy-creamy note that follows—painfully so for the audience, I lean over the edge of the stage into Fox’s face. Even with the damn Elvis mutton chops stuck to his face and the pompadour wig, he’s panty dropping gorgeous. The gaudy-as-fuck gold sunglasses are up on top of his head so I grab them and put them on as the song is winding down. Before I can fall to my back on the stage to fake die, Fox grabs me by the face and plants one on me. I’m too surprised to wonder what anyone else around us thinks, but the hooting and hollering are a pretty good indication that they like it. Hell, I like it. The party becomes a fuzz and blur of lights and noise as my friend with benefits—and hopefully baby daddy—sucks the brains out of me. And just like that, his surprise attack becomes a surprise release. I’m not sure what he does as I flop onto my back, hanging off the stage, smeared lipstick and all, but the crowd’s reaction is loud and obnoxious. As obnoxious as Elvis? Hard to say.
Zeke gives me a hand and pulls me to my feet. He looks at me curiously, but doesn’t follow up with any weird comments. He’s far too perceptive for his own good. Doc looks at me, then wherever Fox went, and back to me in a visual pinball game. I wave him off so he shrugs and joins Zeke and me for a group bow. We follow up with a pose like a bunch of metal band imbeciles. There are camera flashes and raucous applause as we make our way off the side of the stage. The next act passes me on the steps, but all I see are pink and black feathers. Boas, I assume, but I can’t focus. I’m still a little dazed from the kiss, if I’m being honest. I’d rather not, so I won’t. Since I’m lying, I’m also not horny as hell. Damn Elvis the Pelvis. Or whatever. Fox’s kisses, man. Killer.
Cyndi Lauper gets started and I pump a fist in solidarity, though I’m insulted that she thinks girls only want to have fun. I want—
“So how about this girl?” Fox says in my ear, his body so close behind me. “Does she want to have fun?”
He can feel my agreement in the way my breathing changes. I know this because his chest presses more firmly into my back and a hand sneaks around my front. Fingertips play with the unnaturally high waistband of my shorts. Yes, they’re actually from the ’80s, people—low-waisted was clearly not a thing yet.
“How about multiple orgasms? Does she want those?”
I full out cackle, but I hold his hand in place. “Who doesn’t?”
With that, The King grabs me around the waist and directs me around the side of the stage to a back door. No sooner are we outside in the alley than I’m up against the brick.
“Don’t ruin my shirt,” I pant as his mouth hoovers around my neck and chest. “It’s vintage.”
My words are probably not as clear as I think they are. No matter, he pays no attention to me anyway.
“Jesus, would you take the fucking mullet off? How are you even this sexy with that damn hockey haircut on?” His growling just makes me hotter, though I find his annoyance hysterical.
“Same reason I can screw you while you have those godforsaken plastic sideburns on your face, you dick,” I say, breathing heavily. We mercilessly grind on one another, laughing, kissing, moaning. Every one of our noises seems to boomerang back to us, bouncing off the loading dock and alley walls around us. The minor phenomenon amps me up and I find myself gasping for breath.
Fox’s hands find my waistband and he curses. “Fucking hell, I need these off,” he growls.
“What about your studly jumpsuit, Your Highness?” I pant through my hilarity.
“Zips down the front, now—”
I stop him by biting his lower lip, and grind out through my teeth. “Push the fucking shorts aside. Rip the fishnets.”
His response is unintelligible, but the desperation of his hands, my hands—hell, the entire tangle of our limbs—is feverish. I feel frantic. If the seam of my jeans isn’t soaked by now, I’d be shocked. Finally his fingers find their target and curl around the fabric, yanking it to the side, easily pulling through the fishnets.
“Fuck, are you even wearing underwear?” he asks, but I don’t think he cares. I feel his fingertips sliding across my throbbing O-button.
“Oh my God, would you just—” I don’t need to continue. His mouth covers mine as he fills me roughly. It’s a good indication for how this is going to go. Hard. Fast. Everything I need right now. Thank God, because if I don’t get a release soon, I will more than probably die. Okay, that’s exaggerating, but obviously the state of desperation is where I’m coming from. Even though I’m not coming. Yet. I—
Ahem.
All I can do is feel him and hang on for dear life. My nails dig through the thin polyester jumpsuit that, holy shit, I want to burn, but at the same time, it’s just too goddamn hilarious. If the wall behind me wasn’t brick, I swear it would be shaking. I’ve already knocked my head against it twice, and I’m positive my shirt ripped a little. I’d be pissed, but the last violent thrust throws me into a shuddering orgasm. To avoid screaming—or more likely an embarrassingly weird sound that would echo all over the county, I bite his shoulder as I ride it out. Unbelievably, he doesn’t stop. He’s fucking relentless. Pun not actually intended but it kind of works here, no? He’s either chasing his own release or trying to drill through the mortar behind us. Anyone’s guess. Kidding, I’m kidding. Jesus, stay with me. Seriously, because the way he’s going, he’s going to pound another orgasm out of me. No lie.
“Oh, oh my God, baby,” I mutter. “Oh. I’m gonna… I’m… another one!”
Fox seems to speed up his pace. “Goddamn,” he growls, but says nothing else. Oblivion is so close the both of us can taste it on the back of our tongues. I start begging, babbling, giggling. He moves a hand up and over my mouth, effectively shutting me up. I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t done that before, quite honestly. My chest heaves and the hilarious thought of a chest-heaving bodice-ripper novel flits through my head just before the second orgasm hits me like a Mack truck.
Somewhere in the haze of my comedown, Fox freezes, groaning in my ear as he comes. The hand on my mouth disappears and slaps against the brick, the other under my ass grips the cheek so hard it may bruise. But I don’t care. It feels godly, powerful, possessive.
Breathing off kilter for the better part of a minute, we relax and I slide down the wall. He kisses me softly.
“I think you’re up soon,” I say quietly as we straighten and clean ourselves up as best we can.
He responds with the stereotypical Kingly, “Uh uh-huh.” I lightly slap him on the face and adjust my shorts. He grins madly and follows me inside.
Whether anyone in the party sees anything outside of drunken idiocy, I can’t say, but no one’s asking questions or pointing fingers. I purposely avoid Doc, though he doesn’t seem to be seeking me out. Zeke eyes me strangely but nods and winks. I think we’re generally in the clear. I head to the bar for something cold. Fox is on deck on the other side of the stage, preparing to go on next.
Nora finds me as I’m leaning across to shout my order at the bartender. “One,” she begins, “that was amazing. I can’t fucking believe you actually hit the creamy note, by the way.”
I straighten and perform a tiny sarcastic curtsy. “Grassy ass.”
“Two,” she says and now I’m worried. “You just got laid.”
My beer arrives. I slide a bill across to pay before looking Nora in the face. Gives me time to school my expression. “No. What?”
“Don’t bullshit me, woman,” she scoffs. “Bullshit is my job. Or at least it was. Fucking Simon.”
“You’re fucking Simon?” I say, just to throw the conversation. It doesn’t work.
“That’s disgusting,” Cameron says as she leans on Nora’s shoulder. “We’re going to get you to confess, so just do it.”
Nora nods, twirling her hands in a silent “get on with it” gesture.
“So what?” I say, chugging down half my beer.
They laugh. “Babe, you’re practically afterglowing in the dark,” Nora says. Her drink disappears before my eyes. She clinks it on the counter and makes a circle gesture to the bartender for a repeat. “Are we going to talk about what’s going on? It’s more than just the impreg—”
“Shut the fuck up!” I snap. Both of their eyes go wide, but only for a second. “No one else here needs to know about that. The ‘in’ crowd in this case is very, very, very small.”
“Jonah and Rae know.”
I choke on my sip. “How do you know they know?”
She smiles. Cam pretends to be shocked. I’m about to rage text Rae and Jonah.
“Relax,” Nora says, reading me. “Jonah knows how close we are, so he let on that he knew something. I’m just following that hunch.”
“And?” I glare, knowing she’s about to hand me a dissertation on her theories.
“Well,” she says, leaning onto a barstool, “it occurred to me that they wouldn’t be a top choice to chat about the whole to-do with, so I figured you got outed somehow. So what would that be? Pregnancy tests? No. They’re not frequent visitors to your pad.”
Cam takes the opportunity to jump in. I feel like a vein is popping out of my forehead when I realize they discussed this. “Nothing significantly stuck out as a realistic flag, so we thought maybe you’re fucking more often than you really need to”—my face gets hot—“and got caught. So?”
My teeth grind and I’m breathing through my nose—kind of like a bull, flaring nostrils and all. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
Cam leans in. “Sophie Ann.”
“Yes! Okay? I just got fucked against the wall outside. I came hard—twice!” I hiss. “Are you evil whores happy now?”
These two awful human beings high-five each other. “Damn, I’m so glad! Though it’s neither here nor there to me,” Cam tells me, sipping a margarita that feels like it appeared from nowhere. “But so you know? You have a rip in your shirt on the shoulder.”
“Goddammit!” I pull at the fabric to get a view of it, but can’t find it. I gasp, the skin on my back surprisingly feeling a bit tender. Where the hell did the vest go? I guess it’s more like “found and lost” now. “Can you get brick burn?”
Nora throws her head back roaring and slaps the counter in front of her. She nearly falls off her barstool and I briefly consider kicking it over. Nope, never mind. She fell off on her own drunk merit. She throws a middle finger salute in the air. She’s fine.
“Cam,” I say, conspiratorially. I pull her cone boob toward me. “How are you? You ready for dinner tomorrow?”
“I’m always ready for a coming out party.” The wink she follows up with is genuine, so I don’t feel so worried. I kiss her cheek. “Just don’t bring pink balloons, okay?”
I guffaw, and Nora taps my shoulder to direct my attention toward the next act. Fox struts into the spotlight in all his obnoxious regalia and his music starts. When I realize it’s “Hound Dog,” I groan. I catch Nora’s gaze. She jumps an eyebrow and smirks.
The audience laughs. It’s not at me, right?