My Best Man Andy Schell (top rated ebook readers .TXT) 📖

in time to catch Too late. He’s driving off in his shiny black BMW. But then stops … and so does my heart. Do I walk over to his car? driver’s window rolls down, his sexy pumped arm comes out, hand holding a white piece of paper, a card it seems. I walk step up to his window, and look in to see a masculine face that’ even more gorgeous than I remember from minutes ago. In dark, his glacier green eyes glow more stunning yet, and before say a word he tells me in a sexy drawl, “I’ve got to get home.” Then he hands me his card, his wedding ring catching the glow the parking lot lights, and drives away.

I lok at his card:

JT Reardon

Sales

Fairway BMW …. And only his business number is on the card. Great. He to sell me a car.

Since moving in, I’ve not seen a lot of Amity because she’ been spending nights with her boyfriend, Troy, the guy who her away from the airport the day I met her. I

“Come sit on the bathtub, Harry, and talk to me while I poo for my date with Troy.” Poo up is her phrase for the of putting on her makeup and doing her hair, she explains. I soon find out it’s a minimum two-hour production, and it’s always done with the help of a glass of champagne and a toke off the bong.

“What happened to Bart?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching her from the backside. She wears a pair of men’s boxer shorts and a flimsy camisole. I love that she’s so relaxed in front of me.

“I’m still seeing Bart,” she answers, locking her eyelashes into her eyelash curler. “But he’s hard to get to know, Harry. He still lives with his parents in Piano. I went out to their house, and all Bart wanted to do was watch TV. That’s just not this girl’s style.” St awL She switches the curler to the other eye, causing the strap on her flimsy camisole to fall over one shoulder. “And every time I sleep with him he’s wearing the same boxer shorts,” she giggles, wrinkling her nose. “You change your underwear, don’t you, Harry.” It is a statement, not a question, to extol my virtue and erode Bart’s. She starts extracting the rollers from her hair, and each shock of hair falls and bounces like an uncoiling snake. “You know why his ass looks so good in those jeans, don’t you?” “Why?”

“He buys women’s jeans. They fit his ass better and make his box look big.” She unleashes the last roller, turns, and screams,

“Medusa!” while her coils of snakes fly in all directions. “Don’t touch me,” I beg, laughing.

“It’s too late!” she says, playfully putting a finger on my chin. “Now you know why my last name is Stone!” She starts fluffing out the snakes, one by one, using a hair pick and her hands, and each shock of hair triples in size. Soon she has the whole thing jacked out to there, and I’m sitting under its mass. It’s like when I was a boy, growing up in Kansas, and I would play golf with my father while the afternoon clouds grew larger and larger and closer and closer as they silently exploded over the Western plains, and everything on earth was in their shadow.

I’m amazed watching her transformation. I had no idea how much a product of her cosmetics she is. Not that she’s not beautiful without them, but I realize the Amity I’ve known in these couple

of weeks is more of a visual creation than I thought. What’s amazing is that she’s just as unabashed about herself in situ as she is about everything else. She’s not reticent in the least to make the transition from Plain Amity to Glamorous Amity right before eyes and stop in the middle of it all to sit on the toilet and while I sit across from her on the tub and talk. Man, I didn’t know girls were this casual. My mom never peed in front of not sure she peed at all. And she certainly never let me see without any makeup on. The fact that Amity is taking the out of it kind of makes it all the more mysterious.

“He still has a killer ass,” I say, getting back to Bart. I

the idea of this country-boy jock buying women’s jeans, and refuse to let her ruin my image of him.

“I like what’s in front of the ass,” she says, candidly. “Dicks. She goes into her bedroom, and like a puppy with a new master. I follow. “A girl should never kiss and tell,” she says, taking preppy-looking plaid dress navy, maroon, and beige with a white collar off the hanger. “But we’re roommates, right, Harry?” “Right.”

“Bart doesn’t like getting his dick sucked. I don’t know When I get down there he pushes my head away. All he wants do is fuck me. And I just don’t know about that.”

What can I say? I don’t like it when all somebody wants to is fuck me.

“He just doesn’t have the class of say..” a member of the family from Kansas,” she declares.

Shit. She knows about my family. “And what do you know about the Fords?” I ask tentatively.

“Everybody knows about the Kansas Fords, Bubba. momma throws that charity ball every year, and your daddy’s one of the few who inherited wealth but still had a distinguished career.” Then she adds reverently, “God rest his soul.”

My warning flags go up. In college, there was a kid in my dorm

who knew everything there was to know about my father and the Fords. It was as if he’d read every mention in every little newspaper column. He’d refer to my mom, dad, and brother by their first names. It only made me steer clear of him. “How come you haven’t told me you know who my family is?” I ask.

“How