I begin crying. The tears flow quick and fast, like it’s raining. Oh, wait—it is raining. I guess I’m not crying after all.
“Let me fly you guys back to Portland before this storm picks up,” he says, kissing me on my forehead. We get back on the helicopter. Kathleen and Jin are already passed out, thanks to the alcohol-soaked tampons in their butts.
We begin the flight to Portland in silence. After everything we’ve been through, the quiet is nice for a change. Even my inner guidette shuts her trap for once. It’s during this moment of Zen that I feel something kick in my stomach. OMG. I don’t remember eating a baby. This can only mean one thing: I’m pregnant—pregnant with Earl Grey’s baby!
Chapter Eighteen
I’M ALONE IN THE HELICOPTER with Earl, and we’re headed back to Seattle after dropping off Kathleen and Jin. Thankfully, they didn’t put up an argument when I told them I was flying back with Earl. After what happened today, I realized what a mistake it was for me to leave him. A near-death experience was all it took for me to see how much I need Earl Grey. According to him, he’s the one who needs me. Maybe we need each other? It sounds like the basis for a completely normal, healthy relationship to me.
“I’m kind of glad you crashed into the ocean,” Earl says.
“And why is that, Mr. Grey?”
“Because I’m throwing a masked charity ball tonight, and I’d love for you to come with me.”
“You know how I love coming with you,” I say, grinning.
“Excellent. Then it’s all set. We just need to get back to my apartment, change into something more formal, and we’ll be off to the ball.”
We’re on our way to the charity fund-raiser, which is being held inside the restaurant at the top of the Space Needle. I’m wearing a short black dress from Earl’s closet. He says he had Data buy it just for me, though his wardrobe has more women’s clothing than men’s. I’m also wearing eyeliner and makeup, which Earl “had Data buy” for me too.
Earl is dressed as impeccably as ever, except he has swapped his smiley-face tie for a more formal tie with hundred-dollar bills printed on it. “This tie cost more than the money printed on the fabric, if you can believe it,” he says to me in the Space Needle elevator.
“I can believe it,” I say. Hardly anything he says or does shocks me anymore.
Earl Grey looks stunning. I want to stop the elevator and space out on his needle . . . but there are three other sharp-dressed couples on their way to the charity fund-raiser in the elevator with us.
“Anna, you are looking particularly gorgeous tonight,” Earl says.
I blush. “Stop,” I whisper. “There are other people in here . . .”
“Don’t be such a prude,” he says. “Hand me your panties.”
No one looks at us, but they had to have heard him. Still, I do as I’m told. I slip my panties off under my dress and step out of them. I hand them to Earl.
“Thank you,” he says. He leans over my neck and whispers into my ear, “I’m going to get you so wet that everyone in here drowns.”
Oh my.
Fortunately, Earl doesn’t have a chance to make good on his promise, as the elevator stops. “Another time,” I say.
We step off the elevator. The view of the city from the top of the Space Needle is marvelous. The room rotates to give diners at the restaurant a full 360-degree view of Seattle. It normally takes an hour to go around once, but Earl says he had them speed it up so it only takes ten minutes. It’s quite extraordinary. I have to remember not to drink too much, because I don’t want it spinning in more than one direction.
Earl hands me a piggy mask with a silver ribbon to hold it on. “It’s a masked ball,” he says. Instead of a pig nose and ears, his mask has a cute lil’ mouse nose and ears. We slip them on, covering the top halves of our faces. I can still see Earl’s gray eyes. Oh, we’re going to have fun tonight.
“Would you like to play a game?” he says.
“It depends who I’m playing against.”
“Yourself,” he says. He produces an impossibly large, rounded red die from his pocket and shows it off to me in the palm of his hand. It’s unlike any die I’ve ever seen in my life.
“What is that?”
“A D-sixty-nine,” he says. He must see the look of confusion on my face, because he adds, “A sixty-nine-sided die.”
Woah. “I thought you didn’t gamble.”
“I don’t,” he says. “Many role-playing games, including BDSM, utilize polyhedral dice to guide the action.”
“And just what am I supposed to do with it?”
He smiles. “Isn’t it obvious? Slip it inside you, and see how long you can hold it in for.”
“Inside me? You mean, inside my—”
He nods.
My inner guidette is hesitant, but I take the die anyway. It’s slightly smaller than a golf ball. I slip off into the ladies’ room next to the elevator, and then return after doing the deed.
“It’s in,” I say.
He smiles. “Game on.”
Paparazzi surround us once we enter the event space, snapping photos of us together. The lights are blinding. Earl grabs my hand and leads me through the pack of vultures. “You’re going to be all over TMZ tomorrow, baby,” he says, smiling. “I don’t think the press has ever photographed me with a woman who has a sixty-nine-sided die inside her . . .”
“Have they snapped pictures of you with women who aren’t carrying dice inside them?” I ask.
“No,” he says flatly.
I quickly change the subject. “So you set this whole fund-raiser up. What’s it benefitting?”
“It’s to raise awareness of the dangers of drunk diving,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Drunk . . . diving?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Surely you mean drunk driving,” I say. “Like my roommate who almost killed me
