Dunkin and Donuts by Daralyse Lyons Read Free Book Online Page B

on my face, gather myself, take a moment to make sure my bottom is finished releasing gas, and, as I turn to walk out of the bathroom, decide that I may as well pee first. All that coffee seems to be running right through me. Stupidly, I have put my cell phone in the pocket of my hoodie and, as I go to sit down, it slips out, and lands in the toilet with a kerplunk.
    Today is not my day.

Chapter Fifteen

    Dunkin and I have a tradition at parties that began before we were even a couple, back when we were merely friends. We adopt fake personas and get a kick out of shocking the other guests. We develop elaborate backstories and enact random scenarios, adopting a variety of outlandish character traits just for the hell of it. We pretend to be people we are not.
    Tonight, Dunkin has tickets to a black tie gala and he’s invited me to join him.
    “I don’t know anyone there,” he tells me. “But, one of our wealthy research donors sent Scott and me tickets and he can’t go.”
    Scott Drew is Dunkin’s business partner and the father of one of my former students. In fact, Dunkin and I met last summer at a party thrown by Scott and Pamela Drew.
    “Score,” I say.
    I’m not really one for getting all dolled up, but I love going to events with Dunkin. He makes everything fun.
    “So what’s our gimmick tonight?” Dunkin asks on the car ride over to the party.
    “Let’s be English,” I suggest. “We can adopt snooty accents and pretentious attitudes and pretend to be above all the stupid Americans.”
    “I thought we could pretend to be swingers.”
    “Why not do both?”
    “Bangers and mash. Blimey! Why di’n’t I think o’ that?” He laughs.
    I chuckle. When we arrive, Dunkin takes my arm and leads me inside the very opulent lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel. I feel like a princess in a fairytale. My dress is a shimmery shade of gold interspersed with green hues and I know it makes me look fabulous because, when Brice picked it out with me, he told me, “You look fabulous,” and he’s not one for hyperbole when it comes to a woman’s appearance. Dunkin is mouthwatering in his tuxedo and, with his hand resting lightly on the small of my back, I feel loved. I also feel mischievous.
    “Darling,” I say loudly in my bad British accent. “Isn’t all this just ghastly.”
    “Oh yes, snookums. So incredibly déclassé to be so obvious about opulence.” He agrees. Dunkin has the English accent nailed.
    We stride confidently about the room, conversing in our adopted accents.
    “I’m knackered,” I say.
    “Don’t be cheeky,” he replies. “You’ll give me the collywobbles.”
    I look at him quizzically.
    “It means anxiety in your stomach,” Dunkin clarifies, whispering so no one but me can hear him.
    Dunkin used to live in England back when he was married to the beautiful Bethany. It’s no surprise that he’s better at pretending to be English than I am. I decide I’ll one-up him in the area of outlandish sexual suggestiveness. I decide to proceed with part two of our relationship persona for the evening.
    “Darling,” I say rather loudly. “Do you think we’ll find any other swingers here tonight? I quite fancy a change of pace.”
    “Don’t be a daft cow. These people aren’t the right sort for that. Stuffed shirts, the whole lot, I bet you.”
    “Pity that,” I gaze ruefully at him, tossing my hair petulantly and pouting as if I am actually put out by this turn of events. “I really could use a good shagging.”
    Suddenly, I become quite aware that the couple standing a few feet behind us is steadily inching closer. Are they trying to hear our conversation? I’ll give them something to listen to! Nosiness is our best ally in our quest to shock and dismay. I always love a good eavesdropper.
    “I had such high hopes for the evening,” I lament.
    “You aren’t the only one in need of some Rumpy Dumpy.”
    “Ah well, let’s get some drinks and have us a bit of the old slap and