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There comes a time when every gal has to hang up her feather boa and party thongs. I’ve reached that moment in my life, and this night is the last night of my single life.
At least I’ll have some kick-ass memories to take with me into married life. And some even better times that I can’t remember.
Buried somewhere beneath the piles of rejected slutty clothes on my bed, my phone starts to play a mariachi tune. It’s like Norbert can sense when I’m getting a little nostalgic about my partying past. I dig beneath the pile until I locate it.
“Hi, darlin’,” I say. “How’d you know I was thinking about you?”
“It’s just a happy coincidence, I suppose,” he says. “I don’t have a lot of time. I just wanted to check on you before you flew out.”
“That’s so sweet,” I say as I hold up my favorite bikini in front of me and look at my reflection.
The coral color perfectly complements my complexion and blonde hair. The narrow cut of the string bikini shows off my best assets—my tits and my ass. It would look so fabulous on me as I sit on the beach drinking a margarita.
With a frown, I throw the string bikini in the discard pile and pick up a modest tankini. I don’t have kids yet, but I’m already dressing like a mom.
“I’ve only got a few minutes to spare.” Norbert is always running into one meeting or another. “I just want to make sure you’re packing the right clothes, Mysti Biscuits.”
“Darlin’, don’t call me that,” I say, cringing. “And whatarethe right clothes?” I laugh.
I’ve been successfully dressing myself to rave reviews for years now, but I know what he means.
Boring. Safe.
Not my style, not that he cares.
“Nothing too revealing,” he says. “Or low-cut or with a slit up to your thigh. Nothing tacky, Mysti Biscuits. You know what I like.”
The first lesson I’ll have to teach my new husband is that to a Texan girl, ‘tacky’ is the worst insult in the book. The bigger problem is that revealing and low-cut makes up about ninety percent of my closet.
It took a lot of time, effort, and money to accumulate it all, you know.
“Okay, Norbert,” I say with a sigh, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
He’s been a steadying force in my life; this simple request seems so small in comparison.
“And you know how you get when you drink tequila, so that’s off the table, too,” he continues. “And remember that it’s the night before our wedding, so there’s no need for you to talk to other men—or women, for that matter.”
“What about Becky and the girls?” I ask, only half-joking as I start taking my beautiful clothes out of my suitcase one by one. “Am I allowed to talk to them?”
“Of course, Mysti Biscuits,” Norbert says, but I don’t believe him for a second. He’d prefer if I didn’t celebrate my impending nuptials with them, lest we have a little too much fun, like we usually do. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d be happiest if I didn’t talk at all sometimes. “I’m only trying to protect you from yourself. You know how you tend to get.”
“That seems perfectly reasonable, sweetheart,” I say. “I’ll…I’ll try my best.”
“Excellent. Now, don’t be late for the plane. You always are. You wouldn’t want me to have to pay the pilot to sit around and wait for you, would you?”
“I’ll be there on time, I promise,” I say. “But, Norbert, I was only late one—”
I’m not talking to anyone anymore—my loving fiancé has already disconnected. I toss my phone back on the bed.
I pack the last piece of my sensible working-girl wardrobe into my suitcase with a resigned sigh. I grab the top of the suitcase to close it—only to inadvertently swing the red panties that are caught on the latch through the air and into my face.
A sign.It’s like it’s a sign. I have an entire drawer full of La Perla, but these all-lace panties are by far my favorite.
They cut at the perfect angle to highlight my ass cheeks, driving every man who’s ever seen it crazy. Just the idea of sliding them on perks me up.
Oh, fuck it. I throw caution to the wind and toss the panties into the suitcase, zipping it closed before I’m able to change my mind.
What’s it going to hurt to bring them along? This is shaping up to be just a quiet girls’ night in Tijuana, after all.
Nothing could possibly go wrong.
