Magnus picks up the dildo and hurls it at François, who ducks.
“Ow!” I yelp as it hits me square in the face. “God freaking d— Get out!” I scream. “All of you, get out!”
“He didn’t even finish his show!” Gran complains.
“We have dinner reservations!” I scream.
The wholesome nonstripperbachelorette is truly and irrevocably off to a horrible start.
“Geez,” Piper says as the chef, who is drunk as hell and very French-Canadian, leers at all of us.
“He’s the best in the biz,” Gran tells me smugly. Somehow she’s wearing the skimpiest outfit of all of us.
I tug awkwardly at the hem of my dress, trying to shimmy it down.
My eye hurts, though I’d slathered makeup all over it.
I had to wear a thong with the dress, and I really feel like I’m flashing people. For something so expensive, it sure feels cheap. Dad’s right, Costco is a way better bargain.
“The boyfriends aren’t here, ladies, so let me know if anyone wants the chef’s special for dessert.”
“Um, barf.”
“Seriously? I mean, I bet he knows how to fuck.” Piper looks semi-interested.
The chef kisses her hand then sets down the plate of poached celery that’s the palate cleanser between courses.
“I have my address in this fortune cookie. I live aboveLe Club du Cervin.”
“I thought we weren’t going to a club. This is supposed to be a nice, wholesome bachelorette!” I remind everyone.
“Don’t be such a wet blanket. It’s a bachelorette par-tay!” Gran kicks me. “We’re here to blow off some steam.”
“Yeah, work hard, play hard.” Maya raises her wineglass. “That’s life in investment banking, baby.”
“Wall Street, whoo!”
“Whoo!” I lamely shake my fist. I’m tired. I want to go home and call Graham.
The food is amazing, even if the chef almost spills some sort of flavored foam in my lap because he’s busy trying to stare down my shirt.
“Do you have chest hair or no chest hair? We have a bet going!” Greta laughs drunkenly and paws at the chef’s shirt.
The chef rips his shirt off, and his hairy pecs jump in time to the techno music pulsing from hidden speakers.
“You girls need to come to the club with me,” he says, dancing around the table. “It’s your last night of freedom. Live a little. You especially.” He grabs my hand and tries to dance with me.
“She’s in a relationship, but I am single,” Piper offers.
“Pack up those snacks. Let’s go!” Gran whoops. “Partay!”
“We have to be up early for the spa.”
“It’s my bachelorette,” Colette snaps. “We’re going out.”
This was noton the itinerary. It’s not even going to look good on social media.
It’s a sex fest in this club. There’s a bachelor party of guys from Eastern Europe, and Colette immediately has us crashing their table. Not like they seem to mind. Piper and the chef are dancing in the middle of the pulsing crowd. Gran is dancing on the bar while eighteen-year-old girls hype her up.
