Page 44 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

Kait’s usually upbeat, but she’s downright chipper tonight. If sunshine had a sound, it would sound like her. “Would you do me a giant favor, Henry? Drink your water?” When I forget to drink, she says, “Water, Henry? Maybe some Advil?” I finish it and stagger to the bathroom for some ibuprofen. “Sleeping in tomorrow, or do you need an alarm?”

“Sleeping in! I’ve been sleeping so well.” I blather on about how I sleep like a baby, singing the praises of her miracle sleep program and explaining in detail that she should patent it or turn it into an app. “I could fall asleep right now, but I wanted to hear your voice. Isn’t that the most amazing thing ever? Not the missing-you part—that’s quite logical. The sleeping part, that’s amazing, isn’t it?”

She’s silent for a long moment that stretches, tormenting me with a big gaping silence until she replies, “I missed you too, Henry.” Me? Really? It seems impolite to ask if we’re currently in the rectum of rectitude, so I keep it in until I figure out what to say.

Kait speaks first. “Knowing you’re sleeping well gives me warm fuzzies, and I’m over the moon that you still call. I’d miss you if you didn’t. Hell, I miss you when you do call—there’s always a couple of days in between. Your voice spicy brightens my day.” You can’t hear a smile, but I think she’s smiling. I’m smiling, and I can’t hear it or see it, but I know it’s there. I close my eyes, testing to see if the room spins around me. It doesn’t because I’m spicy tipsy, not drunk, despite everything Grumpy Spice said.

“Pull the covers up, Henry. Let’s get you tucked in.”

She knows I haven’t pulled the covers up. Remarkable. I tug at my bedding.

“That’s better,” she says. “You’re doing so good, pulling the covers up like that.”

I groan. “Spicy good even.”

I am good for her. So good. The best of good. Spicy freaking good.

“Perfect even,” Kait whispers, sounding spicy sexy.

I groan again, but it’s quiet. The next sound she makes doesn’t have a name; it’s more of a feeling. It’s a satisfied coo and amusement wrapped up in a satin bow so they’re nestled together, and I really, really like it. Pleasing her makes me feel like a bowl brimming with liquid happiness, but it isn’t tequila. It’s more like golden, sun-warmed agave syrup.

A coarse sigh escapes me. She doesn’t sound chipper anymore. It’s more like she’s had a few cigarettes or some Scotch when she says, “Sleep well, Henry.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HENRY

“IN THE AIR TONIGHT” — PHIL COLLINS

Oh dear god. The massive drum solo from “In The Air Tonight” hammers inside my head, my brain throbbing with my pulse. Why?

Oh, right.

Julian.

When I have a headache this bad, Julian is always the answer.

The night comes back to me in little flash-bangs, bringing bile to the back of my throat with each image. Sky cursing. Sky crying. Sky laughing. All of us laughing. More shots than I have fingers and toes. I haven’t pieced together the fuzzy gaps between Julian stripping onstage and me ending up in bed, but I’m sure it’ll worm its way to the surface eventually.

I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. Good to know I don’t need Kait for a long night’s rest, just enough alcohol to drown a horse. Given the side effects, I’ll take the credit card bill for her services and pay it happily.

Her voice drifts around the negative space in my brain. Her giggles, her whispers, her amusement. Her—no. No. I did not call her last night. Nooooooo. No.

As if my phone can feel my panic, it leaps out of reach, tumbling to the floor and skidding under my bed. Or I might’ve dropped it, but we’re blaming the phone this morning. And my absurdly low-to-the-ground bed. We’re blaming my phone and my bed, not my hungover body or pounding head. I have to use a broom to get to it. The phone, not the bed. Like some demented game of Twister with me on my knees, boxer-clad ass in the air. I catch the phone with the broom a little too aggressively, and it ricochets off the wall. I’ll be lucky if it even works after this. Or maybe I’ll be better off without it since I can’t be trusted not to drunk dial.

I scramble for it, breathless, covered in a sheen of sweat by the time I’m able to unlock it. Recent calls. Bedtime Stories. 138 minutes.

This is not good.

“Hi, Henry,” she screams. “You’re up early. I can’t believe I get to talk to you twice in one day.”

I turn the volume down until I have to strain to hear her, her perkiness amplifying the ache between my ears. Luckily, it only hurts when I exist. “Good morning, Kait.”

“Does your head hurt?” There’s a tease hidden under the concern. “Is that why we’re whispering?”

“I may have a hint of a hangover.”

“Why on earth would you have a hangover?” she asks, all innocence and curiosity. Or, rather, faux innocence and curiosity. “You were just spicy tipsy.”