And she’s doing all of this not because she thinks Dominic and I are going to end up together (ha-ha, now there’s a random and stupid and out-of-my-mind thought!), but because she’s actually heartbroken about how our relationship ended, even though she’s the one who broke up with me (I haven’t quite figured out how that makes sense, but trust me, it has to be right). She knows how I feel (used to feel, I chide myself) about Dominic and wants to make a mockery of me.
This whole thing has been planned from the beginning.
“Uh-oh,” Dominic says.
“What?”
“You’ve got that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“It’s that same look you get when you see a story on the news about a rich guy posting
pictures of himself big-game hunting and standing over the corpse of an elephant. Like you want to murder someone.”
“Why would you kill such a magnificent creature and then post a picture of it for everyone to see?” I exclaim. “You have to know everyone is going to think you’re nothing but a gigantic dick who should be strung up and pelted with rotting pumpkins!”
“The most gigantic of all dicks,” Dom agrees. “But since I haven’t seen any dead elephants since we got here, who is it you want to murder? And you may want to reconsider. I may be on vacation, but I’m still a cop. Don’t make me get the handcuffs out again.”
My mouth goes instantly dry at such an image, and I wonder (traitorous fucking brain!) just how that would look in the mirrors above the bed.
“I don’t want to murder anyone,” I mutter. “We don’t need a hotel. We can just stay here in the sex dungeon.”
“I really don’t think you know what a sex dungeon is,” he sighs.
“I do so,” I say. Wow, that sounded lame. And not like the truth at all. I pick up my bag and go to the other side of the bed as my face burns. I open the bag and begin rifling through it, trying to see if there is a chastity belt and a Bible somewhere inside, because apparently I’ve changed my name to Prudence McVanilla Prude.
“Is that what the kids call it these days?”
“I’m hip,” I tell him. “I’m down with it.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize probably no one on the earth says they’re hip and down with it anymore. My life could use a pause button, a rewind button, and most likely a volume control.
There’s a rustling of clothes, and I look up right at the exact moment I’m pretty sure that God and Jesus decide I’m a lost cause and forsake my mortal soul. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening right in front of me.
Dominic is lifting his shirt up and over his head, and while I know it’s physically impossible, I’m convinced he is moving in slow motion and that his torso goes on for miles. Life becomes positively unfair when I see the bulky muscles of his chest covered in a smattering of dark hair. His arms catch in the shirt, and the collar is on his chin, and I do believe I am three point six seconds away from tackling him and motorboating his chest.
Luckily, I have a modicum of self-control left (because I obviously don’t feel that way about him anymore), so I’m able to look up and away before he catches me ogling him like he’s a slab of beef on display.
But it’s escaped my mind (so many things have, it seems) that the ceiling is covered in mirrors, so as soon as I look up, I’m blessed (cursed!) with a completely different view of the heterosexual striptease happening right in front of me. (How long does it take for someone to take off their shirt? I want to scream at him.) Not only can I see him from the top down, I can see the curve of his back and ass and this is exactly what Kori planned, that foul temptress, that evil bitch of a supervillain! This was the exact moment she knew would happen, and how did she get Dominic to play along? What did she promise him? Because she’s obviously promised him something, because no normal person would still be trying to take their shirt off after what has had to have been at least six hours and. That. Ass.
“You okay?” he asks me, his shirt finally off.
“Oh, sure!” I cry. “Everything’s great!”
“You’re breathing funny.”
Calm down. This is what Kori wants. It’s all part of her evil plan. Just calm down and talk about the weather. “Why are you naked!” I screech at him. That’s not weather talk!
“What?” He looks down at himself, and for some reason, I’m relieved his nipples are even with each other. Then I realize I’m staring at his nipples and look at a convenient spot on the wall just over his shoulder. “I’m not naked.”
You lying sack of lies! “Pretty fucking much!”
“I want to take a shower,” he explains calmly. “Get all this road grime off me.”
You have to calm down. Make your response sound natural, like nothing’s wrong at all. You sound like you’re about to shit yourself. “Sure! Swell! That sounds super! Road grime!” Much better. Make a joke. That’s all you need to do. Make a joke. I look back at him (resolutely ignoring just how tan his skin is) and grin a grin that is probably far too wide and reminiscent of a hyena. Tell a fucking joke! “I could use one myself. Maybe I could join you.” OH MARY, MOTHER OF GOD, NOT THAT KIND OF JOKE! STOP TALKING! STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW. “Er, I mean, ain’t no thang. Go take your shower, home slice. I’ll just chillax in here.” Why am I talking like I’m a WASPy white kid from the suburbs going to the inner city for the first time? Dear Jesus, I know you just forsook me, but please make me have a stroke right now. That’d be super cool, and I’d totally owe you one.
“Chillax?” Dom asks me, sounding confused. “Home slice? Are you sure you’re okay?”
No, no, I’m really not. I’ve got stress sweat like a motherfucker, and I’m pretty sure it randomly smells like old french fries, and I would give anything, literally anything, to have this moment be over. The more I open my mouth, I remind myself, the worse it gets. The answer is simple. Stop. Talking.