Mom rolled her eyes at that. “How very Gen Z of you, Amy Laverne. But if that’s truly your goal, then I don’t see how being a personal assistant for a celebrity in LaLa Land could get you there.”
I tried explaining it to her, again. I told her how amazing it felt being part of a found family on tour—being on a big crew that worked hard together to make magic happen—to make it possible for the band to do their job, thereby giving so much joy to so many, every night. I told Mom how working closely with Caleb, one-on-one, was especially gratifying because me doing my job to the best of my abilities allowed Caleb to do his job, which meant, indirectly, I was part of bringing joy to a whole lot of people across the world.
Mom never got it. When I was finished explaining everything to her, she stared at me, dumbfounded, for a long moment, before saying, “If you didn’t have my eyes, I’d swear you were switched at birth.” Surely, that’s the same thing she’s thinking now, as I follow her into my hotel room.
As the door closes behind us, Mom tells me to turn around, so she can unzip me, and then begins barking orders at me. Two minutes later, I’m out of my gown and in soft pajamas, my teeth are brushed and my face scrubbed, and Mom is tucking me into bed.
“Take these,” Mom says, handing me two Ibuprofen. And when I’ve downed the pills with water, she kisses my forehead and whispers, “Now get some sleep. I’ll come get you for brunch at ten.”
“I’m gonna sleep in,” I say. “I’ll order room service.”
“Suit yourself.” Her features soften. “You looked beautiful tonight, Amy. Radiant.”
My heart melts. Mom isn’t big on compliments. “Thank you. So did you.” I twist my mouth. “I’m sorry I’m not what you would have ordered from the Daughter Store.”
“Oh, honey.” Mom touches her palm to my face. “You’re a wonderful daughter. I just want you to be able to take care of yourself in life. You can’t depend on a man to do that for you.”
“I don’t want someone to take care of me,” I say. “I know I can do that for myself. I’m just not ambitious the same way you are, Mom. I’d be happy with a different kind of life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I do.”
Mom caresses my cheek. “I love you, too. Very much.” She kisses my forehead again and clicks off the lamp. “Now, get some sleep, party girl. You tied one on tonight, didn’t you?”
“Night, Mom.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
When the door closes behind my mother, I sit up like a jack-in-a-box that just got cranked and grab my phone, eager to see whatever text Colin has surely sent me.
But he hasn’t sent me anything.
Shoot.
I return my phone to the nightstand, telling myself not to worry about it. That Colin will text me any minute now. Perhaps, after taking a shower in Dax’s suite? And in the meantime, I’ll do some research about that thing Colin said on the patio.
The Sure Thing.
That’s the enigmatic phrase Colin whispered into my ear, along with the other stuff he said about eating my pussy and pulling my strings. Lord have mercy on my soul, that was so hot, even though I didn’t understand half of what he meant!
I know the phrase “the sure thing” generally means something is guaranteed. But it sure sounded like Colin used the phrase as a proper noun. Does “the sure thing” mean something different in the context of sex and pussy-eating and orgasms and I’m just too stupid to know it?
I search the phrase on my phone, my heart thrumming with excitement . . . but the first batch of results sheds no light on the situation. Apparently, there’s an eighties movie of that name. A rom-com, by the looks of it, starring that guy from Hot Tub Time Machine. Was Colin referencing a scene from this rom-com? If so, I don’t have time to watch it before Colin texts me and asks me for my room number.
Speaking of which . . .
I check my texts. But still, there’s nothing from Colin.
Damn.
It’s okay. Don’t panic. He probably showered in Dax’s room and got to talking to his friends and has lost track of time. No worries. He’ll text soon. And in the meantime, back to my research.
I grab a large bottle of vodka from the minibar and take a seat on the edge of the bed with it. After taking a couple long swigs, I revise my prior search on my phone, tacking the words “sex” and “orgasm” onto “The Sure Thing” this time. And whaddayaknow? A YouTube video with over ten million views entitled “The Sure Thing” immediately pops up! Bingo.
The video was posted by someone named “Ball Peen Hammer,” as part of a series called “Ball Peen Hammer’s Guide to a Handsome and Happy Life.” It seems to be some kind of tutorial. Indeed, the description under the video reads, “I guarantee this fingering technique will give your woman Honey Bunches of O’s, lads!”
Giggling at the silly description, I press play and watch in awe as a blue-haired hottie with sparkling blue eyes, a megawatt smile, and two prominent dimples explains his fingering technique in explicit detail, while using combinations of words and slang I’ve never heard in my life . . . although, come to think of it, Colin himself whispered several of those same words into my ear downstairs. Colin said he’d have me coming so hard, I’d be “speaking in tongues” and “seeing God,” both of which Ball Peen Hammer says in this video. To me, that strongly suggests Colin has seen this video . . . which excites me to no end.
“If you’ve done everything, exactly as I’ve told you,” Ball Peen Hammer says. “Your woman will be so wet and turned on, she’ll beg you to fuck her. And when you do, it’s fifty-fifty she’ll have one last O for ya, this time, while your cock’s inside her.” The blue-haired hottie grins, making his outrageous dimples pop. “And that, my handsome and happy lads, is the holy grail of O’s—making a woman come while you’re inside her. When that happens, yee-boy! That’ll shove you, hard, into the best orgasm of your life. I guarantee you: coming with her is gonna be the closest to God you’ll ever come.” He snickers. “Pun intended. You’re welcome.”
The video ends and I immediately rewatch it, before checking my phone for a text from Colin that’s not there. Shoot. I take a long swig from my bottle and then watch the video a third time—this time, while drunkenly trying to do The Sure Thing on myself. But it’s impossible. I can’t reach the spot deep inside me Ball Peen Hammer has described. And I certainly can’t dirty-talk myself—which, apparently, is a crucially important component to this technique. Dammit!
I check my phone again, and when there’s still nothing from Colin, I decide to bite the bullet and take matters into my own hands.
Me: Hellooooo? I’m still awake and waiting for you to do everything you said downstairs! Are you there?
After pressing send on my text, I stare at my screen for a long moment, hoping to see, at least, three wiggling dots. But when nothing happens, I decide to pass the time by googling this Ball Peen Hammer dude. He looks vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t place him.
My search quickly yields results. As it turns out, Ball Peen Hammer is an actor named Keane Morgan . . . as in, the older brother of none other than Dax Morgan of 22 Goats! Which means . . . Holy shit! Colin has definitely watched this video about The Sure Thing and maybe even learned about the technique directly from Keane! Either way, I’m now certain Colin not only knows how to do this amazing technique, but he also knows how to do it well. And that’s got me buzzing like a horny bumble bee!