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“Panama City.”
“In Florida?” he asked, confusion in his voice. “Why on earth would anyone over the age of twenty-one want to go to Panama City? In October, at that.”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I’m well aware of all of this information,” I retorted. “But you know how fucking crazy my wife can be.”
He chuckled. “Cass is the true definition of a wild card.”
“Yeah, you don’t even want to know the shit that’s gone down since we arrived.”
“Do tell, T. I’m all ears.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Your delicate sensibilities couldn’t handle this kind of debauchery, sweetheart.”
I highly doubted trying to eat Chinese food alone in the bathroom after my wife passed out on my cock counted as debauchery, but the strippers and surprise wet T-shirt contest and eleventy-billion shots of tequila I took this afternoon definitely should’ve counted for something.
Not that I was going to get into that with him now.
I had a food mission to complete before my wife woke up and told me she’d signed the Supercock up for aGirls Gone Wildvideo on the beach or some shit.
“Tell me this, Thatch,” he requested. “Why do I get the sense that you’re currently hiding from your wife?”
“Because I fucking am.”
His laughter roared into the phone. “Holy shit. Now, I really have to know what you’ve been up to on this honeymoon!”
“Shh, you motherfluffer!” I whisper-yelled into the phone.
“Man, I can’t wait until Kline gets out of the bathroom. After the shit you pulled with him and Georgie in Mexico, karma’s giving you a little bit back.”
I rolled my eyes. “Karma’s not doing shit. It’s my hormonal wife, fuckface. Get it right.”
But when the bastard kept laughing like a fucking jackass, I ended the call and quickly turned off my phone.
I didn’t have time for his games.
I was hungover or still drunk or probably a little bit of both.
I was starving.
And I only had so much time to get out of this bathroom, get dressed, find my fucking wallet, and execute a reconnaissance mission for fast food before Cassie woke up again.
Damn.I loved my wife more than anything, but I was pretty sure honeymoons shouldn’t feel this stressful.
But I knew, if I could just get back with some food, feed my belly, and spend the rest of tonight without any more incidents, I’d be a happy guy.
It was a Sunday in Panama City Beach, but that didn’t stop me from waking up early. After I rushed to the bathroom to empty my complaining bladder, I took a quick shower and tossed on some clean clothes.
Since Thatch was still sound asleep in the bed, half of his gloriously naked body still under the white comforter and one beefy arm strewn across his face to shut out the morning light, I did the nice wifely thing and tried not to disturb him by quietly tiptoeing around the suite.
With my phone and cup of decaf coffee made from the suite’s Keurig machine in my hands, I stepped outside onto our balcony, shut the door softly behind me, and took a seat in one of the chairs that faced the view of the ocean.
The beach was basically empty, and I busied myself with looking through the numerous “honeymoon” photos I’d managed since we’d arrived in Panama on Friday afternoon.
Thatch and me at the airport, just before we boarded our flight.
A funny video of Thatch learning twerking skills from Emma Bone after we’d finished eating pizza and watchingCrazy, Stupid, Love.
I even had some footage of Thatch dumping a pitcher of water over his shirt with Britney’s “Toxic” playing in the background and taking body shots from my cleavage.
