Page 30 of Some Like It Hott

“I don’t?—”

She grins and waves a hand. “It’s okay,” she says. “You tell yourself whatever you need to.”

15

Preston

Today is pop-up rage-room day, and I’m—apprehensive.

The last couple of days have been, relatively speaking, uneventful. No sex toys, no nakedness—just a few meetings here and there with vendors. We talked to a company that does horseback rides, lasso lessons, and portable amusement park bull rides; then talked to the head of Wilder Adventures about setting up some rock climbs on the Hott land; then got a quick run-through from my brother-in-law, Easton, about whether the river that runs across the ranch would be better for rafting or paddleboarding (answer: the river’s too lazy in that stretch for rafting, so paddleboarding). Natalie and I agreed to split up to do some research—her on Jell-O wrestling, body painting, and what it takes to put together a splatter room, and me on whether there’s a music-booking company that could set up candlelight concerts.

None of those meetings or activities were hands-on. We kept them brief and efficient and talked mostly to the vendors, not to each other.

In short, they felt safe.

But today Horace’s Portable Madhouse is coming to HSE to demo the pop-up rage room, and Horace insists that the only way to truly experience the rage room is to get hands on.

I suggested that Natalie could experience it without me, but unfortunately Hanna was walking by us in the parking lot at exactly that moment. She turned a fierce scowl on me and said thatof all peopleI could definitely stand to blow off some steam so there would be zero chance of my being an asshole again to her at any point during this pregnancy.

It wasn’t an argument I was ready to have, so here we are.

It’s an impressive operation, to be honest. Horace has erected a large tent and covered the ground with an absolutely enormous tarp. Privacy screens and mesh safety nets surround the rage space, and both of us are suited up with chest plates, thick gloves, clear face plates, and goggles.

We each have a baseball bat and a sledgehammer.

I feel ridiculous.

I’m not an angry guy. Grumpy, yeah, but not…angry.

It’s pretty hard to imagine I’m going to get anything out of this.

We stand several feet apart, each facing our targets.

Natalie swings her baseball bat at an old VCR. Her first blow bounces off, and she giggles. She swings again, making better contact this time, and a piece of plastic flies off, the frame of the machine denting.

“Ha!” she says. “Take that!”

She attacks it again, with vigor, still laughing. We’re both wearing long pants and long sleeves—rules of the room—yet even baggy overalls and a plain T-shirt can’t keep her curves under wraps. I can’t look away.

The baseball bat comes down. Hard. She kicks the platform the VCR sits on, and I almost say,Be careful—you’ll hurt your foot.But then I see her face, and I realize:

She’s definitely not laughing anymore.

She’sangry. Grunting, swinging, flailing—yelling. She’s yelling. “Youasshole!” she yells. Her face is red.

And I’m standing and staring and watching her.

My chest is tight, and I realize…I’m angry, too. I’m pissed at whoever made Natalie feel like that. This is a woman who never loses her cool. Who laughs in the face of every ridiculous thing the world throws at her, and bounces back, looking for the fun factor. Something ugly must have happened to leave all that anger inside her, waiting to be unleashed.

I want to know what it is.

I might never know, and for some reason, that feels intolerable.

I take my sledgehammer to a nearby toilet. Just a tap at first. I work out several times a week—in fact, besides work, working out and running are basically the only other things I do in New York. I’m strong enough to wield the sledgehammer without a lot of difficulty. I raise it again and slam it down on the innocent toilet and—crack.

Jesus, that’s satisfying.

And suddenly I getangrier.Like alotangrier.

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