Bigger Rock Page 7

  The next afternoon, I’m watching as a little white ball soars high in the air, then lands with a plunk on fake grass about fifteen feet away.

  “Dude, you suck,” I tell Nick.

  “Well aware of that.”

  He grabs another ball, sets it down on the tee, and swings his club. When he makes contact, the ball sails so damn high, it nearly hits the top of the black net, then smacks the long path of green that extends below like a dock over the Hudson River. Two white dinner cruise ships are moored next to the driving range, and nothing but blue skies stretch above us. We’re at Chelsea Piers, where he’s working on his golf game.

  “Hate to break it to you, but I doubt your new boss is going to be terribly impressed with your swing. Maybe you can convince him to play softball with us instead.”

  He scoffs. “Not likely. The man is obsessed with golf, and word is he plays favorites and gives better time slots to the showrunners who keep up with him on the course.”

  “That’s insane. But if that’s true, you need less shoulder. More hips,” I tell him, since I dabbled in golf in high school. I don’t talk about it much. Makes me sound too snooty. Or too old. But if it helps my buddy, I’ll call up the old golf skill book for him.

  Nick raises his face and stares at me through his black hipster glasses, his brown hair flopping down on his forehead. “Don’t you dare put your hands on my hips to show me.”

  I crack up, holding up my hands in surrender. “You can count on that never happening,” I say, as I move out of the way of his next attempt.

  He does better this time, and the ball arcs neatly over the grass.

  “There you go,” I say. “Write that into your next episode. Mr. Orgasm’s buddy saves his ass from embarrassing himself with his golf swing in front of the new boss.”

  Nick Hammer is a rock star in the TV world. Back in high school, he was the quiet geek bent over his notebook sketching dirty comic strips that he posted online. Ten years later, he turned his talent and his concept into an animated TV show—The Adventures of Mr. Orgasm, a hilarious and filthy show that airs late at night on the cable network Comedy Nation. The hero is an animated caped crusader who bestows orgasmic pleasure on womankind. Pretty sure it was wish fulfillment for Nick back in high school. Now, art imitates life and vice versa. He’s still got a quiet side, but women notice him. He’s hit the weights since our teenage days, inked up his arms with tattoos he designed himself, and found the guts to finally start talking to the opposite sex. The result? Pure magic. The man’s a total tomcat, and I suspect the glasses and unassuming I-once-was-a-geek-now-I’m-a-star persona helps his cause with the ladies.

  “And how exactly does the coming come into play in this storyline you propose?” he asks dryly.

  I shrug and clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t know. That’s why you, my man, are the writer. It’s your job to figure out how the Os fit into the show. Speaking of storylines, I need a little help with something,” I say, getting to the heart of this quick detour I’ve made to see him this afternoon.

  He sets down his club, and crooks his finger. “It’s called the G-spot. You find it inside a woman. When you hit it at just the right angle, she comes harder than she ever has before. Need anything else?”

  I pretend to bang a drumstick as soundtrack to his punchline, then I tell him about my new temporary relationship status.

  After he laughs, guffaws, and chuckles over my predicament, he asks, “Is this your way of asking me to be your best man? Will the wedding be fake, too?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “There won’t be a wedding. Ever. But this is what I need. When we have our softball game next weekend, my dad will be there, and his buyer will be there. All I need is for you to act like you knew I was into her. If it comes up, don’t act surprised or suspicious.” My dad runs a mixed-age softball team sponsored by Katharine’s, and he recruited both Nick and me for his team this year. Nick’s softball swing is worlds better than his golf swing.

  He nods several times, like he’s taking in my directive, then he strokes his chin. “Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is, I should behave like I’m perfectly capable of backing up the latest bullshit of yours. Okay. I think I can do that.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s why I depend on you. The bottomless well of sarcasm.”

  “It matches yours,” he says with a smirk.

  “I need to take off, since I have this dinner thing tonight. I’ll catch you later.”

  I start to head out, when he calls out to me. “Does this mean I can’t put the moves on Charlotte now?”

  My shoulders tense for a moment and that fiery burst of possessiveness returns with a vengeance, like a red-tailed hawk swooping down from the sky, big-ass claws brandished. I remind myself he’s joking. That’s what he does. And I’m not the least bit jealous or possessive. The hawk turns into a dove. “Just for the next week or so,” I say. “Then she’s all yours.”

  But those words feel all wrong coming out of my mouth. Even if she’s not mine, she can’t be his. And I’m not a motherfucking bird of peace.

  “I always thought you two would make a cute couple,” he says in a sugar-sweet voice.

  As I walk off, he makes mock kissing sounds. I’m pretty sure he’s singing the kissing tree song, and it’s definitely my cue to put him in the rearview mirror.

  Besides, I need to get in character for tonight.

  Because this is all an act.

  Nothing more.

  11

  The steak is delicious, the Caesar salad tasty, and the red wine smooth.

  Like the conversation.

  So far, so good. It’s been jewelry, private schools, softball leagues, and how great the weather is. Can you spell getting-away-with-it?

  Oh, and after we arrived at the restaurant, the Offermans all bestowed their requisite ‘congratulations’ on my bride-to-be and me, as she flashed her ring, and the women oohed and aahed. My sister, too. Her congrats was the biggest of all; so was her hug, as she pulled me into her loving, sisterly vice and breathed, barely audible, in my ear, “You can’t fool me. But I’ve got your back.”

  Guess you can’t trick a magician. She’s been trained to detect sleight of hand, and she spotted mine in seconds.

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “You do. Especially since I still haven’t forgiven you for the Santa Claus incident when I was ten,” she hissed, before breaking apart and flashing a smile for the camera.

  But the reporter from Metropolis Life and Times didn’t seem to catch on, nor did he last for long here at the private room in McCoy’s. I suspect he was an intern, which confirms this will be some sort of puff piece. A young guy, he lobbed a few questions at my dad and Mr. Offerman, about the handover of the family-owned business, then snapped some pictures of the clan and took off. Probably so he doesn’t miss his bedtime.

  Easy as pie.

  Now we’re finishing our meal at this midtown steak restaurant that exudes class and ambiance with its crisp white tablecloths, oak tables, soft lighting, and waiters in suits. I slide my knife through the filet mignon and do a double take at something in the corner of my vision. Mr. Offerman’s oldest daughter, Emily, is seated across from me. She twirls a strand of her long black hair and looks at me.

  Uh-oh.

  I recognize that stare. It’s the kind women give from across the bar when they’re flirting with you. Worry shimmies through me. Is she batting her eyelashes, now?

  Averting my gaze, I take a bite of the steak, chew it, and swallow roughly. I grab my wineglass and down more of the red liquid. Something slides across the toe of my shoe.

  Something that feels distinctly like Foot of a Young Lady.

  No.

  No fucking way.

  Is Emily playing footsie with me?

  My chest tightens.

  I yank my foot away.

  My sister laughs out loud.

  The stinking little prankster. She’s sitting next to Emily.


  My mother turns to Harper and smiles brightly. “Something funny?”

  She nods, her red ponytail bouncing as she reins in a grin. “Just remembering this funny joke I heard.”

  “Care to share? Or is it inappropriate?” my mother asks, voice laced with politeness. She wants this dinner to go well for my dad, too. She’s no stick in the mud. If Harper has a good, clean joke, my mom will want to hear it. The woman loves laughing.

  My sister sets down her fork. “It’s completely appropriate. In fact, it’s perfect for Spencer now,” Harper says, her eyes lasered in on me. She clears her throat. She’s got the attention of the whole table. I sit ramrod straight, nerves skittering through me because I have no clue what she’s up to. She said she’d keep my secret, but she’s also been looking for a way to stick it to me ever since I told her Santa Claus wasn’t real, and that as a fifth grader she was too old to still believe in him. With wet eyes and a tear-stained face, she swore she’d get back at me for ruining her greatest dream.

  She better not be exacting her revenge now. If she is, I will dangle her upside down over the banister until she cries uncle. Oh, wait. That was ten-year-old Spencer thinking. The mature me would never do that. Instead, I’ll just break out the old family photo album the next time she brings a date home. Show off her second grade haircut. That she gave herself.

  “Can’t wait to hear it,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

  Bring it on, sis.

  She raises her chin and launches into her joke. “Why can’t Ray Charles see his friends?”

  “Why?” Mrs. Offerman asks curiously, knitting her brow. She mouths to herself, “because he’s blind,” and seems pleased she got the answer in advance.

  My sister pauses, tilts her head, and stares straight at me. “Because he’s married.”

  Harper has the whole table laughing. Well, the over-twenty crowd. Mr. Offerman’s daughters hardly chuckle, but Harper doesn’t need to amuse them. She had them eating out of her hand earlier in the night when she was discussing pop music and tips for taking better selfies, including points for—get this—video selfies.

  “Do you think that’ll happen to you soon, Spencer?” my sister asks, batting her eyelashes at me as she props her chin in her hands.

  She is such a devil.

  “Nah, Charlotte is cool,” I say as I slide my shoe closer to Harper under the table, and try to kick her. I mean, tap her foot lightly. But instead, Emily yelps.

  “Ouch, that hurt,” she whines.

  Oh fuck. Wrong girl.

  “What happened, dear?” Mrs. Offerman snaps her gaze to her oldest daughter. She’s a petite woman, and has spent most of the meal fussing over her family members.

  “Someone just kicked me under the table,” Emily says, annoyed.

  Her mother turns those watchful blue eyes to my side of the table, scanning for the kicking culprit. I wince inside. I can’t believe I’ve fucked this up already, and it’s all because of my sister.

  I race through possible excuses, but before I latch onto one, Charlotte pipes in, placing her hand on her heart in apology. “I’m so sorry, Emily. That was me. When Spencer drives me crazy, I kick him under the table. And, being a man, he does that often, even though I still adore him. This time though, I slipped and kicked you. I’m sorry,” she says with the sweetest smile, and I could kiss her. I could fucking kiss her.

  So I do. I clasp my hand on her cheek. “I deserved it. I love that you keep me in check, honey bear,” I say, then press a soft kiss to her lips.

  She kisses me back for a few seconds, a chaste, sweet kiss, but even so, it’s nearly enough for me to forget the whole table full of people. All I want is more of this fake kissing. More tongue, more lips, more teeth.

  More contact.

  More her.

  Exactly what I can’t be wanting.

  Clapping begins. I end the kiss to see my sister leading the cheers. “You two are the cutest couple. When is the wedding?”

  Oh.

  That detail.

  My mother’s eyes shine with excitement. “Oh yes, will it be a summer wedding?”

  “We’re thinking spring,” Charlotte says, once again seamlessly taking the reins. “Perhaps May. Maybe at an art gallery. Or a museum. The Museum of Modern Art has such lovely sculpture gardens for weddings.”

  “Oh, that would be a gorgeous location,” Mrs. Offerman says, the kicking incident now in a galaxy far, far away. She cups her hand over the side of her mouth so her girls can’t see her. “I’ve already been scoping out locations for their nuptials, even though those are years away. But you can never start too early.”

  Mr. Offerman clasps his hand on top of hers. “It’s a good hobby for you, dear. It gets you out of the kitchen.”

  I straighten my spine. Are we in the fifties here? “Out of the kitchen?”

  My father clears his throat, his voice booming over mine. “Kate, what do you think of the sculpture garden?” he says to my mother, and that’s my cue to zip my lips. “You’ve always loved the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “It’s a stunning location, and I think Charlotte and Spencer’s wedding will be beautiful wherever they choose to hold it. Charlotte, I know you’re close to your own mother, but I’m here for any planning help you need. I adore weddings.”

  Mrs. Offerman weighs in again, locking her gaze with Charlotte. “Your mother must be so thrilled. Will she be planning it for you?”

  Charlotte’s expression turns perplexed, and she furrows her brow. “I’m sure she’ll help.”

  “Of course she’ll help, dear. She’ll do more than help. Is she nearby?”

  “My parents live in Connecticut.”

  “What else would she be doing but helping plan the special day?” Mrs. Offerman says with a look of utter surprise, as if she can’t comprehend any scenario but the one where Charlotte’s mom spends every waking hour barking commands at florists and issuing orders at swank reception halls.

  “She’s pretty busy with work,” Charlotte says.

  “Oh. Work?” That seems to confuse the woman. “What does she do?”

  “She’s a surgeon at a hospital in New Haven.”

  Mrs. Offerman’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline, her eyes widening to beach-ball size. “How interesting. And your father?”

  “He’s a nurse,” Charlotte says, and her tone is so completely dry that I start to crack up, but manage to suck in the sound and clamp my lips together once more.

  “Really? I thought he was a doctor, too?” my mother says, genuinely surprised, as she should be, since Charlotte is fucking lying right now. It is killing me, absolutely killing me to hold all this laugher inside my throat.

  Charlotte smacks her forehead. “My bad. He started as a nurse, but he worked his way up, at my mother’s encouragement, and became a doctor, too.” This time she is telling the whole truth, and the look on Mrs. Offerman’s face is priceless. It’s as if she’s never heard of a male nurse, and certainly not one who became a doctor at his wife’s urging. Mr. Offerman appears even more flummoxed.

  The silence spreads. The table goes quiet for a moment. The clink of glasses and the jangling slide of forks against china is the only sound in the private room.

  “To the happy couple,” my father says, rescuing the table from any more chatter about the roles of men and women by raising his glass.

  “Hear, hear. Who doesn’t love a wedding? It’s our favorite thing, isn’t it?” Mr. Offerman says to Dad with a wink that says, now we’re two men celebrating what feeds our business.

  His daughters raise their soda glasses, and I hold up my wine glass, clinking first with Charlotte. A faint noise comes from under the table, like a light thunk. She flashes me a grin, and there’s something very private in her expression, something that says we have a secret. Then, I know what it is. Because this time, there’s no doubt who’s touching who. It’s her toes sliding over the top of my shoes. Then along my lower leg. Now higher, and it’s crazy, truly crazy, that Ch
arlotte’s toes along my leg feel so damn good.

  The kind of good where I want to grab her hand, tug her into the bathroom, push her up against the wall, and hike up that skirt. The kind where I discover what kind of panties she’s wearing tonight, and if they’re already damp with her arousal.

  But that. Can’t. Happen.

  Must be all the wine.

  “We should go to MoMA tomorrow,” Mrs. Offerman says to my mom. “Emily plans to study art history in college next year.” Emily raises an eyebrow, like she disagrees with that notion. “And you can check out the gardens, Kate.”

  “What a lovely idea,” my mother, ever the diplomat, says.

  Mrs. Offerman locks eyes with Charlotte. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Absolutely.” Charlotte squeezes my hand. “We’ll both be there.”

  “Can’t wait,” I say, because any other answer could be cause for dismemberment.

  I finish my glass of wine, and as the conversation heads in another direction, so does Charlotte’s foot, as she slides it back into her shoe. I’m grateful, because if I get aroused by a foot, I might need to get myself checked out to make sure I haven’t reverted to preteen turn-on levels.

  After dessert and coffee, I pull my sister away from the table, far enough from the others to have a word with her. “Harper, seriously. You’ve got to be on my side. You were so close to serving it up.”

  “Oh, please. I was not. I was only having fun. You know I’ve got your back, and always do,” she says, like I’d be crazy to think otherwise. But crazy feels like my new normal this weekend.

  “I know. Just be in on this with me. Not against me,” I say, a dash of desperation in my voice. Who am I kidding? It’s not a dash. It’s a full fucking serving.

  She laughs. “You’re so pathetic when you need something. Where’s the Spencer who dangled me over the banister when I was eight?”

  I adopt a look of shock. “I thought you were six when that happened?”

  “Even worse.” She pulls me in for a hug. “It’s okay. I won’t rat you out. But I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t worry. I got this.”