The Dirty Book Club(59)
“I don’t know anything. No name, no occupation, no idea if there are dependents on his tax returns, no nothing. He’s as zipless as the day I met him. I was going to check his wallet, but I never got a chance. He got an emergency call and took off mid-blow.”
“You’re obviously not opening your mouth wide enough,” Addie said. “If your lips are too tight it feels like he’s sticking his dick in a pencil sharpener, in which case, I could see why he answered the phone.”
Britt opened wide and closed her mouth around her entire fist proving her wrong. “So, I’m thinking it’s a sign,” she continued. “Like, go be with your husband, Britt. You’re not a cheater. This isn’t you. Go home. When I got there Paul was waiting for me in the driveway, all anxious and hand-wringy like he knew. But the only thing he said was, ‘I’m late for a meeting. I need the Prius.’?” Britt paused so they could absorb the audacity. “Translation? I need to get to my mistress, now, before my pubes grow back.”
“And the scooter?” M.J. asked, always the editor, tracking the point.
“Paul took the Prius, so when I got the call about Jules I went for the golf cart, but Mr. Wonderful forgot to charge it, so . . .” Britt lifted the helmet above her head like a winning trophy. The hair extension fell from the strap and landed on her shoulder. She slung it over a branch like tinsel just as Easton announced his victory with a thumbs up.
* * *
JULES RODE THE adjustable mattress from flat to forty-five degrees, an angle more suitable for entertaining. “Nothing like extra-strength Claritin and chardonnay to remind a girl she’s human,” she said, with the satisfied snap of her compact mirror. Her makeup was prom-queen perfect. She did not look like a woman who fainted from mixing antihistamines with alcohol. Not that M.J. knew what that woman looked like. Jules had to be the first.
“She was at a flower expo all morning,” Destiny added, as if that explained everything.
“It wasn’t the flowers,” Jules insisted. “It was that second shot of wine.”
Britt winced. “You shot wine?”
“It’s an old Choral Fixation tradition,” Easton said. “We do it before every show. You know—wet whistles, calm jitters . . .” He placed a hand on Jules’s shoulder. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you.” Easton handed her a cup of ice chips.
Jules smiled her appreciation.
“As you wish,” he said.
Jules’s breath hitched at the sound of those words. And while her mouth was open, Easton gently fed her an ice chip. “I guess Brandon had to take off, huh?” he said, while she sucked.
Jules pointed her lavender toenails toward the bathroom by the foot of her bed. “He’s in the little boys’ room.” Then, with an adoring sigh, “I don’t know how he got here from Oceanside so quickly. My prince’s steed must have grown wings.”
The toilet flushed.
M.J. listened for the squeaking faucet, a pumping soap dispenser, the stiff rip of paper towel. But none of the conventional indicators of handwashing were there. All she heard was the pop of the lock, a swiftly twisted handle, and Britt’s audible gasp.
* * *
THE MARKER WAS a watering hole for people whose troubles had troubles. Dimly lit and a stent’s throw from the hospital, it had become what locals referred to as the devil’s conference room. A urinal cake-scented, red-bulbed hideaway where beer bottles clanged like old bones and the ice machine hummed a zombie’s dirge. It’s where puffy-eyed family members made funeral arrangements, defeated surgeons recovered after imparting bad news, and sinners on scooters baptized their souls in cheap house white.
“At least you know his name,” Addie said.
Britt released her forehead to the sticky bar, pinched the stem of her wineglass, and dragged it toward her ear. “Did you see the color of his face?”
“From hardboiled egg to eggplant,” M.J. said.
“Do you think Jules picked up on it?”
“No way,” M.J. said. “Her heart-shaped pupils were too focused on Brandon to notice anything. Including that he doesn’t wash his hands after he uses the bathroom.”
Britt knocked her head against the bar. “I can’t believe the Brazilian is married . . . to Jules!” Another knock. “As soon as the wine shots wear off she’ll realize that he was already up here. I mean, not even a magic steed could get from Oceanside to Pearl Beach on a Saturday in under two hours. Then she’ll start digging around and—” Britt’s gaze wandered to the lineup of dusty liquor bottles behind the bar. “Jules’s husband’s hands were on my naked ass.”
Addie finger-stirred her Virgin Mary. “His unwashed hands.”
“What a piece of shit!” Britt said.
“Why was he at Marrow that night?” M.J. asked. “Did Jules even know he was in town?”
“No idea,” Britt said, then she smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh my God, Rooftop! I thought he was there to watch me, like I was the hottest thing ever. But he was with Jules.”
“The Brazilian was at my party?”
“He was,” Britt said. “Until he realized I knew Jules.”
“Hence the stomachache,” M.J. said.