Page 212 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
I had never felt more relieved in my entire life. I left that party feeling lighter, not just because Tasha was out of the picture—she’d work somewhere else because it was too beneath her to take my job, or report to me—but for the first time in a month, I felt relief for my future.
I was going to be able to provide for my family.
After I brushed my teeth, I slipped into bed and pressed my chest against Rosie’s back, wrapping my arm around her stomach and burying my head into her hair. I gently rubbed her belly, smiling to myself about the little life we’d created.
First thing tomorrow, I’d call Derk. We were going ring shopping before his bachelor party. It was time to make Rosie mine forever.
Despite her quirkiness, inability to stop talking, and aptitude for bringing on the worst scenarios imaginable, I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Her smile, those lips, her eyes, her genuine and innocent heart, her tenacity, and her beautiful soul. I not only wanted them to be a part of me, I needed them in my life to breathe. Rosie was everything to me; I would be damned if I took another breath in this life without her by my side.
It was time I took my randy romance novelist and made her an engaged one.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Beat That Meat
ROSIE
Last night would go down in history as the worst night of my life. It beat kicking Atticus in the crotch, exposing my neon asshole on a bowling date, plastering my heel through squirrel tail’s penis picture, and even confessing my fake undying love to a man who made out with his dog.
Nothing I did for the rest of my life would ever beat vagina balls falling out of me in front of Henry’s esteemed guests, only to be followed up by my decade-old bra popping through my dress for all to see.
Any other normal person would have thought it was time to excuse yourself to the bathroom. No, not me. I liked to perform. I liked to hang coochey-covered marbles off my musty old bra as a party trick.
Congratulations to me.
I failed at life.
Before Henry even popped one of his eyeballs open this morning, I grabbed the bag I’d packed for myself last night, loaded all the bachelorette party items into a taxi, and went straight to the venue. Luckily enough, they opened the doors after four hours of me sitting on the curb with a giant penis under my arm, and a penis straw hanging out of my mouth. I refused to answer any of Henry’s texts or calls; I was too mortified to even look at him.And he probably doesn’t want to look at me either.
I completely understood why he didn’t chase after me last night. Operation Be Sexy failed miserably. But, Operation Be Ludicrous passed brilliantly.Go me.
I contemplated leaving for good when I left this morning, giving Henry a way out of the nightmare I’d created, but I couldn’t bear the thought of not being with him. I didn’t want to trap him with baby news. I wanted him to want me for me.
So, while I sat on the curb, waiting for the club owner to arrive, I thought about my next plan, my final push to reclaim my man. Not that I’d lost him or anything, but after last night, I was sure our relationship was dangling by a thread.
The only idea I could think of, to really make him love me, was to go erotic on him. Men liked erotic women, women who liked a little role play and a slap to the ass.
I would pull out the big guns . . . I was going to go Fifty Shades on him.
Still feeling a little sour about last night, but happy with my plan, I spent the entire afternoon decorating the room Henry had booked for the bachelorette party.
The club was perfect; it had a room in the back made specifically for bachelorette parties. It had a bull-riding machine, but instead of the typical steed you held on to, it was a giant, pink penis, with pee hole and everything. The balls had fake, black hair—kind of like strands off a mop—dangling to the sides, grazing the landing zone for those who couldn’t grip the dick long enough. And those who rode the penis for eight seconds were rewarded with a blast of water straight from the penis’s urethra.
Vastly inappropriate, but a bachelorette party game changer for sure.
The club catered, and since they were known for hosting a great peen party, they created their food appropriately and offered phallic-shaped items for snacking.
Games to be played for tonight: elephant condoms on the legs, penis riding, carve a penis out of a cucumber, penis piñata, and of course, pin the penis on Derk. I refused to play that one again—for obvious reasons—so I would be the moderator.
Prizes for the winners were a variety of vibrators, lubes, and edible underwear—well, because they were cheap and my bank account had diminished rather quickly from this party.
Penis garland decorated the outline of the room, condoms were blown into horribly shaped balloons—I used a pump, no lips to the latex for me—and the dong bong was sitting next to the beer, waiting to be used as a consumption device.
The party was ready, so it was my turn. Thankfully, the owner let me use the employee locker rooms to get dressed, instead of the sub-par bathrooms open to everyone.
The dress Delaney made me buy for the party didn’t fit, nope, so she’d have to deal with the disappointment on her own. I was pretty sure she’d be so distracted by all the dicks in the room that she wouldn’t even notice what I was wearing.
Luckily, I had a cute teal glitter tunic that fell just above my knees that gave plenty of tummy room. I paired it with a pair of black leggings and black flats. I was doing my makeup when my phone lit up with a text.
