Page 42 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

Sky is in town, licking his wounds from yet another cheating asshole. I’ve lost track of how many that makes. He needed some Sterling time—and some honorary Sterling time—which is how I find myself standing in line at the bar, waiting for Spice Men: The Male Revue to start. Only Julian would think the best way to cheer a brokenhearted gay man is to make him watch men strip. Hopefully, Sky appreciates the effort. Or at least the copious amounts of tequila.

“It happened again,” Julian says from beside me. “Gorgeous, fit little bridesmaid. I threw my best at her, and all she had to say about it was that you and I are a cute couple.”

I hide my smile behind my drink while Wells and Killian practically fall on top of each other laughing in the corner. Killian’s quiet but sneaky and hilarious. It’s worse when Declan is around; practical jokes abound when the two of them are together. Julian is smarter than average but still hasn’t made the connection that women only assume we’re together when one of those two tags along.

“Maybe she’s onto something,” I say with a decisive nod. “I’ve been single for a while now, and you’ve been in a committed relationship with yourself as long as I’ve known you. Maybe we should try each other on for size.”

“Neither of us are drunk enough for that, mate,” Julian says as he tosses back the last of his drink.

Saoirse snorts and turns to face us with our next round. “If you aren’t drunk enough yet, you will be shortly,” she says, handing out more shots than should be allowed by law.

Sky lifts one of his and says, “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

We all laugh, and since he’s still stitching his life back together, no one points out we could say the same thing about him and women with about as much success.

“Where’s Lachlan?” Saoirse asks.

“With Pete,” Sky says, gesturing to a far corner of the lobby. “I need a new drink, and at least one of you should feel obligated to pick up a round as an apology for bringing me here.”

Julian orders another round for the group, and the lights flicker, telling us it’s time to take our seats. Even the ushers are scantily clad and oiled up. Hopefully, I won’t need to hold on to any of them on the stairs. I’d slide right off. Though that could have more to do with the extra extra shots than their oil. Spicy tipsy.

We flash our tickets, and they take us all the way down to the stage, front row and center. God help us all. Why do I let Julian be in charge of anything ever?

Hours later, I stagger up the four steps to my front door, Wells’ grip like iron as he manhandles me with his giant paw wrapped around my arm. Spicy dickish.

“Lock the door, Henry.” I close the door behind me and start to walk away, but he bangs on it for an eternity. “Henry. Henry! Henry? I’m leaving Sky here with you if you don’t lock the door. If you like cleaning up vomit, continue leaving this door unlocked.” Spicy ugh.

Wells keeps it up until I figure out how to lock my door. I’m not sure why he’s going all big brother. I’m not drunk; I’m spicy tipsy. Sky even said so after Julian claimed we were “delightfully pissed” and “banned from tequila shots forever” before disappearing into the night with some ladies angling for a private performance.

I’d go to bed, but I’ve got urgent matters to attend to. Kait’s working late tonight. Sleep when I can talk to her? Spicy stupid. For the last month or so, we talk more days a week than not. I limit myself to one call every forty-eight hours, but it’s not easy. My willpower is dwindling to nearly undetectable these days.

I must be more tired than I thought, as getting my shoes off is work. I’ve only dealt with one of them when I bump into my kitchen island and stub my toe on a chair, but it’s worth it when I locate my earbuds on my nightstand.

I drop my phone. Oops.

“Henry? Henry? Are you there? Henry?” It’s after midnight—that means it’s been three days. Self-restraint is overrated.

“Kaitybabes!” I don’t slur my words because I’m not intoxicated. Ouch. How did I stub my toe twice in one night? “Hello, hello, hello?”

Kait laughs. “Oh my. Are you dru⁠—”

“Nope.” I pop the p. “I’m spicy tipsy.”

“Of course. Spicy tipsy. What was I thinking?” She’s giggling. Not sure why. “What, pray tell, have you been up to tonight?”

“Nothing much. It’s all Julian’s fault, really. Three extra Sterlings in town. We went to see Spice Men. Julian too. Spicy honorary Sterling. And Spicy Pete, accessory Sterling brother.” I’m sure I’ve mentioned Julian before, but clarity.

Now she’s outright laughing. “You went to see a male strip show?”

“No. No we did not, Kait,” I say with authority. “It’s an all-male revue. Huge difference. These guys have spice names and spice thongs to match. Pumpkin Spice had an orange thong.” I kick my remaining shoe off, and it nearly goes through my bedroom window. Oopsie.

“When only spice will do, go to the Spice Men Revue,” I parrot from the poster we bought for the dancers to sign. “We went for Sky. Is that funny?”

“No, not funny at all, just spicy interesting.” She laughs louder. “I wouldn’t have picked that for your evening entertainment, but I clearly haven’t asked pertinent questions about you, your brothers, or Julian. My bad, I assumed you were straight, which is not cool. To assume, I mean. Not being straight is, of course, totally cool.”

“I’m not spicy straight. I’m heterosexual. Heteroromantic, too, but not much of one. I lack the relationship gene. I’m spicy celibate,” I say with a laugh. She’s quiet, and I hate it. I’ve said something wrong, but I don’t know what, so I can’t take it back.

She speaks before I can decide what to apologize for. Quiet, she asks, “What does that mean, Henry? Spicy celibate?” It’s a sincere question I feel obligated to answer.