Holy Frigging Matrimony: A Tangled Series Short Story Read online

  at the moment, okay? Just…stay away from Billy and we’ll talk later.”

  And in a whirl of shiny hair, she’s gone.

  I walk back into the main ballroom and lean up against the wall, watching the middle-aged, half-gagged, designer-clad guests trying to get their groove on.

  My sister Alexandra walks up and leans back against the wall beside me. “Interesting show. Much better than anything WWF’s come out with recently.”

  I scowl. “Not now, Lex.”

  She shrugs. “Okay. Just happened to see you floating up shit’s creek and thought I’d throw you a paddle. But if you’re not interested…”

  She lets the offer hang.

  Until I turn my attention to her. “What?”

  She sighs. “You’re new to this whole thing, so I’m going to give you some advice. Relationships only work when both parties put the other person’s feelings before their own. Without that? Things tend to implode rather quickly. Let’s take Matthew and Delores, for instance. It’s obvious she doesn’t like you very much, but she doesn’t let that come between them. How do you think he would feel if she told Matthew she didn’t want him talking to you anymore?”

  I’m already shaking my head. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Not to you. But to Kate, it’s exactly the same thing.”

  I clench my fists, frustrated. “So what are you saying? I have to invite the guy over to my place for a freaking slumber party? Do each other’s nails?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No, you don’t have to be friends with him. You just have to suck it up and accept the fact that Kate is.”

  I fold my arms and look around the room, purposely not acknowledging her counsel.

  She shrugs. “Or don’t. Ignore everything I’m saying, let your insecurities get the better of you, and completely disregard Kate’s feelings on the matter.” She pats my shoulder. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

  Then she walks away. While I stand there. Pouting—yes, I’m aware.

  I scan the room and find Kate, talking to Delores. She smiles at something her friend says, but her eyes don’t. It’s fake. A cover.

  Fuck.

  And then I spot Warren, sitting at the bar. I look back and forth between the two. Then I let out a big breath and walk over. I nod to the bartender. “Whiskey. Double.”

  Eating shit? Doesn’t taste very good. I’m going to need something to wash it down.

  An hour later, I’ve learned three things about Billy Warren:

  1) He loves music.

  2) He’s really into his new truck.

  3) He can’t hold his liquor for shit.

  Douchebag is a total lightweight. Which, for me, is a good thing—a drunk guy is usually an honest guy.

  “…custom leather seats as soft as a baby’s ass…”

  Blah blah blah. I’ve tuned him out for a while now. It’s the only way I’ve been able to stop myself from getting as trashed as he is. But warm-up time is over now. Might as well get right to the point.

  “So listen, Billy, I need you to level with me—man to man. You looking to hook up with Kate again, or what?”

  His face wrinkles. “Nah, man…me and Kate…that’s like so yesterday. We were done way before we were done. Water over the bridge.”

  “Under.”

  “Exactly. Started too young. I mean, I love the girl, always will. Not like…in a sister kind of way exactly, cause we’ve done it…”

  So don’t need to hear this right now.

  “…but almost. Her and Delores, they’re like my inner sanctum. For a long time it was just the three of us against the world, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  I digest this information while he takes a drag of his beer.

  Then he leans forward and his voice drops low, like he’s got a secret to tell. “She’s happy, you know. Kate. These last few months, she’s sounded really happy. More than she ever was with me, that’s for damn sure. Dee Dee says so, too.”

  He fingers the label on his beer bottle. “But you know how it is—the higher you climb, the farther you fall—and it’s not like you’re the sticking type. So when I think about how bad you’re gonna hurt her? Pretty much makes me want to put a fucking bullet between your eyes.”

  Now that, I can respect.

  I slap him on the back. Maybe a little harder than I needed to. “Tell you what, Billy—the day I hurt her? I’ll buy you the gun.”

  His drunken eyes regard me suspiciously. Then he holds out his hand. And I shake it firmly.

  Why are you so surprised? I can be mature. Sometimes. Besides, just because I’ve decided not to punch him in the face the next time I see him doesn’t mean I’m going to give Kate all of his goddamn messages.

  What do I look like? A saint?

  Out of nowhere the lovely woman in question appears beside me, standing between our bar stools. “What’s going on? What is this?”

  I open my mouth to explain, but Warren beats me to it. “Relax, Katie. Me and Evans…just buryin’ the old hammer.”

  “Hatchet.”

  “That, too.”

  Her eyes flicker back and forth between us. I smile calmly. Reassuringly.

  She’s not convinced. “So, what? You two get into a fight, have a few beers, and now you’re all buddy buddy? You gonna go outside and pee on the wall together, too?”

  Warren holds up his hand. “Let’s not get crazy. It’s not like we’re gonna hang out and play foosball or something. But if Evans here ever needs an extra hand with an assisted suicide?” He taps his chest. “I’m your guy.”

  I raise my glass. “Well said.”

  He downs a shot and stands up. “And on that note, I’m gonna head over to that little hottie on the dance floor who’s been givin’ me the eye all night. Tell Aunt Amelia not to wait up. And hey, Evans-- you should watch your back. This shin-dig is my cousin’s deal, and we messed it up. Dee Dee’s not gonna let that slide.”

  I nod. “Thanks for the warning.”

  After he’s gone, there’s a moment of silence. And Kate looks sideways at me. “What’s your game, Drew?”

  I look surprised. Innocent. “Game? Me? No game. I just…like you more than I hate him. Simple, really.”

  She nods slowly, the corners of her mouth turning up in a half smile. “And you couldn’t have had this little revelation before you announced my talent for fellatio to our family and friends?”

  That probably would have been better.

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. Got caught up in the moment. Although it was the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

  She snorts, shaking her head. “Jerk.”

  And with that, I know I’m in the clear. My hands circle her waist and pull her between my legs as I change the subject. “Have I told you how cock-stiffeningly gorgeous you look tonight?”

  Kate smiles as she rests her forearms on my shoulders. “Not in the last few hours.”

  “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!

  DO YOU SEE THAT UNSHOWERED, 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