Get Lucky by Lila Monroe

temples throb.
    When Tyler surfaces, he swims over to the side of the pool and lounges there, cracking a lopsided grin. “Ladies. Who wants to get with a cannonball maître d’ ?”
    I think he means maestro , but I’m not about to correct him. I don’t know what’s worse: that he’s saying those idiotic words or that the women appear to be falling for it. Two of them chat by him, giggling. One even runs her hand along his arm.
    Has civilization come to this? Women throwing themselves at Tyler Berkley? Where did we go wrong?
    “The hell, man. You need to lighten up. Why don’t you get in the pool?” Mike asks, looking over at me with a beer in hand. The sight of alcohol makes my stomach ripple a little, even as the (now lukewarm) taste of it is helping my migraine somewhat.
    “Not feeling it,” I say, and pop a couple of Advil, which I’m sure is totally safe to take with beer.
    I need it, though, partly because of this throbbing headache. Partly because since revisiting that strip club and remembering everything that went on in there, I keep thinking of Julia. Not the way she rolls her eyes, or how annoying I thought she was yesterday afternoon, but the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, the way she sounded as I thrust inside of her. The way she dug her nails into my back, keening low in her throat as I fucked her, filled her.
    See, right there. This is why I’m not swimming today. I don’t need to fantasize about last night’s hook up, pitch a tent in my swimming trunks, and then get in the water. This is a family pool.
    Damn. I’m getting, ah, excited just thinking about it. As I pretend to deliberately hunch over, giving myself time to go limp again, Stacy walks over to us. Apparently last night’s party didn’t faze her at all. She’s in her hot pink bikini, towel around her waist, cowboy hat on her head.
    “You boys awake at last?” she says, looking past Mike to me. Her forehead creases slightly. “You okay with the fuzz now?”
    “Hilarious,” I say, taking a sip of really warm, shitty beer. “Like I said, it was just a few questions.”
    I haven’t told them about the fountain. I will never, ever be able to talk to them again if they find out. Mike and Stacy are the type to never let a funny story die, even if it was twenty goddamn years ago. At their children’s future bar mitzvahs, I’ll still get regaled by stories of my illegal skinny dipping.
    Stacy purses her lips. She’s not buying, but at least she’s not going to push it.
    “Babe, we need to go for lunch soon. I’m starving,” she groans dramatically, hands on her stomach. Mike laughs and pushes up his sunglasses.
    “You can really be this cool when you’re hours from the altar?” he asks, mock serious.
    “It’s not an altar, it’s a chuppah in Las Vegas. No worries at all.” She brushes a hand through his hair. It’s a familiar, intimate, happy gesture that I have to look away from.
    “Get Casanova in here, then,” Mike says, laughing as he watches Tyler pick up one of the shrieking girls and dunk her in the pool.
    Stacy puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles, long and shrill. Everyone at the pool startles, and Tyler actually tips over, going underwater.
    “Ouch. That’s at a level only dogs and future husbands can hear,” Mike says, taking her hand and kissing it. He fakes her out and pulls her down into his arms. She laughs wildly.
    God, they’re so happy. They should remember they’re in public. Love should be secret and shameful, something you apologize for experiencing.
    All right, even for me that’s a little harsh. But not by much.
    “Dogs and future husbands are a similar breed,” Stacy says, kissing Mike. He grins.
    “Tongues hanging out all the time? Fleas?” He kisses her chin. “Shitting in the house?”
    “Scruffy and adorable. And yes, pooping indoors, but nothing a little training can’t fix.” She wraps her arms around his neck. “It’s why I love them. Dogs, I