Page 22 of Dirty Work

“A what?” I must have heard her wrong. There’s no way she just said what I thought she said.

“A penis cake.”

Nope. I definitely heard it right the first time.

“It’s for a bachelorette party,” she explains between bites of her burger. “They’ve got a penthouse suite at the Soho Grand. I’m supposed to pick up the cake, bring it there and get started on the decorations.”

“Decorations?”

“More penises. The maid of honor’s seriously obsessed with them. She had us order penis lollipops, penis confetti, penis shot glasses, even a six-foot blow-up penis that I don’t know and don’t want to know what they plan on using for.”

“Sounds delightful.” And by delightful, I mean scary as shit. A six-foot penis. How’s a guy supposed to compete with that?

Ainsley polishes off the last of her burger and pushes her plate away. “Sorry for cutting our lunch short. But don’t worry. I should be able to get to your place in time to take Roscoe out before it gets dark.”

She stands, and I follow suit. My parents’ dog is the last thing on my mind right now. It’s hard for me to concentrate on anything at the moment except the woman across from me. She’s doing something with her mouth that’s damn distracting.

“Hold up. I’ll go with you.”

The words escape my lips before I can stop them. I tell myself it’s because I’m curious. I’ve never been to a penis party before. But that’s horseshit. Truth is I don’t want this date—if that’s what this is—to end. If that means dick decorating for a bunch of bawdy bachelorettes, then I’m willing to swallow my male pride and take one for Team Spend the Day with Ainsley. And if I play my cards right, maybe the night, too.

“You don’t have to do that,” she protests, unhooking her purse from the back of her chair and slinging it over her shoulder.

I signal to our waitress for the check and a doggie bag for my burger. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Besides, I’m guessing you could use an extra hand. I may only have one working, but it’s all yours.”

I pat my sling and wince. Damn shoulder hurts more than I want to admit. I probably should have taken the doctor up on his offer to prescribe me something stronger than ibuprofen. But I hate the way the hard-core stuff makes me feel. Woozy and wobbly, like I’m in a brain fog. Or a M. Night Shyamalan movie.

Ainsley studies me. She’s way too perceptive. Sees everything. No doubt she’s figured out I’m in pain and is getting ready to send me packing. I’m gearing up for a fight, but she surprises me and gives me a resigned shrug. “Have it your way. You can help. But you’re on light duty. No lifting boxes or climbing ladders.”

I cross my heart and hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were a Boy Scout?” she asks, her tone suspicious.

“Cub Scout. I only made it to Webelos,” I confess. “But we Webelos take the Scout’s oath very seriously.”

“From what I’ve seen, you take just about everything seriously. But we’re going to change that.” She takes a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and slips them on. “Come on. Let’s go play with some peckers.”

CHAPTER NINE

Ainsley

“WHATTHEHELLis this?”

I look up from the penis wine charms I’m fastening around the stems of eight wine glasses—one for the bride and each of her seven bridesmaids—to see Jake holding a box like it’s about to bite him. I suck in a giggle when I see the picture on it. Two women whacking each other with inflatable dicks strapped around their waists.

“That’s one of the party games. Dueling Dickies.”

He shudders. “Please tell me I don’t have to blow them up.”

“So you’re okay with being serenaded by drag queens, but putting your lips on a plastic penis is where you draw the line?”

“I am not giving a blow job to a four-foot phallus.”

This time I can’t fight the laughter, and it bubbles out. “No worries. If it threatens your precious manhood, I’ll do it. You can fill Willy Whack-It.”

“Willy what?”

“The party pecker piñata.”