No Pink Caddy (ACE Book 1) (11 page)

Aaron smirks. “I can feel how wet you are through your pants. That makes it my business.”

My head turns to the side so I don’t get sucked into those hypnotizing cerulean blue eyes. The attraction to Aaron is real, but I don’t know him well enough to know if our make-out session was him being jealous or if he woke up horny and wanted to mess around. There’s a big difference in my book, and I also find his comment to be uncouth. “That’s rude, Aaron. How would you like it if I commented on the constant hard-on that you sport when you’re around me?”

He laughs and I look at him and shake my head, completely confused as to what’s so funny. I wasn’t making a joke.

He climbs off me and paces back and forth in front of my bed. Unfortunately, my room is tiny, so he only takes about six steps before he turns around and walks in the other direction. It’s too small to contain his presence.

“I don’t know what’s fucking wrong with me.” He talks to some spot over my head because he’s not looking at me. “I don’t chase girls. They show up panty-less in my dressing room. I’ve never dated anyone before, and I know I’m screwing this up, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to behave—what to do with these feelings.” He stops walking in front of my bed, giving me the probing stare again. “I’m trying to not feel jealous here. I’m really trying to play this cool, but I can’t stand the thought of you out with another guy.”

He’s never dated before? How can that be? He’s got to be at least in his mid-thirties. All the years I went on date after date after date, hoping to find the guy who I had a crazy connection with, I never once pictured our relationship being this strange. If I put on my psychologist cap again, I think we both want this thing between us to move faster than it is. He’s trying hard to do what he thinks I want, and it’s making him into someone he isn’t. It’s like we’re both fumbling fools hoping to make it to a point where we can just be our crazy selves.

“You’re right, MK.” He shakes his head. Quietly, as if it pains him to say it, he mutters, “I think I am a fucking stalker.” Pausing, he runs his hand through his hair. “Oh God, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. You don’t have to tell me who your date is with. I just have to try harder to convince you that you should choose me over him.”

“Look, Aaron,” I start as I sit up and try to regain some level of composure. “This is intense. As you rightfully pointed out, I’m very attracted to you.” I motion at his crotch. “And well it’s obvious you feel the same. This chemical attraction is crazy, and I’m not beyond a good night of”—I clear my throat—“exploring that attraction. But at this point in my life, I’m looking for more than a casual relationship. I’m interested in the whole kit and caboodle. I want a husband and kids and a dog.

“This date tonight is casual. And if you’re also looking for more than a two-week fling, I’d love to see where this chemistry takes us.”

Aaron looks like I hit him below the belt, which I would never ever do. “You’re right,” he says. “I . . . uh . . .” Then his phone rings next to my head. Grabbing it, I toss it into his open hands. “Hello.”

Pause.

“No. I’m just fine. Really. I’m glad you called. I’m about to walk out the door. Can I call you back in five?”

Another pause.

“Alright. Sounds good.”

My forehead wrinkles in confusion as he ends the call. “Who was that?” Not that it’s any of my business, but we were in the middle of what I thought was a conversation about if we want to keep seeing each other. It registered as a ten on the important scale in my book—clearly not as important to him.

“Concerned family,” he replies, looking distracted. “Look, I need to go. Clear my head. You’ve got my number.”

He walks out of my bedroom and the front door closes. I lie there wondering if I’ll ever see him again, wondering if I even want to. Our attraction is bizarre and not one-sided.

Checking the clock, I’m supposed to be at the salon in fifteen minutes. Pushing Aaron to the back of my brain, I stand and throw on some clothes. I’ll have plenty of time to obsess over my late night visitor after the ball is over.

Getting dressed for tonight’s formal dinner feels like a chore, even though it’s the charity event of the year. My grandmother and namesake Mary Katherine began hosting this party in 1967. She and some of friends decided it was a nice way to cap off the year. It’s always held the first Saturday in November. The original guest list was one hundred people, but now it’s one thousand—no more, no less. It’s the most coveted invitation in the state of Louisiana, and even governors and senators can’t get on the invite list unless Grandmother says so. Not only does is cost a fortune to purchase a ticket, but guests are also expected to write large checks to the charity of choice that Grandmother chooses to bless.

The party is held at her home that she shares with my step-grandfather. Home is really not accurate. It’s more of a mansion or small hotel. She inherited the family monstrosity from my grandfather who passed away before I was born. How many homes have you been in that have a formal ballroom? My sister and I skipped rope and played Red Rover in it when we were little.

The ballroom hasn’t changed a bit in the thirty years I’ve been alive. The walls are wallpapered in a deep shade of red and meet dark wood wainscoting, which wraps around the bottom third of the room. Antique crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Grandmother said that when my grandfather was little, his mother imported a French electrician to convert them from candle to electric.

It’s well known that when Grandmother passes, the mansion will go to my mother and father, and then to my sister. There are huge benefits to being the second child. I’ll never have to live here.

Our dresses for this occasion were selected for us back in June and have been hanging in our bedrooms in Grandmother’s home, waiting for this momentous day to arrive.

I lie on the hard bed in the room Grandmother says is mine, feeling completely out of sorts. My skin is tingly all over. Fabrics which normally wouldn’t irritate me feel scratchy. I’m short-tempered and anxious. I don’t know what happened with Aaron earlier, but it’s left me feeling raw and vulnerable. It was too much. I shouldn’t have brought up kids. I mean, what rock star wants children? How can one properly tour the world with a wife and kids in tow?

Why can’t I just be attracted to Tripp? He’s the perfect guy. He wouldn’t run away if I asked him for kids and dog. In fact, he’d probably sprint to the in-vitro lab where he would deposit a sperm sample so I could be pregnant tomorrow.
See? Even in my musings Tripp and I don’t have sex.

“Can I come in?” my sister, Bethany, calls through the door.

“Sure,” I reply, not bothering to cover my chest as I sit up, bracing myself on my elbows.

When she opens the door, she admonishes, “Jesus, MK. Put on a robe.”

I flop back on the bed, almost giving myself a concussion. “No.”

“You’ve got such great tits. Don’t have kids.”

I ignore her and stare at the ceiling. It’s like sixteen-feet high and painted glossy white. When you’re a kid spending the night in this giant, old, spooky home, it’s scary as all get out to see shadows on the ceiling.

“Why aren’t you getting dressed?” she says in a mom voice.

I look up, and she’s perfectly decked out in her black figure-hugging dress. Black feathers accentuate her sweetheart cleavage, making her boobs looks great. I have no idea what she’s complaining about.

“I have on a thong.”

“Are you wearing just that? Because Grandmother will have a field day.”

“Thinking about it,” I reply.

She lies down next to me and reaches out for my hand. “What’s wrong, little sis?”

“I met a boy, fell in lust, and now he’s acting weird.”

“What does Bella say?”

I lean on my elbow. “Why do you care what her opinion is?”

She smiles her toothy grin she gets when she’s needling me. “Because Bella is usually dead-on.”

Thumbing her arm, I leave a red mark and she squeals, “Brat.” She rubs her arm like I really hurt her.

I lie back down. “He’s a rock star.” This is said as if I just told her his profession is a banker.

“Of course he is, MK. There are those who sip life.” She sits up and pulls me with her, giving me a hug. “You, my darling little sister, gulp it.”

She’s been telling me this since I was kid. Bethany is the older sister who does everything right. I was the tomboy baby sister who spent my childhood with skinned knees and broken bones, and was given head shakes by all the neighbors.

“So who is he?”

I think about it for a moment and consider not telling her. But, well, I share with her almost everything, so I go ahead and spit it out. “His name is Aaron Emerson.”

She shakes her head. “Never heard of him.”

“You might know him as Johnny Knite.”

Her face morphs from shocked to thrilled. “You’re fucking Johnny Knite?”

“No.” Standing up, I walk to the closet to extract my dress. I really can’t show up in a thong, even though if I did I would probably never have to attend another one of these dumb balls again. “We haven’t even gotten past second base.”

The dress hangs there like a totem to all the things I don’t want to do tonight, but I grab the hanger and unzip it anyway. It’s mermaid aqua with large sequins sewn in a scale-like pattern. It’s not corny or costumey. It’s actually gorgeous. This is the first time in about five years I’ve liked my dress. The designer gushed how I looked like Kate Middleton in it. That’s a compliment in my book.

I step into the dress, which cost more than a years’ rent and was paid for by Grandmother. I ask my sister to zip it.

“Geez, MK. You look like a princess.”

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and Bethany is right. I do look like a princess, until you get to the sour expression on my face.

She turns me around and we stand eye to eye. “Do you like him?”

I sigh. “He’s all I can think about.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know anything about him. I can’t bring myself to Google him because I’m scared of what I’ll find. Rock stars don’t fall in love and get married to girls like me. They marry models and actresses. I just don’t know if I want to bother with someone who lives a life which is so different than mine.”

She smiles the big-sister-knows-it-all smile. “Do doctors live the kind of lifestyle you live?”

I think about it for a moment. “I guess not.”

“Do attorneys live the kind of lifestyle you live?”

I roll my eyes.

“What about man children who live off their daddy’s tit?”

I know she’s referring to my ex-boyfriend. “Point made.”

“Why not give him a chance? Maybe, just maybe he’s the one.”

I step into my silver heels that are so high I can barely walk. “I think that’s what I’m afraid of.”

She smiles. “My little sister isn’t afraid of anything.”

That makes me laugh. She’s right. “It’s not like I can stay away from him anyway.”

Bethany and I primp in the mirror before we go downstairs to meet our dates—or her husband and my “date.” Before we leave the room, she reminds me to remove my necklace. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with my life. I keep taking my pathfinder off.

“And,” she calls, “put your cuff bracelet on to cover your wrist tattoo. No need to give Grandmother a heart attack tonight.”

I put my necklace in my bag and get my gold cuff bracelet out, putting it on with an eye roll. This is one of the many things I hate about tonight. I also grab my phone and take a picture of my reflection in the mirror, tweeting it to my followers.

MK Landry
@NoPinkCaddy

About to head downstairs. I think I look like a mermaid. #NPCPartyPics

“MK,” Tripp greets me as I descend Grandmother’s curved
Gone With The Wind
staircase. “You are gorgeous as ever, my love.” He doesn’t seem to be harboring any ill-will towards me over the botched interview. He kisses me on the cheek and takes my hand.

“You look hot,” I reply as I hold onto him for dear life, hoping I don’t fall.

Tripp does look great. His dark hair is swept to the side and perfectly gelled. He’s clean-shaven and his eyes twinkle. And the man can wear a tux. He’s so natural in it, as if he wears one every day.

Our entrances are timed down to the minute. Tripp’s been my date to the party for the last four years. He knows the drill. We wait in a small room off of the ballroom with Bethany and my brother-in-law, Ben. My nieces are not invited. They must be debutantes, like my sister and I were, before they can attend such an important event. This really annoys Bethany. She’s proud of her girls and wants to show them off, but no one argues with Grandmother.

Sure enough, at eight-thirty, the band changes from up-tempo jazz to background music. The band leader reads his meticulous notes—the same words that have been said for years. My sister and I are resigned that this is our life. Poor Ben married into this ridiculous family.

I mentally replace Tripp on my arm with Aaron. Instead of the formal Armani tux, which fits Tripp like a glove, Aaron would have on his crazy paisley tux jacket. His fedora would be upgraded this evening to black wool with a silk band. Then I imagine a feather and giggle. The looks on the who’s who of Louisiana’s faces would be priceless. I can just hear Grandmother.
Singers provide the entertainment. They aren’t honored guests.

We hear our names and enter through the double doors, and the guests step to either side and create a runway of sorts for us to walk down. Bethany and Ben go first, because she’s the oldest. Tripp and I are exactly five steps behind them. Grandmother’s guests clap as we make our way to the stage resting on the far end of the ballroom. We smile and acknowledge her attendees as if we’re royalty and they’re our subjects. This is so outdated. I always feel dirty for participating in this farce, but it’s what is expected of me. One day, hosting this party will be passed to my mother, and then to my sister and I. I almost laugh again when I imagine what sort of spin a rock star would put on it.

Bethany takes the mic from the bandleader’s hand. “Thank you so much for joining us tonight. On behalf of my sister, Mary Kay, and myself, we would like to welcome you to our grandmother’s annual party to end the fabulous charity year. It’s a time to celebrate. Enjoy the wonderfully prepared cuisine and the beverages she’s carefully selected for you.
Laissez les bons temps rouler!
” She does a fantastic job, like she does every year. The band takes its cue and plays an upbeat jazz number that brings everyone to the dance floor, and Tripp and I do what we do best—find the bar.