Kitabı oku: «King's Pleasure»
KING’S PLEASURE
King’s Pleasure
Adrianne Byrd
MILLS & BOON
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To Alice: Forever my inspiration
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
To my family and friends, thanks for all the support
and love that you’ve given me.
To my editor, Evette Porter, for helping me
through one crazy year. To my wonderful fans
and readers, thank you for allowing me to do
what I do. It’s always a pleasure to entertain you.
I wish you all the best of love.
The House of Kings series
Many of you have followed the Unforgettable series, which morphed into the Hinton Brothers series. Now I’m introducing you to the Hintons’ playboy bachelor cousins—the Kings.
Eamon, Xavier and Jeremy, along with their infamous cousin Quentin Hinton, are business partners in a gentlemen’s club franchise called The Dollhouse. One of their most popular and lucrative specialties is their bachelor party services. With clubs in Atlanta, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, the brothers are determined to make sure their clients’ last night of bachelorhood is one they’ll never forget. But it’s not as easy as it sounds dealing with hotel managers, outrageous clients and, of course, the entertainment. The brothers are prepared for anything…except when love comes knocking on their door.
In King’s Pleasure, Jeremy King meets beautiful Malibu party-crasher Leigh Matthews. Within minutes, he knows that she’s a woman who is used to getting whatever she wants. And for one wild night, she wants him. After their torrid, one-night affair, his bikini-clad goddess disappears only to return weeks later to hire him to plan her bachelorette bash. Stunned, he refuses to host her party, but quickly reconsiders. After all, the wedding is six weeks away, and there’s not a sexual trick in the books that he won’t use to try and change her mind.
If you missed the first two books in the House of Kings trilogy—King’s Passion and King’s Promise— both are still available. Better yet, buy all three and enjoy this sizzling summer series.
Remember, in love, never bet against a King….
Adrianne
Contents
Prologue
The Playful King
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Girl Is Mine
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
You Give Love a Bad Name
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Rolling in the Deep
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Then There Was One
Chapter 32
Prologue
Quentin Dewayne Hinton was getting desperate. It began slowly, but now it was picking up steam. A part of him longed for the days when he was reckless and carefree—drinking by day, screwing by night. Why, oh why, did it have to end? Deep down, he knew the answer. His carefree life had ended when he became the very thing he detested: a successful businessman.
In the beginning, of course, it had been fun. But that was only because he had joined forces with his cousins, the Kings. And just like the three Musketeers—there were four of them. But as the late, great Biggie Smalls said: “More money, more problems.” And Quentin’s biggest problem seemed to follow him around wherever he went.
“Let me get this straight,” said Father Dickerson, braiding his fingers together. “You want me to perform an exorcism on you?”
Quentin coughed to clear his throat. “Well, me and my house…and my car. And if it’s not too much to ask, at this club that I work at.”
“You mean the strip club?”
Q coughed a little harder this time and straightened upright in his chair. “I guess for a lack of a better term… Uh, yes. I, uh, own a chain of strip clubs called The Dollhouse. Actually, there used to be four of us. Well, three, really. They were supposed to operate the clubs and I was just the money man—the silent partner. Then they started settling down and selling their shares in the business. The next thing you know—pow! I own the whole kit and caboodle.” He flashed the cleric an awkward smile.
Father Dickerson’s eyebrows crashed together in the center of his forehead. “Son, please forgive me if this next question offends you. But, uh, are you well?”
Quentin actually gave the question serious thought. “To tell you the truth, Father, I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that just yet. I mean, honestly. I can be frank with you, can’t I?”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
“Good.” Another smile crept across Q’s face as he tried to clear his throat again with a deep cough. “To be honest, I feel fine—better than fine on most days. I mean, how could you own the hottest strip clubs in three cities and not feel upbeat about life, right?”
Father Dickerson just stared at him.
“Well, maybe you don’t know. But trust me. A man like me, still in his prime and surrounded by beautiful, firm, heavily oiled bodies is its own blessing.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” the priest said.
“Yeah, uh, right. Anyway, there has been some un- usual— Well, not quite paranormal activity happening from time to time.”
“Paranormal? Like ghosts?” the priest asked, trying to quickly get to the crux of the problem.
“Well, that’s the ‘not quite’ part of it,” Quentin said, squirming.
“Son, if you’ve come to me for an exorcism, that leads me to believe that you’re seeing or hearing some sort of, shall we say, disturbing spirits?”
Quentin looped the phrase through his head a couple of times, but he was still uncomfortable with it. “Now, does your definition of spirits mean that the person or persons are…”
“…Dead,” Father Dickerson supplied as more lines creased his forehead.
“Well, see, that’s still my gray issue.”
“Come again?”
“Well, the entity that I’m dealing with hasn’t exactly died.”
Father Dickerson continued to stare at Quentin.
“She—”
“It’s a woman?”
“Yes. Actually, she’s my sister-in-law, Alyssa.”
“Your living sister-in-law?”
“As far as I know.” Quentin shrugged. “I mean, I haven’t talked to her in a few months, but I’m sure someone in the family would’ve contacted me if something had happened to her. Then again, who knows? I’m not exactly on the best of terms with my family.”
Father Dickerson snatched off his black-rimmed glasses and proceeded to rub his eyelids. “Let me try this again,” he said. “You want an exorcist to get rid of a spirit that isn’t really a spirit but a recurring vision of a woman who is very much alive? Do I have that right?” he said in disbelief.
“Well, it’s more than just a vision. She talks to me and tries to give me advice—most of the time when I’m not asking for it. She’s made me look crazy in front of some of my dates. Her specialty is popping up right after I— Well just because you wear that collar doesn’t mean you don’t know what goes on between a man and a woman. Am I right?”
When the joke fell flat, Quentin couldn’t cough long or hard enough to clear whatever the hell it was that was stuck in his throat.
“Son, this is probably the first time in my thirty-one years at this parish that I’ve ever said this to someone who has come to me for guidance. I would love to help you, but what you need—neither I nor the church can really help you with. I think that you need to see someone in the mental-health field—maybe someone in a white coat, with the authority to prescribe medication or who can admit you to someplace safe.”
“I’m not crazy,” Quentin declared defensively. “At least my shrink doesn’t think I’m crazy.”
Relief flooded Father Dickerson’s face. “Ah, so you are seeing someone.” He reached over and picked up the phone. “Is there a number or…?”
“What about the exorcism?”
“Son, I can’t exorcise a spirit that doesn’t exist. It is metaphysically impossible for someone who is alive to haunt you. Clearly you are seeing and hearing things that just aren’t there. I’m sorry. I’m sure that’s not the answer you wanted to hear, but that’s the cold, hard truth.”
Quentin shook his head. “Well, can’t you just sprinkle some holy water around? I mean, what’s it going to hurt?”
“Mr. Hinton, are you even Catholic?”
“Is that a prerequisite?”
With a deep sigh, Father Dickerson pushed his glasses back onto his face. “Good day, Mr. Hinton.”
“But—”
“I said, ‘good day.’”
“Unbelievable.” Quentin rose to his feet, barely managing to refrain from giving him a piece of his mind, which is what he really wanted to dish to the insensitive priest. “I guess I’ll just see myself out.”
He turned toward the door and stopped short when he spotted a bored Alyssa, still beautiful in the wedding gown she wore when she’d married his brother, Sterling, utterly breaking his heart. She was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and a smug look plastered on her face.
“I told you this was a waste of time,” she said.
“Oh, shut up,” he snapped as he resumed his charge toward the door.
“Excuse me?” Father Dickerson said.
“I wasn’t talking to you.” Quentin snatched open the door, but decided to leave the priest with just one bit of parting advice. “If I were you, I’d sprinkle some holy water up this office, because whatever you’ve been doing is clearly not working.” He stormed out, with his fake apparition following close behind him.
“Does this mean that we’re going back to Dr. Turner now?” Alyssa asked.
“It’s either that or the loony bin.”
“Good. Because I think you’re on the verge of a breakthrough.”
“God, I hope so.”
“Aah, Quentin. You’re back,” said Dr. Turner, greeting him in her downtown Atlanta office with a smile. “I wondered whether I’d ever see you again. It’s been a couple of months.”
“Yeah, I’ve been a little busy….”
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not that unusual for patients to disappear from time to time, especially when they’re anxious for results.”
Alyssa laughed. “She really does have you pegged.”
“Would you like to come in and sit down?” She stepped back and moved away from the door so that the next move was his.
Quentin’s gaze shifted to the black leather chaise in the center of the room, and unbelievably he felt a strange sensation, like he was finally home. “Just like old times,” he said, strolling into the office.
Dr. Julianne Turner’s thick, luscious coral-tinted lips spread into a breathtaking smile as she closed the door behind him.
Being a connoisseur of women, as he’d proudly proclaimed, Quentin immediately noticed that the good doctor’s perfume had changed. It was no longer soft and floral, but more fruity and woodsy. That wasn’t all he noticed in his short jaunt across the room to the chaise. Her clothes were different. Gone were the knee-length skirts that let her legs play peek-a-boo when she sat down. Now they were proudly showcased in a black number that hit her thigh a good five inches above her knees. Not only that, the tailored cut of the shorter dress led his eyes to her rounded hips and ass.
“What’s going on?” he suddenly asked.
“Sorry?” She leaned back so that she could look up to his tall frame.
That’s when he noticed the extra burst of color in her redbone complexion and that unmistakable twinkle in her eyes that let him know what time it was. “What’s his name?”
“What’s whose name?” She blinked, but the smile never left her face.
Quentin flashed his secret weapon—his dimples. “The name of the brother that put that huge, Kool-Aid grin on your face,” he said. When she opened her mouth to respond, Q held up a finger to cut her off. “And please, don’t insult my intelligence and tell me there isn’t a guy. You have that glow that women have when they’re with child or after a night of unbridled—”
“Quentin!” Alyssa snapped.
Dr. Turner finally blanched. “Mr. Hinton!”
“Quentin,” he corrected as his smile wrapped around his face like a rubber band.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been to my office, so maybe I need to remind you that these visits are for your benefit. I’m not the topic of conversation here. I would appreciate it if you would keep your sly comments and wolfish gaze to yourself. Do I make myself clear?”
“Wolfish?”
“I guess she told you.” Alyssa laughed.
“Now would you like to have a seat?” She gestured to the chaise and when she did so, Quentin caught the flash of a three-carat diamond ring.
He quickly grabbed her hand and pulled it toward him for closer inspection. “Silly me, how did I forget the third reason?” His gaze returned to her face as hurt and betrayal dueled for top billing.
Dr. Turner pulled her hand out of his grasp. “Now that you’ve satisfied your curiosity, can we get down to the reason you’re here?”
“Sure. But I’m still waiting for the name of this lucky bastard, and where I can find him so that I can wring his neck.”
“Mr. Hinton—”
“It’s still Quentin.”
“Is this going to be problem?”
“What, you bailing on me too, so that you can participate in this ridiculous institution?”
“Who said anything about my bailing on you? You’re the one who stopped coming to your therapy sessions. I could look at that as you bailing on me.”
“All right. I’m back. Now you can give this clown back his ring.”
“Reginald is not a clown.”
“Reginald?” He laughed. “You’re marrying someone named Reginald?”
Her brows arched above her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with the name Reginald. He’s a very respectable and distinguished doctor in his field.”
“Oh, respectable and distinguished.” Quentin rolled his eyes. “That’s another way of saying comfortable and reliable.” He moved toward her and crowded her space. “Tell me, how is old Reggie in the sack?”
Dr. Turner gasped and stepped back. “Careful, Mr. Hinton! You’re in dangerous territory.”
He smirked and erased the space she’d put between them. “Does that mean I’ll get a spanking if I don’t behave?”
“No, it means I’ll have to terminate this and any future sessions. And I won’t hesitate to do so.”
After his therapist’s declaration, Quentin stood his ground, engaging in a staring contest to see whether she was serious or not.
She was.
He exhaled a long breath and then slowly gave her a lazy smile. “Well, I had to give it the old college try. Congratulations are in order.”
Dr. Turner drew in a deep sigh of relief as if she’d narrowly escaped a predator. “Thank you. Now would you like to take a seat?”
Q weighed the question in his head as his gaze bounced from the chaise to the door—and then to a frowning Alyssa. “Well, since I’m here.” He walked toward the chaise and then stretched out.
Dr. Turner took her usual chair and picked up her ever-ready notepad. “So what would you like to discuss today?”
“You mean, other than my abandonment issues? My war against love? Or these crazy dreams I keep having?”
“Dreams? What sort of dreams?”
“What else—wedding dreams.”
“You’ve been dreaming about weddings?”
“Hell, that shouldn’t be much of a surprise, considering how everyone keeps dropping to their knees and popping the big question. I swear, love has become a global epidemic that, quite frankly, some scientists need to hurry up and make a pill to eradicate.”
“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“Humph. Not from where I’m standing. My once-devout bachelors-for-life are dropping like flies at the slightest whiff of a woman’s perfume. All my dogs have traded in their Milk-Bones for collars and short leashes. And, get this, they’re happy to stay and play in their own backyard. What kind of madness is this?”
“All right. So, no love. No marriage. It’s just you and your cousin Jeremy living the bachelor lifestyle from here till eternity?”
“Ha!” Quentin rolled his eyes.
“Problem?”
“Yeah. My family is nothing but a bunch of Judases.”
“Oh. So you lost the last member of your boys’ club?” Quentin grumbled.
Dr. Turner laughed.
“Maybe I need to just change doctors,” Quentin mumbled under his breath.
“No. No. Please. I have to hear this story.”
Quentin rolled his eyes.
“You might as well tell her,” Alyssa said, shrugging. “Who knows? It might help.”
“Fine.” Quentin shrugged. “After my so-called best friend, Xavier, decided to jump the broom, Atlanta sort of…lost its luster. So I figured I’d just hop a plane and go find me a California girl.”
The Playful King
Chapter 1
“Welcome to The Dollhouse, Los Angeles,” Jeremy shouted above the pulsing music as he directed the Strozier bachelor party through the doors of the chateau-style building. Upon entering, the group of two dozen thirty-something men focused their attention on the main stage where the beautiful and incredibly talented Chocolate Dolls captivated and titillated the crowd.
“Pick up your bottom lips off the floor, boys.” Jeremy laughed, taking in their awestruck expressions. “I can’t afford too many workers-compensation claims when my girls start tripping over them.”
“I’ve died and have gone to heaven,” one man declared as his gaze locked on to an ebony Barbie doll, rolling her hips and sliding her tongue across her glossy lips.
Jeremy’s smile doubled in size as he grabbed a cocktail napkin off one of the passing trays and handed it over to the young man to help mop up the saliva drooling from his mouth. “Please let me know if you need a bib,” he said, laughing. Jeremy wrapped his arm around the brother’s head and then led him and his boys toward the VIP room, where even more heavenly delights awaited them.
Literally.
Heaven was tonight’s theme. The Dollhouse Dolls wore costumes with glittering wings and halos. Everywhere their eyes roamed, the men at the bachelor party were welcomed by the sight of beautiful, well-oiled, well-toned bodies, dancing, twirling and gyrating on gold stripper poles. It didn’t matter what their preference was, The Dollhouse showcased women in every flavor of the rainbow, and they were all willing and capable of fulfilling their clientele’s every fantasy.
With a state-of-the-art sound system bumping, a dazzling light show swirling around, The Dollhouse featured the most beautiful women Los Angeles had to offer. Jeremy knew that the club had the potential to set another record-profit night. It was part of a little wager that he and his cousin Quentin had going since Jeremy had taken over the Atlanta club from his brother Xavier.
It had only been a few months, but Jeremy already missed having his brothers, Eamon and Xavier, involved the business. Hell, he still couldn’t wrap his brain around Eamon being married and Xavier acting like a married man. He even had a bet going with his cousin Quentin as to whether Xavier was going to throw in the towel and pop the big question to his current girlfriend, Cheryl Grier.
Jeremy had ten grand riding on Xavier not losing his right mind completely. But Quentin made a very persuasive argument about all the signs that pointed to matrimony. Like selling his shares in the club, and bringing Cheryl’s name up in every conversation. Hell, they were talking about a buddy of theirs who recently suffered a herniated disc, and Xavier somehow managed to find a way to weave Cheryl into the conversation.
The ten grand was going to be like taking candy from a baby, Quentin kept saying. Married? Xavier? Jeremy just couldn’t see it—and hoped that he never would—especially since Quentin would undoubtedly make him pay the ten grand in one-dollar bills, and he would make him sit down in front of him and count it all out. He could be an ass like that sometimes.
Sure he was happy for his brothers, but there was also a part of him that was more than a little irritated. They’d had a good thing going. Three bachelors—and their supposedly silent partner, Quentin—were running the hottest gentlemen’s clubs in three different cities. Damn, talk about recession-proof! They had everything that any man could possibly want to wake up to every day with a smile on his face.
Hell, Jeremy usually bounced out of bed—sometimes even his own—because he couldn’t wait to get to the club where he was surrounded by gravity-defying breasts and booty-popping goddesses. They were lucky sons of bitches to call what they did a job. As far as he was concerned, he was never going to understand his brothers’ deciding to just punk out of the business.
Sure, he liked Victoria and Cheryl okay. They were nice considering Victoria initially tried to sue them for fifty million dollars and Cheryl had been working undercover in a drug-trafficking sting operation at the Atlanta club. He just didn’t understand how you could fall in love with women who were either trying to put you in the poorhouse or behind bars.
But whatever.
It was going to be a cold day in hell before he turned his leash over to someone. And yes, he knew perfectly well that he met the definition of “a dog” for at least half the women in the world. But that was not the half that he was concerned with. It was the other half that labeled him “a hell of a good time under the sheet” that he focused on.
Unlike his brothers, he was never going to leave this life. God willing, he was going to ride this bachelorhood thang until he was a hundred years old, getting a sponge bath from the hottest nurses he could find. Of course, if he had his way, he wanted to go out getting a lap dance in the club’s VIP room with a smile on his face and a hard-on in his pants.
That wasn’t asking too much, was it?
Besides the personal benefits, there was something quite noble in being a man who brought so much joy and happiness to guys who otherwise led dreadfully dull lives. Surely such an unselfish deed would guarantee him easy passage through the pearly gates when the time came. Of course, that all depended on if the good man upstairs was indeed a man. If not, then he would just have to soothe his conscience with the knowledge that while he was here on earth, he’d led one hell of a life.
Schlepping through life doing a regular nine-to-five terrified Jeremy. Always had. Dull and ordinary was not the kind of life he’d envisioned for himself. And thanks to his older brothers, Eamon and Xavier, that wasn’t something he ever had to worry about.
Hopping up onto the VIP stage, Jeremy scanned the crowd with a huge smile on his face. “All right. It’s that time—time to bring the man of the hour up on stage!”
The crowd roared with excitement, as a steady chant of “Cal-vin! Cal-vin” filled the VIP room.
“Come on up, big man!”
The shouts and cheers went up another decibel as Calvin “Hoopstar” Strozier shouldered his way through the cheering homeys.
Hoopstar, who was the NBA’s Los Angeles Razors’ third-highest-paid player, finally hopped up on stage, tossed two deuces to the crowd and just let his fifty-foot ego drink in the applause.
Jeremy laughed, and then when he was ready, shared a fist-bump with the baller.
“All right!” Jeremy laughed, grabbing a microphone. “It sounds like y’all are ready to par-tay!”
The volume cranked up a few more decibels as Jeremy slapped his favorite pro basketball player on his back and waited for the cheering to die down. “Well, my man. You know how this works…since it’s our third time hosting a bachelor party for you at The Dollhouse in two years.”
His friends laughed.
Hoopstar let the jab roll off him like water. “Hey. What can I say? I’m determined to get this marriage thang right.”
“Well, you know what they say, ‘If at first you don’t succeed…’” Jeremy cheesed and shook his head. It seemed to him that the brother could cut down on the alimony payments if his boy didn’t try to put a ring on every hot groupie he met. “With that in mind,” Jeremy continued, “we at The Dollhouse will be happy to keep throwing you the best bachelor parties until you do get this love thang right.”
“Bet!” The men exchanged fist-bumps before Hoopstar gave the crowd the thumbs-up signal for another round of cheers.
“All right, my man. You know I believe in bringing nothing but the best to the stage. I want you to know I found just the right flavor for all of you to enjoy tonight.”
The room roared with excitement.
“A’ight, man. A’ight.” Hoopstar clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I know you ain’t gonna let a brotha down.”
“You know this, maaaaan.” Jeremy slapped his boy hard on the back. “Y’all brothers ready for this?”
“Hell yeah!”
Joking, Jeremy stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “Then without further ado, you boys get ready to make it rain for the lovely—and the incredibly sexy—Caramel Swirl!”
The thunderous applause that followed as the Brazilian goddess took the stage penetrated the club’s walls and probably echoed through the streets of downtown Los Angeles. Meanwhile, inside the VIP room, gigantic ballplayers grabbed their money clips as Jeremy exited the stage and Caramel Swirl gyrated her oil-slicked body onto the stage.
Forget what you heard, absolutely everybody in the business knew that nobody made it rain harder than overpaid pro athletes. They were like grown children with impulse-control issues and more testosterone and money than they knew what to do with.
All in all, they were Jeremy’s favorite customers.
In less than a minute, Caramel Swirl shook her money-maker in a green globe of Benjamins while the club’s hostesses strutted in with their angelic wings and buckets of chilled Cristal.
Money, money, money, mon-nay! Jeremy grinned while the sound of cash registers filled his head.
“Looks like the boys love her,” Delilah grudgingly admitted.
Jeremy whipped his head around and saw his head hostess. “Disappointed?”
Delilah brushed off his smug I-told-you-so tone with an eye roll. “I never said the girl didn’t have talent. I just said that she carries a lot of baggage.”
“Name one dancer up in here that doesn’t have baggage. Scratch that—name me one woman who doesn’t have baggage—and that includes Emilio behind the fourth-station bar,” Jeremy said as he laughed. “Frankly, I’ll be happy when he’s off those hormone pills. His mood swings are driving me crazy.” He turned and started to leave the VIP bar.
“That’s a very sexist thing to say,” Delilah said, trailing behind him.
“But true.”
“Jeremy Jorell King, you take that B.S. back.”
His smile exploded across his face. “Not until you prove me wrong.”
“Like you don’t have baggage.”
“Actually, I don’t,” he said with a lazy shrug as they headed down the stairs and through the main room of the club. The regulars immediately started competing to get his attention. Most of them knew that if Jeremy stopped by their table, it meant a round of free drinks and maybe a free lap dance with one of the club’s hottest girls. “Yo, Jeremy!”
“Jeremy, my man!”
“Dr. J!”
He ignored them all because he didn’t have time to play the game tonight. The Dollhouse’s side business, Bachelor Adventures, was pulling double duty. If he timed this right, he had only forty minutes to get from the club to Malibu for the second bachelor party.
His staff pretty much had the parties down to a science, so that everything ran like a well-oiled machine. His main role was to show up as the face of The Dollhouse, make a speech and introduce the first performer of the night. After that, it was usually time for him to get his party on.
Jeremy checked his watch and then picked up his pace. Undoubtedly he and Delilah would resume their pointless conversation about who had the most baggage another time. It just wasn’t in Delilah to let something go.
Weaving through the crowd then out the front door, he hopped into his bright red Porsche Boxster S. He loved his car. It was his baby girl—his heart. Every time he slid behind the leather seat, it was like sliding in behind a good woman. It coasted and cornered like a dream. And when he got her on an open stretch of road, the power under the hood gave him a natural high that was second only to sex.
No surprise, he made it to the ten-million-dollar Malibu beach house with twelve minutes to spare. The music was already bumping and the house looked like it was nearing capacity. Malibu parties were always the best because there were always neighbors who crashed along with just about anyone who happened to be hanging out at the time—usually women in teeny-weeny bikinis.
Jeremy checked himself in the rearview mirror, and then smiled at his flawless reflection. “I got a feeling that this is going to be a good night.” He winked and then hopped out of the car. As he strolled toward the modern glass-front beach house, he mentally raced through his nightly checklist.
Condoms? He touched his back pocket. Check.
Breath? He cupped his mouth, puffed out a pocket of air and sniffed. Check.
Swagger? Definitely check.
By the time he breezed into the house, Jeremy was seriously ready to get his party on. In his initial survey of the room, he saw that the women outnumbered the men by a ratio of three-to-one. Perfect. Most ménages à trois happened at bachelor parties—usually involving the groom. But you needed to have the right ratio for that fantasy to be fulfilled.
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