Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

6

Brody

It’s a perfect night.

The sun is low and reflecting off the water. There’s almost no breeze.

And Rachel Perez is a party whisperer.

I know she’s a librarian, not a party planner, but I think this might be her other calling. She brought six bottles of wine, three shopping bags full of snacks, and an assortment of other things, including hand sanitizer.

I did manage to remember the bug wipes this time. I feel way too proud of myself. I’m also issuing toilet paper in five-square portions to each woman who asks to use the head. I’ve learned my lesson.

Rachel had the guests do introductions—I would never have thought of that—and now the women are sitting in the bow, chatting happily and passing around a small tube of hand lotion.

No small dogs are present.

Like I said, a perfect night.

Also, Rachel’s wearing a pair of skin-tight jeans that show off her amazing ass and a tank top that swerves over her perfect tits and makes my own jeans too tight.

I’mglad she’s not wearing a sundress like the one she wore last Sunday to Gabe’s housewarming. It had a scoop neck and thin straps that looked like they’d blow off her shoulders in a strong breeze. I tried so fucking hard not to stare down that neckline. And failed. So much soft skin, so much fodder for my late-night self-love.

I’m not sure what happened on that porch, to be honest. One minute I was sticking to my guns about what a bad idea it would be to have Rachel on my boat… and the next, I was giving her my phone number.

I blame the dress. And her mouth. And her Rachel-ness. The way her face got soft with sympathy right before she offered up her and her mom’s services for the party. And something in me just caved, because I wanted her on my boat. Cheerful, beautiful, soft-hearted, kind Rachel. On. My. Boat.

Even if it’s a terrible idea.

And now here we are. Me, still with my grave doubts, and her, with her swervy tank top. Every time a breeze kicks up, I look over to see if she’s feeling the cold.

God help me.

“Okay, I was a little dubious about this until I tried it,” Rachel says, holding up a sparkly gold tube.

I stop listening and just watch the sky, which is slowly turning an unearthly green-purple.

Until a few words catch my attention. In an unexpected and very visceral way.

“…on your clit or your labia…”

What the fuck?

I’ve just learned something. When a woman I’m hot for suddenly starts talking dirty out of the blue, my body reacts a split second before my brain. My dick is halfway to hard before my forebrain even comes online.

She’s passing around more of those sparkly gold tubes, and I crane to see.

Sensual Heat.

Wait, what?

The women are laughing and exclaiming words of approval as they rub it on their hands and their faces.

I can’t take my eyes off Rachel, who has smoothed a bit on her cheek to demonstrate. Fingertips sliding across her satin skin.

“Give it a second,” she says, laughing. “It’ll start to tingle.”

The women are all oohing and ah-ing. Wanting to know how much it costs.

All I can think about is Rachel, tingling. Everywhere.

“Rachel,” I hear myself saying. Sharply.

The women look up at the sound of my voice, and I wince.

She hurries back, ducking into the cockpit beside me.

“What is that?”

“Warming lube,” she whispers, darting a look at her guests, who are watching us curiously.

I lower my voice, too. I don’t want to ruin this party for her—or for me. The last thing I want is to reap another round of shitty reviews. “I mean, what’s it doing here?”

She gives me a quizzical look. “I don’t understand the question.”

“I thought you were selling beauty products.”

Her eyes get huge. Her mouth forms an O. And her hands spread open, like she’s bracing herself.

“Rachel?” I murmur.

“You, um, didn’t. You didn’t, um, look at the website?”

Her cheeks have bright hot streaks across them. Something in my gut clenches in response to those streaks, like it would if I’d put them there.

I shake my head.

“Oh, God. God. Brody. I’m—I’m so sorry. My mom said she told you to look.”

I vaguely recall this. And a text reminding me to check out the website that came in this morning from Mrs. Perez. Just want to make sure you looked at the site so you know what you’re getting yourself into.

I just figured she meant that the products would all be floral scented and pink and that the participants would use the term “self-care”—one of Amanda’s favorites—a lot.

I did not figure she meant that it would include lube. And—

Oh, shit.

“What else?” I demand.

My voice comes out gruffer than I mean it to, and she flinches. “Um,” she says. She looks around a bit wildly, like someone might save her from this conversation. From me.

“Rachel,” I warn.

“Toys,” she whispers.

Connor is going to kill me. And not in a kind, efficient way. Slowly and with pleasure.

Wait. Connor. Does Connor know?

I review the contents of our conversation. What did he say?

Beauty stuff, like body wash and perfume and shit.

There was no wink-wink, nudge-nudge, and I cannot imagine Connor would deliver this blindsiding to me point blank.

Therefore, he must not know.

Oh, shit.

He cannot find out that Rachel is selling toys on my boat. He cannot.

But more to the point…

I look up, and there she is, tight tank top—and oh, hell, she’s definitely cold—long, dark hair, and very worried expression on her face.

Rachel—Rachel who I have spent the last ten years of my life trying not to think about in a way that includes things like tingling, or lube, or toys.

Connor is a good friend, and I am not this good of a person.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

Also, God give me strength.

Rachel

A rush of humiliation washes over me, while I readjust to this new reality.

Brody did not know.

I just showed up on his boat and blindsided him with boxes full of sex toys.

I die.

Unfortunately, it’s not that easy, and I am still standing here on his boat, surrounded by curious onlookers, boxes of toys, and Brody, who looks as hot as always, and now—unsurprisingly—pissed.

“Do you want me to leave?” I whisper.

“Oh, God, no!” he whispers back. “Don’t leave me alone with them!”

The desperation in his voice startles me—and makes me laugh. Which startles him. He turns his green gaze on me, and something in those eyes flares. Anger, I think.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It’s just—I wasn’t planning to leave you with them. I assumed if I left they’d leave with me. But—I don’t know, they did pay money to ride your boat, so maybe that was a faulty assumption.”

Brody pulls something out of his pocket. It’s that little mini rabbit’s foot he fidgets with. He hides his gaze from me again, which is just as well because you’re not supposed to stare into the sun that long.

“Look,” he says, from under his bangs. “This wasn’t what I expected… But please don’t go. I, um, need this. I need to make this work. This business is what takes care of the whole Wilder family, and if I’m not pulling my weight…”

He trails off.

That was at least five sentences. A whole paragraph of Brody Wilder. The look on his face hurts my heart. Brody Wilder, veteran bad boy, wants desperately to do right by the people he loves, even if doesn’t look like that’s who he is from the outside.

“Of course I’ll stay,” I say.

The pained look softens into something much more like the Brody I’m used to. A scowl. “I’ll just, I don’t know, plug my ears.” The corner of his mouth tips up, the scowl morphing into something more like a half-smile. I want to keep it.

“And close your eyes?” I murmur.

Unfortunately, the combination of the situation, the question, and my tone makes it sound super suggestive. The smile leaves his face and is replaced with something else, and humiliation swamps me again.

Ugh, as if it’s not bad enough that I’ve just clobbered him with sex toys on his own boat, I’m flirting now. With a guy who has done everything he can to make it clear that I’m nothing more than his best friend’s little, bitty, insignificant sister.

“I’ll just…”

I gesture to the women, and practically run away from him.

“Everything OK?” someone asks me, as I rejoin them in the front of the boat.

“Yeah—just a little—misunderstanding.”

I don’t explain the nature of the misunderstanding, and no one asks. The women here tonight mostly didn’t know each other before they showed up, and they’re warming up a lot more slowly than the other group. Or maybe I don’t have my mom’s magic touch.

Speaking of magic touch, oh, shit, it’s time for the vibrators.

I can’t look Brody’s way.

I won’t look Brody’s way.

Needless to say, the next few reveals are torture. I practiced a bunch so I wouldn’t blush, but all my work is instantly undone. I blush my way through eggs, bullet vibes, remote control gadgets, straight up penis-clones, g-spot stimulators, shared vibrating toys. The women become fascinated, intrigued, confessional.

The rabbit.

The Cadillac.

Is he watching?

Is he scowling?

Half-smiling?

Or smirking?

Damn it, I have to peek.

Not watching. He’s in the back of the boat. He has binoculars up and is staring at something on the shore.

“He’s hot,” says one of my guests.

“Really?” I say, like I hadn’t noticed. “Yeah, guess so.”

I look down into the box and realize that Jack Buddy’s up next.

No.

My face is on fire.

I’m going to skip it.

Except…

According to my mother, Jack Buddy is a money-maker.

Anyone who pleasures a penis on a regular basis can appreciate Jack Buddy. Married straight women are mega fans. They like the idea that they can get their husbands off with a minimum of wrist damage and, on a bad night, without having to subject their soft parts to friction. Jack Buddy sold like hotcakes at the first party, and my mom confirmed that it’s always a big winner.

No avoiding Jack Buddy, then. Because if I’m going to die of humiliation and have to avoid Brody for the rest of my life, I might as well make my mom some money.

“So,” I explain. “This is Jack Buddy. Jack’s a penile masturbation aid. Some people call them strokers.”

I will not, will not, will not look at Brody. No matter how much it feels like my gaze is drawn to him by super magnets.

The women stare at the soft silicone sheath in my hand. They all have grabby-hand eyes, like they can’t wait for me to get through my explanation so they can touch the foreign strangely-appealingly-pink-and-squishy sleeve.

Somehow—no idea how—I manage to get through my explanation and to pass the demo strokers around for the women to admire—and covet.

They’re all discussing the marriage-saving possibilities.

“I mean, you could just lube it up and hand it over, right? When you have ‘a headache’?”

“Or you could help out, if you were feeling generous.”

“It would be kind of hot, watching, wouldn’t it?”

It would be really, really hot, watching.

I glance at Brody again. I can’t help it; my eyes won’t obey my mind’s command.

The binoculars are still in his hands. His eyes are still on the shore. But I can’t help feeling like I have his attention, even so. Something in the set of his shoulders or the grip of his hands on the barrel of the binocs.

At the last minute, just as I’m about to look away, he turns.

It’s only a split second, but I see those green eyes, filled with interest and heat.

And even though he turns back almost instantly, I’m sure of what I saw, because my body answers instinctively.

It’s a heady feeling, and I’m afraid of how much I want more of it.