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Chapter 8
Mathis
Shaw waits for me at his door, and I get a sense of déjà vu from the last time I showed up here. Unlike that time, he’s wearing a shit eating grin and leads me to the bar.
“How bad was it?”
“Depends. On one hand, I should thank you and offer to buy you the place on the ocean you’ve promised Claire. On the other hand, I need to fucking beat your ass and bill you for the therapy once this is done.”
I wince, knowing how these conversations can go. I decide to start safely.
“Tell me about my condo.”
“It’s almost all done. Bizzy got Gail involved, and it was as good as completed. Grace, Doni, Nick, and a few of the players got most of it rearranged and followed Bizzy’s instructions.”
Gail is Shaw’s assistant, Doni is Grace’s mentor from Greece that came here and floats between countries, and who knows who helped Nick rearrange my furniture.
“Did they tell Claire?”
“Not to my knowledge. The subject came up once, but it was brief. I was concerned, with Bizzy’s level of excitement, that she’d slip up. I misjudged, seeing as how they have pecked at every other detail of your escapade.”
“I guess I owe Nick.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” Shaw’s lips curve into a smug grin as he hands me a drink.
“What does that mean?”
“You were probably solid until he showed here tonight with the hen party. He sat for less than five minutes then growled, went to his truck, returned with his noise-canceling earphones and iPad, settled Grace between his legs, and watched replays of last year’s games as the girls carried on.”
“Why didn’t he come inside with you and Brinley?”
“He didn’t get here until after she was asleep and the good stuff started.”
“Good stuff?”
“I didn’t camp out in here. I joined the party with my phone in hand. Thank God for expedited shipping, I have a dozen handcuffs being delivered.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, swallowing almost the whole drink.
“And that’s not it.”
“I don’t need to know more. I can imagine.”
“If my ears are bleeding, so are yours. This is where the buying you a condo comes into play. Apparently, I have a month of uninhibited, multi-position sex that includes lots of biting, nail scraping, body pulsing orgasms headed my way. Not to mention the extensive practice with perfecting the art of deep-throating.”
I gulp the last of my whiskey, hoping to hide my smile. No reserves, no embarrassment, Claire doesn’t hold back. “How much have they had to drink?”
“They walked in, speaking in hushed voices. Bizzy gave me the head’s up, so I knew what to expect. They coddled Brinley for a while, wore her out, and I put her down after her bottle. Then the fun commenced. The non-pregnant women requested martinis. I’ve gone through most of the vodka.”
“And the pregnant woman?”
“Grace has gone head to head, sharing stories, wanting more information and not backing down.”
“And you sat through that?”
“Two heavy pours of whiskey, my wife sending me suggestive looks, and did I mention the extensive practice with perfecting the art of deep throating?” His eyebrows draw together.
“Okay, I get it,” I lie because my ears are ringing with this whole situation. Claire has always been open about sex, but this is a new level. “Dare I ask where the therapy comes in?”
