Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
“There. Happy?”
My mom scans my figure, her eyes critical.
“You right. You put on weight,” she concedes with a sigh. “Goodness, Amy. Why didn’t you use those Ozempic shots I got you? You know I had to beg my friend’s friend for a few syringes of that stuff.”
“Sorry, I didn’t have time to diet before the wedding,” I say in a stiff tone. “Because you know, I totally saw this coming.”
Amity shoots me a sharp look.
“Don’t you sass me, young lady. I didn’t ask for this. Now, button your lip and let’s go downstairs. Daddy’s waiting to drive us to the courthouse.”
Then, Amity spins around and leaves my bedroom, her heels clattering on the stairs outside. The silence is overwhelming and for a moment, I just stand there, caught in the middle of a nightmare. But then my mom’s voice comes floating up the stairs, piercing my reverie.
“Amy!” she yells. “Are you coming?”
That’s when I jolt into motion. What the hell is going on? Should I try to escape? Should I make like I’m going to get into the car, and then bolt? Surely, my parents can’t force me to get married, and to a stranger no less.
But as I make my way slowly down the stairs, hope begins to give way to despair. After all, I have no way of communicating with the man who stole my heart. Drake lives somewhere on a secret island in the middle of a no-name lake, and I don’t know how to find him. We never talked about staying in touch, and although he isn’t a dream … suddenly, he feels very much like one.
CHAPTER 13
Drake
I hope Amy doesn’t kill me when she finds out. I’m standing at the head of the aisle as organ music fills the air, swelling to a grandiose level. We’re at City Hall, and for some reason, the St. George marriage bureau actually puts some effort into civil weddings. I was thinking it would be a clerk behind a desk asking us to repeat after him, but instead, there’s actually a special room for marriage ceremonies. It’s done up in fancy wood paneling, and there’s an altar, music, and even a vase of fresh flowers off to one side.
The officiant smiles at me. He’s an elderly dude, and it’s clear he’s done this a million times. Still, what he doesn’t realize is that the bride in question doesn’t know the identity of the man she’s about to marry. Literally, Amy has no idea. Sure, the curvy girl’s aware that she’s about to tie the knot, but to whom is the mystery.
After all, I lead a double life. Most of the men on Deux do. Yes, I’m a fisherman, but I’m also more than that. I own a fleet of ships that ply the Great Lakes for salable aquatic life. We harvest all types of seafood, from perch to bass to salmon to trout. There is no fish that’s too big or too small, and it’s a lifestyle that I appreciate complete with sun, sand, water, and hard work.
But yeah, there are frequent absences. I’m out on the boat a lot, and business can be cyclical at times, depending on sea levels, the temperature, spawning season, and of course, global warming. I disappear for long periods, and although I tell people it’s because of my job, it’s also because sometimes, I want to go out to Deux and relax.
After all, it’s not easy being a guy with double cocks. Our anatomy makes us the target of unwanted attention, and we’ve evolved a couple of ways to deal with it. One of them is male-only meetings on the island, kind of like the Bohemian Grove gatherings populated by presidents, Secretaries of State, senior media executives and other men of power. Except in our case, we’re united by a particular anatomical anomaly: double shafts that keep our women coming back for more.
Because it’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing because women love it. For the most part, ladies are shocked when they first see our anatomy, but then they can’t get enough. Soon, they’re begging to be double penetrated at all hours of the day and night, and baring their holes to us, pleading to be used like whores. They moan and whine and pant, flashing their big breasts and spreading their legs, hoping for a deep pounding courtesy of our special physique.
Even worse, we treat them as whores. Literally so. There’s a method to the madness at Deux because discretion is paramount. As a result, we’ve developed a system where a select group of women live at Deux, acting as our serving girls, wenches, and sexual playthings. They’re carefully recruited from the mainland, and asked to work at a “top secret” location for a period of months. I’m sure some of the ladies believed they were about to become mistresses to royalty, handsome billionaires, and titans of industry, and they wouldn’t be wrong. The men of Deux have achieved remarkable financial success, and we have our share of Wall Street Journal front-pagers among us.