Cover Me. Stephanie Bond
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My friends burst into an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and I felt the eyes of everyone in the bar turn my way while a few tipsy bystanders chimed in. I hid the dildo kit on my lap, thinking maybe I could donate it to the Goodwill store in the red-light district.
The poor waitress nearly set her crop-top on fire as she parked the torch on our table. Since I was already light-headed, I inhaled as deeply as I dared and managed to blow out most of the candles. Cheers sounded all over the bar.
My cheeks burned as I glanced around with a smile to simultaneously thank the strangers for their attention and apologize for the interruption. At the bar, the sandy-haired nut-eating guy had turned his engaging grin in my direction. My own smile went all watery, and when I realized that I was making way too much eye contact, I wrenched my gaze away.
But Jacki had noticed. “Quarry spotted, girls—Eagle Scout, two o’clock.”
Before I could tell them not to look, they all had twisted in their seats. I sank lower in mine.
“He’s perfect,” Denise oozed.
“And he’s looking at you, Kenzie.” Cindy fluttered her hands.
I closed my eyes briefly. “Because he hasn’t seen this kind of spectacle since sixth grade.” I picked up a table knife. “Why don’t I cut the cake?” Or an artery.
Thankfully, butter-cream icing diverted the girls’ attention. I cut wedges of the yellow cake and passed them all around, and there were a few extra slices for spectators who eyed the free food like starving coyotes.
I ate the cake with my hands and savored the fats and sugars that sang to my tastebuds—despite my best dietary intentions, I had a vigorous sweet tooth. I was licking the icing off my fingers when I realized that if the guy at the bar was watching, he’d think my manners were wanting…or that finger-licking was my method of bewitching a man into asking me out. My eyeballs hurt from the strain of not looking back to see if he was looking back to see if I was looking back to see if he was looking back at me, but I had discipline. I had devoured only one piece of cake, hadn’t I?
I pushed the man from my thoughts and ordered us all another round of drinks. For the next hour, the girls and I dished about work and music and movies, agreeing that recycled office air was ravaging our skin, Josh Groban was the best thing that had happened to serious music in a long time, and The Thomas Crowne Affair was the sexiest movie of all time. Once or twice I accidentally glanced toward the bar and noticed that Eagle Scout was still there. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, lingering over a steak and watching a sports channel on the TV over the bar. Something about the casual, athletic way he held his body spoke to me. I told myself a guy who looked that good had to be taken.
On the other hand, I wasn’t chopped liver, and I was sleeping alone.
At that precise moment, he looked up and caught me staring. A hint of a smile curved his mouth and my heart went kaboom. I had never been so instantly and unjustifiably attracted to a man, so I blamed it on the alcohol coursing through my bloodstream and the urge to be disobedient on my birthday. I readied my most flirtatious smile, then was assailed by a violent itch on my neck that reminded me why I was still single at thirty-one—I kept picking the same kind of guy.
So I pretended to be looking at something behind the guy’s broad shoulder, and rejoined my friends’ conversation about the best long-lasting lipstick.
“We did a piece last month on a lady in Boston who specializes in cosmetic tattooing,” I offered. “Permanent lip-liner, beauty marks, even eyebrows.”
Everyone paused in consideration, then winced and shook their heads. I agreed, but I wondered if I’d warm up to the idea of permanent makeup a few birthday candles down the road.
When Jacki glanced at her watch, I realized that she probably had plans with Ted later and that I should wrap things up and let her off the hook.
“Thanks for everything, girls.” I glanced around at the women who had been constants in my life for over four years and felt a mushy mood coming on.
“Open the dildo kit before we leave,” Denise urged.
The mushy mood vanished. “Here?”
“Just the directions,” Cindy said. “I’m dying to know how this thing works.”
Not wanting to seem unappreciative, I set the box on the table and, while covering as much of the wording as possible, broke the seal with my thumbnail. I raised the lid a couple of inches and studied the innocuous looking white containers and cardboard cylinder. It had all the trappings of a science project. I withdrew a pink sheet of paper with the ominous words Before Making Your Dildo, Read These Directions Carefully printed across the top.
The girls huddled close, and I was reminded of the time in fourth grade when I’d stolen the insert from my mother’s box of tampons and scoured it with a friend on the school bus. In a low voice, I read the step-by-step instructions to mix the casting agent with tap water, pour the mixture into the cardboard cylinder that was closed at one end, then have the properly prepped “caster” insert his member into the cylinder, and the casting agent would harden almost instantly, creating a perfect cast when he withdrew. The final step was to fill the cast with tinted silicone, let it set for two hours, then pop out the replica dildo and “enjoy.”
While the girls hugged themselves with laughter, I scanned the rest of the directions. After “enjoying,” the dildo could be cleaned by placing it in the top rack of the dishwasher. Olé.
“This is going to be great,” Jacki said, nodding. “You have to promise to show us the end product.”
I shrugged. “Sure, but I have to warn you—I don’t see any ‘casting’ parties in my near future.”
“I don’t know,” Denise sang. “The guy at the bar is still looking over here.”
I refused to look, but I couldn’t hold back a frivolous smile. “Really?”
“But if you’re going to have a one-night stand,” Jacki said, “you have to know the ground rules.”
“I’m not having a one-night stand,” I insisted, shaking my head. Then I squinted. “There are ground rules?”
Jacki nodded. “You have to let a friend know who you’ll be with.”
“That’s so if you’re strangled, we’ll be able to give the police a description,” Cindy added solemnly.
“Ah.”
“But don’t worry—I could describe him with my eyes closed,” Denise said, then closed her eyes. “Brown hair, chinos, T-shirt, cowboy hat.” She opened her eyes. “How’d I do?”
“You got the T-shirt right,” I offered.
Denise frowned and twisted for another steely observation. “Damn, why did I think he was wearing a cowboy hat?”
“Because he has that look,” Jacki said. “Like he might lasso something.” She looked at me. “Or someone.”
I scratched. “This is not going to happen.”
“Don’t take him back to your place, and don’t go to his,” Cindy said.
“Right,” Denise added. “It has to be somewhere safe and neutral—like a hotel room.”
“That way he won’t know where you live.”
“Oh, and lie about where you work, in case he’s a stalker.”
“And don’t give him your real last name.”
“Or your real phone number.”
I was dizzy from looking back and forth. “Let me get this straight—assuming the man and I have a conversation before falling into bed, I’m supposed to tell him a pack of lies?”
“Right,” Denise said.
“Is