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Chapter 1
Valentine
The Mile High Club in Aspen smelled like fryer oil, cheap beer, tequila, and pumped-in chemical deodorizer. In other words, what most twenty-one-year-old women would call a good time.
I already regretted coming, and I hadn’t even stepped one foot inside.
The stench rushed out the door on a warm gust of air every time someone passed us on their way in or out. Next to me, Victoria, one of my triplet sisters—and the current bane of my existence, since this particular club was her idea—sucked in a deep breath. “Ah, I can smell my next lover already.”
I smiled, trying to hide my nerves. “Does it smell like alphas?”
Tori sniffed again, like she was sampling the aroma of a fine wine. “Mmmm. Like future bad decisions and enough liquid courage to make them again and again.”
“There may be a few alphas, Val, but this club is a buffet of betas.” On my other side, Vanessa unbuttoned her poofy white ski coat, then fluffed the platinum blonde wig she was wearing to hide the brown hair underneath. “Which is why we’re here, Tori. Not for you to broaden your alpha palate. Tonight, we need hot, sweaty beta wieners for our sweet, innocent sister to cut her teeth on.”
“Teeth?” I blinked. Unlike my amazing, extroverted sisters, I had no idea what men liked. But even I had heard that teeth weren’t… optimal blow job tools.
Tori snorted. “Don’t listen to her, Val. No man wants teeth on their sausage. Not even a beta.”
Nessa smirked. “I beg to differ. Titchy Meyerson likes it when I use my teeth a little bit.”
Faking a dizzy spell, Tori grabbed me with one hand and gasped dramatically at Nessa. “You put Titchy’s dick in your mouth? Titchy ‘No-Shower November’ Meyerson? He did a month of videos on his YouTube channel showing the growth of his neck rings! The man has ablutophobia!”
“He showered for me,” Nessa said with a casual shrug. “And drank pineapple juice every day the week we were hanging out. Sweetest tadpoles I ever tasted.”
“I think I’m g-going to throw up,” I told her, not kidding. “I’m g-g-going home.”
“Back to the hotel?” Nessa laced her arm through mine.
I thought of my room at our shared apartment in Denver, the piles of fabric waiting to be quilted, the new floor loom in one corner, the recipe book I’d been writing in secret. “No. Home.”
Tori scowled. “It’s four hours or more in this snow.”
Nessa tightened her grip on me. “Not this time. You’re going in there, and you’re going to find a safe, young beta. A short, sweet guy with small… feet.”
“A starter sausage,” Tori added. “We made a plan, remember?”
“You can do the plan. I’m n-not sure this w-was such a g-g-great idea.” I stopped speaking and closed my eyes for a moment, reminding myself to slow down. Tori waited patiently, understanding what I was doing.
The stutter that I’d conquered years before had returned with a vengeance after I’d spoken to my doctor in late December. Even with all my family around for the holidays, I’d been more than anxious about what was happening to me, physically.
I breathed in for a count of four, out for a count of eight once, then again, remembering the techniques I’d been using since I was a young girl. I knew how to control my stutter. I’d been through a decade and a half of the most expensive speech therapy money could buy; in fact, I suspected I was personally responsible for my speech therapist putting her kid through college. I’d practiced meditation and mindfulness. I knew how to keep control of my voice, and my mind, and my emotions.
And no one else knew we were here, so our evening should be easy. Safe. Like normal young women got to experience all the time, without wondering if they were being watched by paparazzi.
Without feeling like time was running out.
Time was running out, though. I knew that. It was my doctor who’d helped me and my sisters come up with this plan. A safe way for me to step into the next phase of my life. Adulthood. Sexual maturity.
Sheer freaking terror.
Nessa leaned down. “You know you’re just going in to check out the guys. You never have to do anything you don’t want.”
Tori nodded. “We’ve gone over all the ‘emergency exits’ if your hookup does anything shady.” She held up her phone. “Just text V to either one of us, or flash two fingers. You’ll get emergency texts from both of us. Be prepared to fake cry.”
“Or to say your ex-boyfriend just escaped federal prison and is on his way. Mutter something about Chainsaw Charlie.”
I almost cracked a smile.
