Holy Frigging Matrimony - A Tangled Series Short Story (The Tangled Series) (5 page)

“Consider yourself told.”

She leans in and lays her head against my chest.

And all is right with the world.

“Thank you, Drew.”

And I know she means for more than just the compliment. I brush my face against her hair, inhaling the scent that still captivates me.

“Anytime, Kate. Anything.”

Over her head, I spot Warren—and more importantly, the woman he’s hitting on. And I start to laugh.

Kate’s head pops up. “What?”

I motion with my chin. “Warren’s talking to Christina Berman—a distant cousin of Matthew’s.”

She looks towards them. “And that’s funny because…?”

“Because up until a year ago, her dick was bigger than mine. She used to be a guy.”

Kate’s eyes bug out of her head. “Wow. You’d never know it, looking at her.”

“Nope.”

Then her gaze falls on me. Thoughtfully.

And I ask, “What?”

Her eyes shine. At me. For me. “Nothing. I just…I love you, you know.”

I shrug. “I’m a loveable guy.”

She laughs. And brings her palm to my cheek, smacking it softly. “And slappable—definitely a slappable guy.”

“Kinky. We should explore that further, later on.”

She chuckles again and kisses me softly. Then she pulls back and hooks her thumb towards the dance floor. “You want to dance?”

I’m almost offended. “The Electric Slide? I don’t think so.” Not that I have anything against dancing. Some guys will tell you it’s effeminate but I’m not one of them. Today’s dancing is practically sex with your clothes on, dry humping in a room full of people. And I’m definitely into that.

“What? Too cool for the Electric Slide?”

“Yes, I am. Besides, Steven has the monopoly on group dances.” I point over to where my brother-in-law is burning up the dance floor, at the head of the pack with Mackenzie at his side. “He also does a mean funky chicken.”

Kate cracks up.

A few hours later, we’re all walking out to the private parking garage together. My tie’s gone, the top three buttons of my shirt open. I’m holding Kate’s hand, which is lost in the arm of my tuxedo jacket that she’s wearing like a teenaged girl after the prom. Steven carries a sleeping Mackenzie on his shoulder, while Alexandra adjusts her dress with one hand and holds her shoes in the other. Matthew and Delores are already outside, saying their final goodbyes to the departing guests.

When he spots us, Matthew comes jogging up. His face is nervous—and remorseful.

“Drew…I didn’t know, man. I’m really sorry.”

“What are you talking about?”

He rubs the back of his neck and his eyes slide to my car, parked a few feet away at ground level, clearly visible under the garage light.

And that’s when I see it. Or more to the point—that’s when I see the words that have been carved into her hood.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

I stumble forward and fall to my knees beside my baby. I rub over the words, trying to erase the gouges with my hand. Then I yell over my shoulder at Delores, “You heartless monster! How could you?”

I turn back to my car and whisper soothingly, “It’ll be okay. I’ll get the best body guy in the city. It’ll be like it never happened. No one will ever know you were scarred.”

From the upper level I hear Billy Warren’s wail of anguish, and I know Delores got to his new truck, too.

I feel your pain, Douche Bag.

Leisurely, Delores strolls over. She looks down at me, eyes mocking, one fingerless-lace-gloved hand on her hip. “Pull any shit like that again and I’ll carve it into your fucking forehead.”

Then she smiles cheerily. “Night, everyone. Thank you for being a part of our special day.”

And she disappears into the shadows.

I feel bad for Matthew’s Guardian Angel. He’s going to be working overtime.

‘Cause I’m pretty sure my best friend just married a demon.

THE END

Tangled excerpt

If you haven’t read TANGLED, Book 1 in the series, continue reading for a sneak peek!

D
O
Y
OU
S
EE
T
HAT
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NSHOWERED
, unshaven heap on the couch? The guy in the dirty gray T-shirt and ripped sweatpants?

That’s me, Drew Evans.

I’m not usually like this. I mean, that really isn’t me.

In real life, I’m well-groomed, my chin is clean-shaven, and my black hair is slicked back at the sides in a way I’ve been told makes me look dangerous but professional. My suits are handmade. I wear shoes that cost more than your rent.

My apartment? Yeah, the one I’m in right now. The shades are drawn, and the furniture glows with a bluish hue from the television. The tables and floor are littered with beer bottles, pizza boxes, and empty ice cream tubs.

That’s not my real apartment. The one I usually live in is spotless; I have a girl come by twice a week. And it has every modern convenience, every big-boy toy you can think of: surround sound, satellite speakers, and a big-screen plasma that would make any man fall on his knees and beg for more. The decor is modern—lots of black and stainless steel—and anyone who enters knows a man lives there.

So, like I said—what you’re seeing right now isn’t the real me. I have the flu.

Influenza.

Have you ever noticed some of the worst sicknesses in history have a lyrical sound to them? Words like
malaria, diarrhea, cholera
. Do you think they do that on purpose? To make it a nice way to say you feel like something that dropped out of your dog’s ass?

Influenza
. Has a nice ring to it, if you say it enough.

At least I’m pretty sure that’s what I have. That’s why I’ve been holed up in my apartment the last seven days. That’s why I turned my phone off, why I’ve gotten off the couch only to use the bathroom or to bring in the food I order from the delivery guy.

How long does the flu last anyway? Ten days? A month? Mine started a week ago. My alarm went off at five a.m., like always. But instead of rising from the bed to go to the office where I’m a star, I threw the clock across the room, smashing it to kingdom come.

It was annoying anyway. Stupid clock. Stupid beep-beep-beeping.

I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I did eventually drag my ass out of bed, I felt weak and nauseous. My chest ached; my head hurt. See—the flu, right? I couldn’t sleep any more, so I planted myself here, on my trusty couch. It was so comfortable I decided to stay right here. All week. Watching Will Ferrell’s greatest hits on the plasma.

Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy’s
on right now. I’ve watched it three times today, but I haven’t laughed yet. Not once. Maybe the fourth time’s the charm, huh?

Now there’s a pounding at my door.

Frigging doorman. What the hell is he here for? He’s going to be sorry when he gets my Christmas tip this year, you can bet your ass.

I ignore the pounding, though it comes again.

And again.

“Drew! Drew, I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!”

Oh no.

It’s The Bitch. Otherwise known as my sister, Alexandra.

When I say the word
bitch
I mean it in the most affectionate way possible, I swear. But it’s what she is. Demanding, opinionated, relentless. I’m going to kill my doorman.

“If you don’t open this door, Drew, I’m calling the police to break it down, I swear to God!”

See what I mean?

I grasp the pillow that’s been resting on my lap since the flu started. I push my face into it and inhale deeply. It smells like vanilla and lavender. Crisp and clean and addictive.

“Drew! Do you hear me?”

I pull the pillow over my head. Not because it smells like…her…but to block out the pounding that continues at my door.

“I’m taking out my phone! I’m dialing!” Alexandra’s voice is whiny with warning, and I know she’s not screwing around.

I sigh deeply and force myself to get up from the couch. The walk to the door takes time; each step of my stiff, aching legs is an effort.

Frigging flu.

I open the door and brace myself for the wrath of The Bitch. She’s holding the latest iPhone up to her ear with one perfectly manicured hand. Her blond hair is pulled back in a simple but elegant knot, and a dark green purse hangs from her shoulder, the same shade as her skirt—Lexi’s all about the matching.

Behind her, looking appropriately contrite in a wrinkled navy suit, is my best friend and coworker, Matthew Fisher.

I forgive you, Doorman. It’s Matthew who must die.

“Jesus Christ!” Alexandra yells in horror. “What the hell happened to you?”

I told you this isn’t the real me.

I don’t answer her. I don’t have the energy. I just leave the door open and fall face first onto my couch. It’s soft and warm, but firm.

I love you, couch—have I ever told you that? Well, I’m telling you now.

Though my eyes are buried in the pillow, I sense Alexandra and Matthew walking slowly into the apartment. I imagine the shock on their faces at its condition. I peek out from my cocoon and see that my mind’s eye was spot on.

“Drew?” I hear her ask, but this time there’s concern woven throughout the one short syllable.

Then she’s pissed again. “For God’s sake, Matthew, why didn’t you call me sooner? How could you let this happen?”

“I haven’t seen him, Lex!” Matthew says quickly. See—he’s afraid of The Bitch too. “I came every day. He wouldn’t open the door for me.”

I sense the couch dip as she sits beside me. “Drew?” she says softly. I feel her hand run gently through the back of my hair. “Honey?”

Her voice is so achingly worried, she reminds me of my mother. When I was a boy and sick at home, Mom would come in my room with hot chocolate and soup on a tray. She would kiss my forehead to see if it still burned with fever. She always made me feel better. The memory and Alexandra’s similar actions bring moisture to my closed eyes.

Am I a mess or what?

“I’m fine, Alexandra.” I tell her, though I’m not sure if she hears me. My voice is lost in the sweet-scented pillow. “I have the flu.”

I hear the opening of a pizza box and a groan as the stench of rotting cheese and sausage drifts from the container. “Not exactly the diet of someone with the flu, Little Brother.”

I hear further shuffling of beer bottles and garbage, and I know she’s starting to straighten the mess up. I’m not the only neat freak in my family.

“Oh, that’s just wrong!” She inhales sharply, and, judging by the stink that joins the putrid pizza aroma, I’m thinking she just opened a three-day-old ice cream container that wasn’t as empty as I’d thought.

“Drew.” She shakes my shoulders gently. I give in and sit up, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes as I do. “Talk to me,” she begs. “What’s going on? What happened?”