The Randy Romance Novelist(48)

“I can only imagine how well that went over,” Derk chuckled.

“Not the best time of my life.” I ran my hand over my face. “What the hell am I going to do?”

“I would say talk to Rosie, see if she’s really pregnant.”

That thought crossed my mind, but then again, if she was clueless to being pregnant, maybe it would be a good thing right now, given the insanity draining from her every second of the day. If she was pregnant, then I would want to at least get past the campaign proposal first so I could make sure I was there if she needed me. This was going to stress her out, I wanted to make sure I was able to take care of her to the best of my ability, not blow her off because I had to work late.

“Yeah, I’m probably going to wait to talk to her about it.”

Derk shook his head. “Don’t you watch movies and shows? Never wait to discuss important things; it only blows up in your face later on down the road. Don’t be that guy.”

He was right, I didn’t want to be that guy, but once again, this was real life and I knew what was best for us. Rosie was going to need me when she found out she was pregnant. The next two weeks was going to be full of meetings and refining my proposal . . . a lot of late nights at the office. If I could just get through those few weeks, then I could devote myself to her after. I was just betting on the bachelorette party to keep her busy.

“I know, and I will bring it to her attention. I just have to get past this proposal first, then I can be at her beck and call. Please tell me you can keep this conversation between us.”

“I don’t keep things from Delaney.”

“Give me two f*cking weeks; show some loyalty, man. I’m throwing you your boring bachelor party anyway . . . on a Sunday.”

“Delaney’s decision,” Derk added.

“I know, but help me out here. Give me two weeks. Your party is coming up; it will be perfect timing. I’ll talk to her after the parties, once everything dies down.”

Derk gave me a skeptical look. “I don’t know, man. I can see this going wrong in so many ways.”

“How so?” I asked. “I can fake it. She doesn’t know that I know she’s pregnant. And it might not even be true, she might just be . . . I don’t know having some whacked-out hormone thing going on.”

“She’s pregnant.” Derk didn’t play games; he called it as he saw it.

“I know.” I squeezed my eyes shut in defeat. “She is so f*cking pregnant.”





Chapter Eleven


Man Balls Mahki



ROSIE




“Get ready, up your tension, and . . . go!” the instructor screamed into her microphone. “Eat that hill, push through it, pump those legs and eat it!”

The only thing eating anything in this psychedelic room of spin torture was the bike seat, chomping away at poor, poor Virginia.

I met Delaney at one of her spin classes for the third time, and what I’d come to find out was people in these classes didn’t have any sort of private parts. I was tempted to take a peek at Delaney’s vagina to see it was still intact while in the locker room, because there was no way in hell she still had any kind of peeing parts.

The seats on these spin bikes were made for Barbie and Ken dolls, in the land of plastic where sexual organs didn’t exist.

Every time the instructor told us to speed up, I swear to Jesus himself, the spin seat opened its jaws and started to chomp away at my vagina. Pedal after pedal, the digging of the seat against my area, drilling my underwear into my sensitive skin made me want to puke, to the point that I was numb for hours on end, unable to see if Virginia was still breathing.

It was painful.

Then there was the classroom.

Up front, on either side of the instructor’s bike were screens playing what looked like screensavers from the ’90s. Neon geometric shapes floated across the screen, changing colors at a rapid pace, causing any sober human to feel like they were tripping on acid.

Music blasted from every direction, and not basic music like Roy Orbison, talking about a pretty woman walking down the street. This was Kidz Bop on growth hormone steroids. The beat was entirely too fast—apparently to help you ride faster—and the singers sounded more like robots resurrected from the graveyard of an abandoned Star Wars set, than actual human beings.

Combine the music and screens with all the black lights—yes there were black lights—in the room, and you’ve got yourself a sensory overload of epic proportions. Kind of like cosmic bowling, but on shrooms.

Delaney claimed to love the atmosphere. I, on the other hand, despised everything about spin class. I wanted to ditch the class, but after putting on my spandex workout pants the other day, I realized, they weren’t lying, I needed to hit up the gym, so that was where I was, letting the bike seat eat away at my crotch in the worst way possible.

Ever have the sharp part of a pen cap try to jab its way through your slit? Yeah, me either until I came to this class.

I really wondered what it felt like for men to ride these torture devices. Were their balls shriveled up so far in their body that it didn’t affect them anymore? That was my only guess as to how they were able to exercise in the spin room.

“Let’s move! Up, down, up, down.”

In tandem, the whole class moved their bottoms up and down with the music, alternating from hill to flat in seconds. I looked around while I barely pedaled and marveled at all the numb genitals.