Page 61 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

I belt out my own version of the lyrics, “I’mma sexy fuckable mother.”

After hopping backward to the beat, I triple-slap my very bare rump. At the full-length mirror, I grind and pump. My sublime ass-mass moves on its own in time to the music. I pretend I’m a backup dancer for a pop princess, circa 2001. No, a pop queen, right now.

I’m renewed. I’m sexy, I’m wolfwoman, hear my pussy roar!

Biting my bottom lip, I twerk harder and inch around the hotel room. I open the slider, allowing salty air to rush inside. I don’t care who sees. Nothing can stop me now. I dance toward the lump on the bed.

Downtown, Nathan has performed to a version of this song. At the end, he ripped off his pants and bared his glorious backside. I do my best to emulate the moves but fall short.

Instead, I harken to my younger years for choreography. After a few arm thrusts, a pair of glittery antennae head-boppers find their way on my head. Then I do the running man, the robot, the sprinkler, and slide into a combo twerk and dab.

“You hear that, Mini-Wolf? They’re playing your song.” I raise my arms and noodle the air. “You had such moves onstage. Stand up and give me a show!”

I gather Mini-Wolf into a hug and swing him around, peering deep into his bewitching eyes. In a few short but blissful hours, he’s become the mini-Nathan of my sexual dreams.

For the song’s finale, I leap onto the mattress and seat Mini-Wolf on a throne of pillows. With the end of the song closing in fast, I grip the headboard and perform my best sexy lap dance.

Right hip, left hip, thrust and push, drop the booty down low, rise and undulate, undulate, hair flip, and shake those sweet potatoes like it’s your last meal on carbs, baby.

Swept into the moment, I kiss his pouty fake lips in a naughty, back-seat-worthy make-out session. If Nathan showed up right now, I’d jump him and do the same. And because I’m living a life of no regrets, I might let him do dirty things to me, for one more night.

One. More. Night.

“Jeanie?” someone says from behind me.

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nathan

Bachelor King

“You’re fucking everything up,” an angry voice says.

I turn slowly, already annoyed.

My agent, Natasha, steps out from behind the stage curtain. She places a fist on her hip and purses her lips. With her severe blunt-bobbed haircut, cat-eyed gaze, and stabby heels, her vibe is fuck with me and die, even though she’s the size of a fairy sprite.

“Natasha.” Coming face-to-face with her is the last thing I want after a two-hour show, especially when all I’ve been able to think about is flying back across the state to be with Jeanie.

A stagehand passes me a towel and a bottle of water. Out front, my greedy fans cheer on, even though I’ve performed two encores.

“Do you know where I should be right now?” She crosses her arms and steps closer, her heels slowly clicking on the stage floor.

“Should I?” I wipe blue glow-in-the-dark paint from my chest.

“Let me know if this rings a bell: red carpet, paparazzi, me on Brandon Rylan’s arm wearing couture and draped with two point nine million dollars of jewels. Did you know they hired three men the size of a freighter to follow me all night to protect them? Two point nine million, Nathan.”

“I didn’t ask you to come, Nat.”

“No, you forced me to by going rogue. You haven’t taken my calls in weeks. Instead, I find out you’re holed up in Miami Beach with some groupie.”

She flashes me her phone. Onscreen is a paparazzi video of me and Jeanie kissing this morning, and it’s steamy as fuck.

“It usually takes more than this to ruffle your feathers. You going soft on me?” I play it off. It’s the only way I’ll get Natasha off my back.

“Try hundreds of videos and stills. I had to pay off a seventeen-year-old bellboy so he wouldn’t sell to All Access. Right now, he’s probably living the good life in the Apple store—in another country, if he knows what’s good for him.”

“I guess we’re even. I danced at your friend’s bachelorette party, and you pay to keep my indiscretions quiet.”