Manties in a Twist (The Subs Club Book 3) (12 page)

But I nodded. Smiled. “No problem. I know Ryan really wants to meet him, though.”

Thing was, I didn’t even know if that was true. This was so weird. My friends were awesome. Ryan was awesome. So why the hell weren’t they gelling? How could I care so much about all of them and still not know how to make this work?

“Oh, certainly,” Miles said. “I’m really looking forward to Ryan meeting the whole family.”

Whole family
. We
were
a family. Ryan was part of that family. My friends loved me. I loved them. Except I couldn’t pretend anymore that this Ryan-versus-my-friends thing didn’t exist. Dave thought Ryan was blunt, and Gould thought he was insensitive, and Miles didn’t want him to meet Zac yet, and all of them thought I’d rushed into this relationship without giving it any thought.

I didn’t. I’m not stupid. I’m just not afraid of what I want.

I mean, how long had Miles spent being all,
Oh, I’m not good enough for Drix
, or
Oh, he has some miniscule flaw, so maybe I should break up with him
?

And that had been a waste of time, right? Because now his kid and Drix were BFF and Drix basically lived at Miles’s house, and they were in love as shit.

So I don’t waste time trying to talk myself out of good things. That kinda makes me the smartest guy in this group.

And if I wasn’t afraid of what I wanted, then I’d find a way to work through this. Because I
wanted
my friends and Ryan to get along. They’d liked each other before, and I was confident they could fall in love all over again if I just helped each party see the awesomeness of the other.

So that was what was gonna happen.

Even if I had to
Parent Trap
this shit.

Friday, the clothes arrived while Ryan was at work. I tried really hard to ignore the packages. I wanted us to open them together.

It was my day off, so I picked up my guitar and worked on my music. Stopped to text Ryan that I loved him more than the eleven-dimension multiverse. My plan was to gross my friends out less with my lovey-dovey shit, which meant I deserved to be extra nauseating when it was just me and Ryan.

God, even my dad yesterday, when he and Ryan and I were having lunch, was like,
“Didn’t waste any time, did you?”
when we told him about moving in together.

And Ryan was great, just like,
“Why would I want to waste a single moment I could spend with Kamen?”
Then he and my dad had started talking about lawn mower parts, and everything was cool. When Dad had left for the airport yesterday, he’d said,
“You hang on to him.”
Dad hadn’t told me anything about how his talk with Mom went.

Ryan texted back:
I LOVE YOU MORE THAN THAT. ALSO ERICA IS LISTENING TO NICKELBACK. O_o

I grinned and messed around on the guitar some more.

But it was like those boxes were fucking taunting me.

It wouldn’t hurt to try the stuff on, would it? Just make sure it looked okay?

I put the guitar aside and went over to the boxes, which I’d left by the door. Poked them with my toe.

I picked up the first one and ripped it open. I pulled out a plastic-wrapped floral dress. Stared at it for a moment, then tore off the plastic and held up the dress, letting the folded skirt fall.

It looked kinda, I don’t know, big in the boob area.

I checked the invoice.
Floral Swing Dress, 16.

A swing dress. I didn’t know what made a swing dress a swing dress, but I was glad as fuck to have one because it was beautiful as a friggin’ spring day. The fabric was a little stiff, and it had some wrinkles where it had been folded. The waist had a bow on it, and the skirt was froofy, and the whole thing smelled like cardboard box.

I set it down and opened the next package.

Holy shit.

It was like looking in a goddamn treasure chest. Four pairs of lace panties in various colors. A red lace bra. The garter belt was bright, like, teal—I guess?—with a tiny satin bow at the front. Satin ribbons dangled from it, little silver clips attached to the ends. The stockings were, according to the packing slip, sheer thigh highs with lace stay-up silicone tops. Whatever that meant. I stretched one over my hand. Then I made it be a puppet for a minute. It talked to the well-dressed hare in a high-pitched voice, and I stopped to make a note on my phone that Stockie & Hare could be a children’s crime-fighting duo.

Then I went to my room and got naked.

I tried on the garter belt in front of the mirror. It looked really nice. I mean, you could see my pubes all around the sides, and also through the lace, plus, like, my dick and balls were making it bulge. But I liked that. I put on the stockings, but I ripped the first one because I kinda fell over while I was standing on one leg trying to stuff my foot in. So that one was pretty bedraggled once it was on. But the second one I got the idea to scrunch it up first and then put my foot in, and that worked a lot better. Except my big toe poked a hole in the end of it.

It took me a solid twenty minutes to hook all the little dangle-ribbons to the stockings, but once I did, I looked in the mirror again and started getting pretty turned on. Like, who invented this shit? Who was like,
You know what’s gonna make people want to get nasty? Some lacy underwear attached with ribbons to what are basically tall flimsy socks?

I would shake that fucker’s hand.

Swing dress next. It fit a little weird, since there was a ton of space for boobs and I didn’t have boobs. But it looked amazing at the waist. Maybe I should have put the bra on. I turned to the side, rocking my hips back and forth to watch the skirt sway. Then I started twisting from side to side to make it billow. I tried to make it fly up enough to get a glimpse of the garter belt, but then I got dizzy, so I stopped.

I needed heels. Did they make heels big enough for me? They had to, because drag queens. And I still wasn’t sure about makeup, because I for shizzballs did not have the face for it. Dave? Yes. Ricky? He’d look like a goddess. Me? It might be the stuff of nightmares, on account of I could shave and have basically a full beard fifteen minutes later. But it was worth a try.

And a wig? I studied my reflection. Eh. There was something kind of exciting about my short hair and stubble and the gun show you couldn’t even get tickets to because that shit was sold out—and then a floral swing dress and stockings.

I unzipped the dress and pulled the top part down. Put the bra straps over my shoulders, then reached around to the back to hook the bra.

It did not go well. Finally, it occurred to me I could leave the straps off my shoulders, hook the bra at my chest, then slide it around so the boobs part was up front.
Then
put the straps on.

The bra actually looked fucking fantastic, because it was padded, so it wasn’t, like, sagging empty cups. And I had enough definition between my pecs that it almost looked like cleavage.

“I’m fucking hot,” I said to the mirror. I pulled the top of the dress back up and zipped it. Way better in the chest area. I grabbed my fake boobs and honked them a little. Awesome.

I walked out to the living room. Walking in the dress was amazing because of how the skirt swished. And how I felt, like, weirdly naked between my legs. And the stockings were great too, because each step I took pulled on the belt, and the lace rubbed my dick, and all was pretty much right with the world.

I wasn’t sure what to do now. Ryan wouldn’t be home for another two hours, but I really wanted him to see this. I could text him pics, but he needed to see it in person. I was definitely working my way up to a boner, and I tried reaching under my dress to feel myself up, which was awesome, except that I needed Ryan to be the first one to make me come in this outfit.

I looked around the room. Lifted my skirt and flashed the well-dressed hare. Then I picked up my guitar.

I took a deep breath. “Pretend I’m an actress. In, like, the 1930s. And I’m auditioning for you.”

I was standing in the living room, shifting giddily. Ryan was sitting on the couch, just staring at me, chewing a nail. His pupils were gigantoid, and he kept kind of ducking his head like he was trying to see under my skirt. I wished I had heels.

I slung my guitar over my shoulder. “Got it?”

“I’m a director?”

“Yeah. And I really want this part. And you, like, call me doll and stuff. Don’t call me dirty things. Not at first.”

He nodded, looking stunned and a little nervous. I’d basically accosted him when he’d gotten home from work. I’d tried a lot of different positions before he’d arrived—draped on the couch with my legs open, sitting on the arm of the couch with my legs crossed. Posing in the doorway with an arm over my head. I couldn’t find anything that felt sexy enough, so I’d been standing all deer-in-the-headlights in the middle of the room when he’d come in.

He scooted back slightly. “Whatever’s about to happen, I’m looking forward to it.”

My heart pounded. “Me too. First we need to do some dialogue. So pretend I just came into your audition room.” I backed up to the doorway and entered the room, trying to swing my hips.

“What do I say?”

“Whatever. Director stuff.”

I turned and walked back to the door, then entered again.

He cleared his throat into his fist. Crossed his legs. “Hey there, uh . . . doll.”

“Hello!” My voice was so high-pitched it sounded ridiculous. “Wait, wait,” I said in my normal tone. “That voice is stupid. Let me try again.”

“Okay. Hey there, doll.”

“Hello.” I said it in my own voice, but a little softer.

“What’s your name?”

I hadn’t even thought about that. “Um . . . Tracy?”

He grinned. “You don’t sound too sure, babe.”

The “babe” was good.

I looked at my feet in their ripped stockings and sighed exaggeratedly. “My real name’s Kate. I just thought Tracy might be a good stage name.”

“It’s gorgeous. Just like you.”

I actually fucking blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Wheeler.”

“You been onstage before, Tracy?”

“Once. I was a backup dancer. In a Broadway show.”

“Oh yeah? Which show?”

“Uh . . .
Wicked
?”

He laughed. “This is 1936.”

I made a face at him and switched to my normal voice. “I don’t
know
any Broadway shows from 1936.”

“Okay, okay, Tracy. You’ve got an impressive résumé. And you look like a star. Now I just need to see what you can do.”

“Thank you.” My hands were sweating so bad I didn’t even know if I could play the guitar. Why was a fake audition for my boyfriend making me so nervous?

Ryan clasped his knee. “What’ve you got for me today?”

I shifted, the lace of my garter belt rubbing my balls, straining as my dick hardened. “I’m gonna sing. And dance.”

He was checking out my skirt again. Pervert. “Okay.”

I smiled. “I think you’re really gonna like it.”

I cocked my hips and started strumming. Hit one bad chord, but hey, I’d only written this song like two hours ago. I went back and gave it another go. Nodded, satisfied, when I got it right. I looked straight into Ryan’s eyes and started singing.

“I . . . want . . . this part.

“I want this part.” I looked at his crotch.

“I need this part,

“Need it real bad, honey.

“Don’t care about the fame

“Or the fans or the money,

“I just want a chance

“To show off for you.

“This is the part

“I was born to do.”

I walked up to him, swinging my hips and banging out the chords pretty aggressively now. He was trying real hard not to laugh. I hiked one leg up onto the couch.

“So put your part in my mouth.

“Yeah put your part up my ass.

“I dunno how to act,

“Need a ma-aster class.

“No other part’s gonna do,

“I need to get this from you.

“Let me sit on your part,

“Yeah let me sit on your paaart . . .”

I stopped. “Quick, flip the lights on and off real fast!”

“What?”