The Dirty Book Club(45)

“That old place would never pass a safety inspection, not with that buckling ceiling. The structure has to be updated to the current building codes, which have changed since Liddy bought it. That’s going to take time and a lot of money.”

“Ugh!” Addie slammed the armrest. A rugged beer-swigging bunch at the bar, each with mud-stained jeans and day laborer’s tans, took a sudden interest in the buxom redhead with the high-glossed pout. A pout that suddenly transitioned into a coquettish grin when she saw them. “The one in the middle is a babe,” she muttered through a clench-toothed smile.

“I know that guy,” Britt whispered. “He’s an arborist. He used to work on landscape projects with Paul. They called him Bungee because he has a super-long—”

“Dibs!” Addie announced. “I’m calling dibs on Bungee.”

“Why didn’t Bungee have to dress like a hoochie mama?” M.J. asked, adjusting the crotch of her pants in a preemptive strike against camel toe.

“Staffers can drink at the Oyster until nine because no one important shows up before then. You should see what he’s working on. It’s called a living wall. By August the entire front facade of the hotel will be covered in plants.”

“What happens if I don’t sign the deed?” Addie asked, cleavage aimed at Bungee, the rest of her parts trained on Britt.

“If you don’t sign the deed the store stays with Liddy.”

Addie laughed at the simplicity of it all. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Addie took a victorious shot of Grey Goose. “So, who had fun at my party?”

Jules’s lashes fluttered. “You’re not even going to think about it?”

“Nope,” Addie stole a side-eyed glance at Bungee, fluffed her hair, and then tipped her chin, offering him a view of her photogenic side. “Can we please talk about my birthday? Did you like the vibrators?” she asked, loud as a mating call.

“What do you say we get started?” Jules said, lifting her Prim-covered copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.

“Five stars,” Britt said, refilling her glass. “Am I right?”

Jules nodded vigorously. “That moment when Ana e-mails Christian and says she doesn’t like him anymore because he left after sex and”—she fanned off a rush of tears—“and minutes later he appears at her door and says, ‘You said you wanted me to stay, so here I am.’ That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever read.”

Britt agreed.

“You bought that crap?” M.J. gasped.

“Full price, paid in full.”

“The sex scenes were great but you have to admit the prose was a bit unrefined,” M.J. said, fingers longing for the feel of her red editing pencil.

“Prose?” Britt sneered. “Honey, reading Fifty Shades of Grey for the prose is like drinking wine to be heart smart. That is not why we’re here. We’re here because everyone wants to be Ana. Including me.”

“You’re into . . .” Jules glanced over her shoulder, then whispered, “that?”

“If by that you mean getting my tits smacked around by a gorgeous, fit, well-endowed billionaire pilot who speaks French, plays the piano, books my wax and gyno appointments, and wants me to eat even more than I normally do, then, yes, Jules, yes I am.”

“Doesn’t that make you a prostitute?”

“No, it makes me a goddamn genius.”

M.J. sat back and folded her arms across her blouse. “I don’t know what’s more shocking. That you gave Fifty Shades five stars or that Addie isn’t keeping the bookstore.”

Addie looked at her like, Really, we’re still doing this? “Those women are trying to handcuff me to Pearl Beach and I’m not going to let them. So can we drop it?” She liberated the wing necklace from her cleavage and gripped it like a security blanket. “Is it me or are my boobs getting bigger?”

Jules respectfully looked away. “Speaking of handcuffs . . .” She jangled the key around her neck like a dinner bell. “It’s time.”

With that she unfolded Dot Crawford’s letter and began reading.





THE DATE: Wednesday, May 2, 2012

THE DIRTY: Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James

THE DETAILS: By Dot Crawford

When I told the girls that Fifty Shades of Grey, with all its whipping and flogging, was the novel I identified with more than any of the others we’ve read, they nearly pooped their pantsuits. Because Dot Crawford doesn’t choose pain—not anymore.

I’ve always believed that those who do must have an abundance of pleasure in their lives. Why else would they doff their caps to suffering if not for the thrill of an irregular experience? And I’ve suffered enough.

So it wasn’t all that Red Room nonsense that grabbed me, it was the question Anastasia had to ask herself each time she entered it—How much torture will I endure in the name of love? It was a question I asked myself for almost fifteen years, and the answer was always the same: “As much as I deserve.” But unlike Anastasia, my tormentor wasn’t a Renaissance man with a sex fetish. It was my husband, Rob.

We met the summer after I graduated high school. I got a job as a checkout girl at Crawford & Sons Grocery and spent my shifts checking out the twenty-year-old “Son.”