The Dirty Book Club(43)

Fuck you, Selena Gomez!

How was she supposed to lose herself when surrounded by posters of the pouty starlet and a photo collage of Margot’s friends? The guest bathroom it was.

Once situated on the bathmat, which desperately needed a vacuum, Britt removed the bottle of lube from inside the gift bag and squeezed the slippery solution onto her fingers. The sound reminded her of ketchup squirting onto a hot dog, which reminded her of family barbecues, which reminded her of the twins, which reminded her that she had a million things to do before they came home from camp—none of which involved lying on a hair-filled bathmat with a vibrator.

Still. Britt spread her legs. Her hip-flexor popped. She needed to stretch more after spin. She needed to stop thinking about spin. She reached into her boyshorts and applied the lube. She closed her eyes. Her vagina began to burn. And not in the “ignited gas burner” way, in the “someone doused it in gasoline and tossed a match on it” way.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow ow!” She jammed a monogrammed towel between her legs and waddled to the tub. A burning bush! she might have joked, if she wasn’t seriously considering a call to 9-1-1. But what would she ask for—an ambulance or the nearest hook and ladder?

After hosing down her crotch with cold water, the pain finally began to subside.

“What the hell?” Paul asked, eyelids too swollen to notice the splay of discarded paraphernalia on the bathmat.

Britt emerged from the tub, shivering. “Cramps.”

He yawned. “You woke me up.”

“Sorry. I know you have a big day watching Netflix tomorrow . . .”

“It’s okay,” he muttered, returning to bed.

Back in Margot’s room, Britt checked the bottle of lube for the name of someone she could sue. Instead, she found a warning: “This product was designed as a sex toy cleaner and should not come in contact with the skin.”

She whipped it at Selena Gomez’s throat.

In the apartment above the Good Book . . .



* * *



ADDIE LEANED FORWARD and spit.

“Fuck!” she said, wiping her lips on the back of her hand—her thirty-fifth birthday and the only thing in her mouth was an electric toothbrush. The night was not supposed to end this way. No night was!

It didn’t matter how many times she brushed, the taste of resentment was still there—metal and dirt, like prison bars—prison bars disguised as a gift from Gloria, Liddy, Dot, and Marjorie.

What could have possibly made them think she’d want Liddy’s bookstore for her birthday? The gift was of no use to her, unless of course she could sell it for travel money or burn it for warmth. And so Addie decided she would simply give the Good Book back. Thanks but no thanks. Delete from cart.





CHAPTER


Fifteen


Pearl Beach, California

Tuesday, July 19

Full Moon

THE FULL MOON called the Dirty Book Club’s second meeting to order, and tonight’s G-spot, thanks to Jules’s pull, was the Majestic’s ultra-exclusive Oyster Bar. Located on the beach, the torch-lit cave could seat only thirty people and—after months of reading about the mesmerizing sitar music and vanilla-spice incense imported from Morocco—M.J. would finally be one of them. Management promised them a table for sixty minutes, provided they were out before Solange Knowles arrived, but Jules was convinced they could push it to ninety if they dressed like “hoochie mamas.”

Which was why M.J. was miffed when Britt drove past the valet and chose free parking two blocks away. Her hoochie-mama shoes were not made for walking. But Britt allegedly saw Paul drive out of the Majestic and was adamant that they not waste chardonnay money on pricey hotel valets. “Because when a woman sees her unemployed husband pull out of a resort on a Tuesday evening, every dollar in her Coach wallet gets drafted for active duty. Mission: drink to forget,” she said. Hands shaking, she released the Mini Cooper key into her clutch. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be having an affair, not him!”

“Are you sure it was Paul?” M.J. asked, as she clacked through the lobby trying to keep up with Britt’s urgent steps.

“How many wool-beanie-wearing ass-bags drive blue Priuses in this town?”

“If you’re including Lyft drivers I’d say hundreds.”

Out on the beach, a college-aged staffer wearing a guayabera shirt and an at-your-service smile, was standing in front of the red ropes that blocked access to the cave. Once he found their names on his list he welcomed them to the only five-star barefoot bar in Orange County. “Can I check your shoes?”

M.J. lifted her leg and rolled her ankle, offering him an unobstructed view of her Louboutins.

“No, ma’am, I mean, can I check them for you while you’re at the Oyster Bar? Then, you know, give them back when you leave. Like a coat check but for—”

“How much?” Britt asked.

“The service is free, but oftentimes patrons thank me with a tip.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately your tip has its heart set on being a bottle of chardonnay, so I’ll handle the shoes myself, thanks.” Britt removed her strappy sandals and rolled up her gold lamé genie pants in deference to the rising tide. Her arched spine poked through her black tankini top like a threat: If you so much as think about calling me MC Hammer I’ll cut you.