Chapter Nineteen

Kit

I ate my bodyweight in homestyle potatoes and huevos rancheros. The tableside guac was to die for, but the real scene-stealer was the pineapple peach agua fresca. I do a quick check of my clothes to make sure nothing got on the white tank and cutoffs in my enthusiasm, before paying my bill and leaving through the side entrance. Stuffed, happy, ready for a relaxing day until the rehearsal dinner festivities.

A day not spent obsessing over the wedding planner.

"Oof!" I exclaim with a gasp.

Julia barrels into me. My hand reaches out in a reactive embrace. She yanks her giant black Versace shades off, pinning me in place with her eyes. They're makeup-free and alive with alarm.

"Whoa, who died?" I ask.

"This wedding might," she replies, her voice electric.

"That's ominous."

"The groom and his dudes are passed out at Bachelor Town when they're supposed to be presentable at a picnic brunch on Skull Rock." She's in a hurry, but she's not tugging out of my grip. "I have to go." Her eyes drop to my hand. One of my fingers has slipped in between the buttons on her light green button-down, touching the skin on her abdomen. The baby hairs stand on end, and before I move my hand away, I let my finger brush back and forth over her skin.

"You need backup," I say, releasing her. I shove the hand that was just touching her into my hair, twisting a chunk between my fingers.

"No, I'm fine," she says, waving me off. "You should enjoy the facilities." She's moving away fast. But that wasn't a question.

"I'm coming with you," I say, gripping her by the wrist. Her eyes trip to my hand before coming back up to my face.

"Are you sure you want to do that? It's bound to be a shitshow."

"All the more reason you shouldn't tackle it alone." I'm just as shocked as she is by the words coming out of my mouth. I am supposed to be avoiding her, not trying to find more reasons to be close to her.

She considers me and my proposition for another beat. I consider recanting but can't make myself say it out loud. Finally, she nods, and I release my grip on her wrist. She launches back out, and I follow her, matching her brisk pace.

"They were supposed to be up by ten, over to the site by eleven, but everyone is passed out or throwing up—" She cuts herself off. We turn the corner into the lobby, which is full of people I assume are family and close friends who have been invited to the rehearsal dinner tonight. "This is why I always insist the bachelor/bachelorette festivities don't happen on the same weekend as the wedding." She's lowered her voice, painted on a fake smile.

"Millie probably thought they would be the exception to your warnings," I reply. She's shoved her dark sunglasses back over her eyes, but I can feel her confirming eye roll through the lenses.

"And she is," Julia replies. "Despite the shenanigans of last night, the bridal party is on-site, on time, and undoubtedly camera ready."

We reach her car idling in front of the lobby entrance, flanked by two of the Celestial Sands staff. I climb into the passenger seat, buckling, as she starts the engine. Sitting in the console between the two seats is a rental car packet. I pick it up, examining.

"I drive a Jag," she says, throwing the car into gear.

The word Jag hits me right in the stomach, making it twist. Julia Kelley should drive a Jag. She should wear sexy dark sunglasses and simmer with intensity. She should be pissed off and dry-witted, and she should definitely be beside me in the driver's seat.

I tighten my seat belt. Universe, take the wheel.

She peels out, tires spinning up gravel to smack against the car's undercarriage.

?It's a ten-minute drive to reach the location of last night's bachelor excursions. As we pull onto the lonely desert road, the entrance sign stands overhead. They've hung a banner that reads Bachelor Town, population: the Final Four over the sign, blocking the Pioneer Town name from view. As we near the site, I see a faux street of frame buildings set up to look like a ghost town from the Wild West, complete with a saloon, a blacksmith, and a doctor. I am assuming each of these buildings also has different uses that loosely correspond to their historical purpose. To the left of the street are a few large glamping tents similar in style to the ones at the Glamp-Out—canvas, with a firepit in the center. Parked alongside those is a party bus, the front doors open, the engine off.

As we pull up to the site, I notice the hunched-over form of one of the bachelors, his shiny black hair absorbing the stark sunlight. He's wearing a pair of assless chaps, his athletic torso completely bare. His head rests on the metal edge of the firepit and his back is already tinted pink from sun exposure.

"Goddammit, I hope his forehead isn't crispy," Julia says, shutting off the engine. She unbuckles. "But a crispy groomsman really is the least of my concerns."

I cut my eyes at her. "Have you met Millie Morgan? Aesthetics are God."

"Fair," she replies. "Fuck." We climb from the car to get a closer look. She gingerly touches the guy's pink-tinted shoulder. "Cash, you lucid?" He stirs with a groan and then lifts his head to reveal a pink stripe across his forehead, but hopefully with time—and some ice and a little makeup—it won't show in photos.

"This is manageable," I say, bending down to peer at the mark. "It's fine as long as one of the bridesmaids has a matching foundation shade."

Julia nods. "Right, okay." Then she shakes him a little more vigorously. "Cash, you gotta get to the showers in the Saloon." Another groan.

I pull out my phone, opening the GarageBand app to quickly search for a siren sound. I turn the volume way up and put the phone right by his ear. Julia looks perplexed, brows flexing with her unspoken question.

"It'll work," I say, clicking the sound. A siren rises, growing in volume like the real thing.

Cash's head shoots back up from the firepit edge. "What the fuck, no—" he exclaims, smacking his palms against the metal, then up to his ears. Julia grabs him under the arms and yanks him up, putting his double nipple piercings right in my line of sight.

Cash is sooo the kind of guy I would have fucked in a bathroom and ghosted when he invited me to take out the paddleboats in Echo Park.

"You have to get showered, come on—" She starts pulling him toward the Saloon but he's still a limp noodle in her hands. I rush forward to help shoulder some of his weight.

"He smells like rancid milk," I say, nearly gagging.

"They had a boozy shake truck and burgers on-site last night."

"So it's his breath."

"I think it's oozing from his pores."

When we reach the porch, a man rushes out, arms extended to take Cash off our hands. He must work here, because he doesn't look like one of the bachelors. Julia tugs her sunglasses down, cutting him a look that could kill.

"Let me help you out—" he starts, but she interrupts.

"You'll do more than help me out. The management was aware of their ten-a.m. pickup time. There were strict instructions to make sure they were up—"

"You try wrangling a bunch of drunk frat dudes."

"I'm about to do just that." We hand Cash over, the move drawing another sour-milk-and-meat burp into the air. "Get him in the facilities, and make sure he doesn't slip on suds or something." The guy seems rightfully terrified of the petite brunette barking orders his way.

"Where are the rest of the guys?" I ask, offering him a smile. His pale eyes widen and shift toward the center tent. The biggest. The canvas door flapping in the wind. He shuffles off with Cash. We slow turn to look at the tent in question.

Julia inhales sharply. "Honest moment?"

"Of course."

"I'm scared of what I'll find."

I flick my eyes over to her. "You mean is this Very Bad Things or The Hangover ?"

"Jesus, hopefully neither."

" Very Bad Things is so much worse."

"Nineties problematics all over the place."

"Deranged Cameron Diaz was a vibe, though."

We approach the tent in unison, and Julia gives one more sharp exhale before gripping the edge of the tent flap and yanking it up. We step inside and let it fall closed behind us.

Men's bodies litter the ground, halfway shoved into sleeping bags, a couple of them laid out on cots, hugging pillows and drooling over the edges. They all appear to be alive, with no dead sex workers or babies in the mix. It's more than four guys, which leads me to believe that—much like the bachelorettes—the extended close crew were invited to participate.

"It's definitely not as bad as it could be," she says, shoving her sunglasses into the back pocket of her jeans. "But six guys, not counting Cash, is a lot for the two of us to corral." She looks at me, and then her face drops into a small, grateful smile. "But at least I'm not on my own."

I quirk my lips into a smirk. "Are you trying to say thank you without saying thank you?"

She sticks out her tongue and my eyes immediately drop to the move.

"I'm waiting." I cock my hip, resting my hand in the crook and tapping my fingers in a rapid, impatient rhythm.

"You're going to make me say it."

"I think it's important that you do."

She squirms under the expectation for another couple of seconds before taking her lower lip between her teeth, grunting, and mumbling out the two all-important words. I snort into a cackle. We both turn our attention back to the sleeping pile of men.

"Try your siren trick again," she says, motioning to my ass, where my phone is stored in the back pocket of my jean shorts. I tug it out, walking over to the nearest passed-out guy. He's blond and tan, buff, and totally the type of guy I would normally find hot. Right now, with the peach fuzz on his upper lip and smelling of booze, I can't comprehend why.

He's not the groom, Sean—who I know from Millie's Instagram. I see he is passed out on the cot near the back of the tent. I press my phone speaker close to this guy's ear and blare the siren sound.

It gets some grunts of stirring, and one of them calls out for five more minutes, but it doesn't do the job here like it did on Cash. I try it a couple more times, but even with it not right up close to my own ear, my head is starting to ache. When I look back at Julia, I see she's got her hands covering her ears and a pained expression on her face. I stand, pocketing the phone again.

"We need a new plan," I say, walking back toward her as she drops her hands from her ears. She considers the room, eyes drifting over each sleeping form, warm and cozy in the already deepening morning heat. For November, even in the desert, the weather today is warm, bringing sweat to all clothing-covered crevices.

"Shock," she says, her face twisting, features brightening with the beginning of an idea.

"Wake them up with a start," I add on.

"It's beyond warm temps in here," she continues. "It's downright toasty."

We look at each other in unison. "Debate team trip." The words said in sync set off a chain reaction of laughter.

Junior year, our debate team made it to the state competition in Sacramento. The whole team drove up on a bus and stayed overnight at a Holiday Inn right off the Five freeway. Julia and I were both on the team, alternates for the main players, sure, but that didn't matter for this trip. Everyone was invited. The night before the final match, some of the seniors—mostly boys and, you guessed it, Karen MacMillan and her posse—got wasted and didn't show up for breakfast. Our coach, Mr. Dudley, used the showerheads in the bathrooms to shock them awake. They all got slaps on the wrist for conduct, and a couple of the boys were given suspensions for supplying the booze that got everyone drunk, but Coach Dudley's method worked to rouse them awake enough to participate in the match.

"There has to be a water hose on the property somewhere," I say, now that our laughter has died back.

"It's wholly unprofessional to spray my clients with a water hose to wake them up," she replies. She's second-guessing her instinct, a trait I'm noticing more and more—another trait that is so unlike the girl I used to know.

"Julia." I savor the taste of her name on my tongue. Our eyes lock. "I dare you to find a water hose and spray these dudes awake with it."

My mouth goes dry as she stares at me, contemplating the dare, clearly weighing out her options. She wasn't reckless, not ever, but she was sure every time she decided to act, always relying on her gut to lead the way. I feel it with a pang, the desire to remind her that she can trust herself. She doesn't need someone to dare her to do what she already knows she desires.

"Triple. Dog. Dare." I raise my brow in a challenge.

"Let's go," she says, and I see the decision snap into place as a wave of certainty washes over her from crown to toes.

We shoot back through the tent flap and blinkingly look around for a hose. Nothing right up next to the tent, or the surrounding tents, but not too far off we spot a watering trough like you'd expect to see in a real Old West town for horses to get a drink after a long day carrying humans and cargo through the desert. As we near, I can tell by the remnants of a few unopened beer bottles that its use in Bachelor Town was for storing libations. Rolled up on the side of the trough is a green water hose that appears to be connected to a water source below. Julia grabs the hose, uncurling it so she has a good grip, before turning the nozzle to test if it actually works.

The hose quickly tenses up in her hands, and after a few seconds, a slow stream of water begins to pour out through the end. She grins. "I'll unroll it back toward the tent. Can you go ahead of me to secure the flap open?"

"Sure thing." I run ahead to follow her instructions. There are ties attached to both corners of the tent flap, so I roll the first up to its corresponding loop, securing the corner back. I repeat the motion on the other side, finishing just as she reaches the tent and shakes out a kink that's formed while unrolling the hose. Her eyes meet mine as she gets into position, bright with excitement. She lets a sharp puff of air out through her nostrils.

"I'll turn up the pressure." On my way past her, the instinct to brush her arm with the tips of my fingers is almost too strong to resist. Her skin is warm tan; the faint hairs on her arm are soft. I count down as I walk, trying to focus on anything but all these feelings.

Julia isn't the only woman I've had an intoxicating crush on, but she's been the only one who ever felt worth risking it all for. I fucked it up before, even with the heady desire to give her my all, and I can't do that to her again. This time, if I take the leap, I have to be sure I'm willing to go all in.

I curl my fingers around the nozzle and twist until it won't go any farther. I can see the water pressure turning the slack hose tight on its way to the end. I chase the water all the way back to Julia, reaching the entrance to the tent just as she lifts the hose, placing her finger into the flow to make it spray. She takes aim at the groom's exposed, taut torso. Spray from the hose splashes out over the body of one of the other guys, who is sleeping in a beanie, a pair of boxers, and nothing else on top of a sleeping bag.

The drops hit his stomach just as the harder pressure smacks against Sean.

The groom's eyes slice open, startled, as his guttural scream fills the tent. He shoots to his feet, stepping on the beanie guy, which sends him upright and directly into the flow of the water hose. Julia turns the spray on his chest for a second, before moving it around the tent. In a flurry of water and wails, the bachelors wake, jumping in panic to avoid the continued onslaught from the water weapon. I'm hiding behind her as the mayhem unfolds, but all I can think about is how close I'm standing to her body.

My eyes rake down her form, coursing over her hair tugged into a tight, low ponytail. They slip over her curves, noticing the way her button-down blouse hits the waistline of her jeans, how the minty color pops against her skin. I imagine wrapping my fingers around her waist and tugging her against me. Pressing my whole body into the length of hers, leaning my nose into the crown of her head to smell her.

Making her mine in every single sense of the word, no remorse, no holding back.