stoops down to plant a kiss on her forehead.
Get me a bucket. I want to gag. Now .
Did you hear that? Me neither. There’s not a shred of repentance in his voice.
I make eye contact with Ella, but she’s glaring at Tyler. And just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, my bedroom door creaks open.
Delphine emerges.
Shit.
The good news? She’s not naked.
But she is wearing my best Saint Laurent shirt—the very same I wore to dinner with Ella. Not that anyone’s checking the label with nipples like that on show. Delphine waves and settles down on my couch.
I close my eyes and say a silent prayer.
Let’s just pause here to examine the evidence.
I answered the door with a raging hard on. Then a semi-nude girl emerged from my bedroom wearing my shirt. Does this look suspicious? Does a bear shit in the woods?
Ella’s voice is cloaked in suspicion. “You guys look worse for wear.”
Tyler grunts and pulls on his brogues. “It was a heavy night. Slade is a demon with the cocktails.”
She zeroes in on me. “I can imagine. Actually, he’s my bachelor of the month.”
“Is that so?” Jockass looks entertained. He leans into Ella and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Take it from me, babe, he knows what he’s doing.”
I blink in horror.
Irony, thou art a cruel mistress. This is my longest dry spell since scout camp and now I’m a manwhore? If only that motherfucker knew I’d tongued his girl in this very room.
He gives me a conspiratorial wink as he spirits Ella out of my apartment. “Catch you later, Slade. I’ll let you know about that round of golf.”
They leave.
What the hell just happened?
You’re probably wondering why I went along with that charade rather than calling them both out?
Let me explain.
You’ve just witnessed the Guy Code in action. The Guy Code pertains to a guy’s interaction with his friends, especially when relating to their significant other.
Make no mistake about it; I don’t consider Tyler Strickland a friend. Not even close. I loathe that smarmy motherfucker with every inch of my body, but for the sake of my father’s business, I have to play nice.
If I don’t, our campaign will derail faster than an A.A. meeting in pub during happy hour.
Violation of the Guy Code is a serious infraction of male-male relations, with suitable punishments being a serious beating, followed by a rearrangement of facial features leading to hospitalization.
Do you want to know what these sacred rules are?
Sure you do.
Rule number one: never fuck a friend’s sister, girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend.
Ever.
You should probably add their mother to that list. And grandmother. Anyway, this rule stands even if she’s already halfway down your dick and begging for anal.
Unless it’s Parker’s mom—she’s smoking hot.
Rule number two: a man should never tell his friend's girlfriend if he finds out that his friend is fondling the lady goods of another. Do this and your mutual friends will beat your ass for being in violation of rule number three, which is;
Bro’s before hoes: friends and clients always, always come before women. Adhere to this rule and all violations of the guy code will be forgiven.
So, there you have it. The Guy Code.
Pretty simple, huh?
Of course, now I’m the scapegoat. The patsy. It’s like Watergate all over again, but with added sex.
And you remember what happened there, don’t you?
It’s not the crime that causes the biggest fallout.
It’s the cover up.
And that, my friends, is a lesson that I’m about to learn the hard way.
***
Later in the day …
My team and I are having lunch at our favorite Japanese restaurant. I’m relaying the sordid details of last night to the guys. Karl hands me an uramaki roll. I feel like a goddamn uramaki roll—inside out and the fucking wrong way around.
I poke it with a chopstick. “And then she rocks up at my crib this morning to pick him up. That shithead has balls of
Get me a bucket. I want to gag. Now .
Did you hear that? Me neither. There’s not a shred of repentance in his voice.
I make eye contact with Ella, but she’s glaring at Tyler. And just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, my bedroom door creaks open.
Delphine emerges.
Shit.
The good news? She’s not naked.
But she is wearing my best Saint Laurent shirt—the very same I wore to dinner with Ella. Not that anyone’s checking the label with nipples like that on show. Delphine waves and settles down on my couch.
I close my eyes and say a silent prayer.
Let’s just pause here to examine the evidence.
I answered the door with a raging hard on. Then a semi-nude girl emerged from my bedroom wearing my shirt. Does this look suspicious? Does a bear shit in the woods?
Ella’s voice is cloaked in suspicion. “You guys look worse for wear.”
Tyler grunts and pulls on his brogues. “It was a heavy night. Slade is a demon with the cocktails.”
She zeroes in on me. “I can imagine. Actually, he’s my bachelor of the month.”
“Is that so?” Jockass looks entertained. He leans into Ella and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Take it from me, babe, he knows what he’s doing.”
I blink in horror.
Irony, thou art a cruel mistress. This is my longest dry spell since scout camp and now I’m a manwhore? If only that motherfucker knew I’d tongued his girl in this very room.
He gives me a conspiratorial wink as he spirits Ella out of my apartment. “Catch you later, Slade. I’ll let you know about that round of golf.”
They leave.
What the hell just happened?
You’re probably wondering why I went along with that charade rather than calling them both out?
Let me explain.
You’ve just witnessed the Guy Code in action. The Guy Code pertains to a guy’s interaction with his friends, especially when relating to their significant other.
Make no mistake about it; I don’t consider Tyler Strickland a friend. Not even close. I loathe that smarmy motherfucker with every inch of my body, but for the sake of my father’s business, I have to play nice.
If I don’t, our campaign will derail faster than an A.A. meeting in pub during happy hour.
Violation of the Guy Code is a serious infraction of male-male relations, with suitable punishments being a serious beating, followed by a rearrangement of facial features leading to hospitalization.
Do you want to know what these sacred rules are?
Sure you do.
Rule number one: never fuck a friend’s sister, girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend.
Ever.
You should probably add their mother to that list. And grandmother. Anyway, this rule stands even if she’s already halfway down your dick and begging for anal.
Unless it’s Parker’s mom—she’s smoking hot.
Rule number two: a man should never tell his friend's girlfriend if he finds out that his friend is fondling the lady goods of another. Do this and your mutual friends will beat your ass for being in violation of rule number three, which is;
Bro’s before hoes: friends and clients always, always come before women. Adhere to this rule and all violations of the guy code will be forgiven.
So, there you have it. The Guy Code.
Pretty simple, huh?
Of course, now I’m the scapegoat. The patsy. It’s like Watergate all over again, but with added sex.
And you remember what happened there, don’t you?
It’s not the crime that causes the biggest fallout.
It’s the cover up.
And that, my friends, is a lesson that I’m about to learn the hard way.
***
Later in the day …
My team and I are having lunch at our favorite Japanese restaurant. I’m relaying the sordid details of last night to the guys. Karl hands me an uramaki roll. I feel like a goddamn uramaki roll—inside out and the fucking wrong way around.
I poke it with a chopstick. “And then she rocks up at my crib this morning to pick him up. That shithead has balls of
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