Chapter 2
MARRIAGE.
The final frontier.
Steven went first. He was kind of our test subject. Like those monkeys that NASA sent off into space in the fifties, knowing they’d never make it back alive.
And now Matthew has followed in his footsteps.
What? You didn’t think I was getting married today, did you?
No frigging way. I’ve barely got the boyfriend thing down. I’m not ready to tackle the title of husband. Don’t want to bite off more than I can chew. Matthew, on the other hand, is just crazy enough to give it a try.
And the proposal—now, there’s a f*cking story. Matthew had this whole romantic thing going. Rented out an entire restaurant for just him and Delores. He even had a string quartet playing music in the background. But when the big moment came? He was so nervous, he hyperventilated.
And then he passed the f*ck out.
Nailing his head on the table on the way down.
Delores freaked—Kate said she was never good with blood. She called 911. And even though he swore up and down that he was fine, she made him go to the hospital in the ambulance.
That’s when things got interesting.
Because hospitals have certain protocols they have to follow. One of them involves hospital gowns. So when they wheeled Matthew in, a bloody bandage on his head, they started to cut his clothes off. Then they put all of his belonging in a big plastic bag—including the two hundred thousand dollar diamond ring he’d purchased for the occasion.
The idea of losing that ring cured Matthew of his cold feet real frigging quick. So he hops off the gurney, grabs the ring, runs out into the ER, and drops to his knees in front of Delores. And that’s how he popped the question.
In the middle of the god damn emergency room with his ass hanging out the back of a hospital gown as bare as the day he was born.
Naturally, Delores said yes. And two days later, the four of us jetted to Vegas for the Elvis Chapel Special.
Crazy? Sure. But it kind of fits, don’t you think?
Anyway, we come back to the city, where Matthew announces to his parents that he’s a married man. I’ve never seen Estelle Fisher so animated in my life. She started bawling her eyes out, sobbing about how she missed her only child’s wedding.
I felt bad, so I can only imagine how shitty Matthew felt. Making your mother cry? That guilt is like the sixth circle of hell.
Frank, being a man of few words, just looked at his son and said, “Fix this.”
But his eyes said so much more. They said, ‘You may be thirty years old, but I will still kick your ass up and down Park Avenue if you don’t make this right real motherf*cking quick.’
And so here we are.
At Matthew and Delores’s grand New York City wedding reception, courtesy of Frank and Estelle. No expense was spared—very New York high society. It’s supposed to be elegant. Classy. And it is.
Except for Delores’s dress, of course. Have you ever seen Madonna’s Like a Virgin video?
Perfect—then you know just what Delores looks like.
Cocktail hour—hands down, it’s the best part of a wedding. Exceeded only by that garter thing. I’ve always been an excellent garter catcher, and there’s no better way to get to know a chick than sticking your hands up her dress as high as you can go.
But that was then. My now is much better.
Because I’ve got the hottest girl in the room sitting next to me—and I can stick my hands up her dress anytime I want.
Now that Kate is wearing her dress, I understand why she said garters wouldn’t work. It’s silver and short. I’m talking micro-mini. And strapless. Every time I look at her, I can’t help but think about how easy it will be to get it off. And her shoes? You remember my thing for shoes, right? They’re very high, very strappy, open toed and…
Amelia Warren, Delores’ mother, stands up from the table. She’s thin, with shoulder length, feathered 80’s style, strawberry blond hair. And like her daughter after her—she’s nuts. When I say nuts I mean that in the most literal way possible.
For Kate’s birthday, Amelia sent her a huge, heavy, natural crystal necklace harvested from the caves of Perigord, because she believes they’ll protect Kate’s lungs from the city air pollution.
It’s a shame, how stringent the involuntary commitment protocols in this country have become.
Oh—and Amelia doesn’t like me at all. Don’t know why. I only met her once before this blessed event, and we didn’t speak more than five words to each other. I wonder if the withering glares she throws my way have anything to do with her nephew.
“Oh look—Billy’s here! He made it!”
Speak of the Devil and he doth appear. I glance over to the doorway where, sure enough, the ball-licker just waltzed in.
Yep, still hate him. He’s like genital herpes—he just won’t go the f*ck away.
He’s been living in LA for the last eight months and much to my displeasure, he and Kate still talk. She says they’re just—say it with me—’friends’—but I don’t buy it. I mean, sure, for Kate, they’re just friends. That I believe. But for a guy? No way.
The “friend” card is one of the oldest hook-up tricks in the book. Right up there with ‘I think I might be gay.’ He’s just biding his time—waiting for me to screw up so he can be the shoulder Kate cries on. Then when she’s all vulnerable and weak, he’ll stick his tongue down her throat.
Not gonna happen. Not on my f*cking watch.
He makes his way over to our table and Kate goes up to him. They hug, and I grind my teeth together.
“Hi, Katie.”
“Hey, Billy.”
Pardon me while I swallow the vomit that just surged into my mouth.
“Dee Dee’s going to be so excited to see you. I thought you had a show?”
His smile is smug. Slick. Like a used car salesman. “I had my agent move some things around.” Then he looks Kate over, from head to toe.
And I want to simultaneously cover her with a tablecloth and scoop his eyeballs out with a coffee spoon.
“You look amazing.”
She tilts her head to the side with a smile, “Aww. You’re so sweet. You look great, too.”
She’s actually stomaching this bullshit? Are you f*cking kidding me?
I clear my throat and stand up behind her. “Warren.”
“Evans.”
Our eyes clash—like a lion staring down a hyena—and Kate is the fresh kill we’re both looking to eat.
That’s when my mom comes over. “Kate, could you be a dear and help me find your mother? The photographer would like to take a few more family shots outside before the sun goes down.”
Kate’s dark eyes cloud over with concern. They dart between the two of us nervously. “Ah…sure, Anne. No problem.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Kate looks at each of us pointedly. “I’ll be right back.” As she turns to go, she stops at my shoulder and whispers, “Be good, Drew.”
I smirk. “That’s not what you wanted this morning.”
Her smile’s tight and there’s warning in her eyes. “It’s what I want now.”
I tuck a piece of her hair back behind her ear. “I’m always good, baby.”
She walks away, leaving me alone with my arch nemesis. This should be interesting.
He jumps right in with both feet. “So, I left Kate a couple voice mails last week. Apparently she didn’t get them.” His tone is accusing. Rightly so.
“Maybe she just didn’t want to talk to you.”
He snorts—as pigs tend to do. “Or maybe you deleted them.”
I take a step closer, making him back up. “Maybe you shouldn’t be calling my apartment.”
“I called to talk to Kate.”
“Right—Kate who’s living in my apartment.”
“You can’t f*cking tell her who she can talk to. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Her boyfriend. Which means—yeah—I can. And I don’t think that includes you anymore.”
“You know something, Evans? I see right through you. You come off all arrogant and full of yourself, but deep down? You’re shitting your pants. Cause you know it’s just a matter of time before Kate is done with you.”
My brow furrows in mock confusion. “I’m sorry—I don’t speak vagina. Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He moves forward, so we’re nose to nose, like boxers before the bell. “It means newsflash, dickhead—you’re the rebound guy. A distraction. Kate will have her fun, and then she’ll move on to more permanent prospects.”
I laugh. “Like you?”
“I do have the whole rock star thing going for me, don’t I?”
Kate said he signed a record deal a few months back, and I’ve heard a few of his songs on the radio. But I don’t care how many records he sells—he’ll always be a douche bag to me. Though he’s got a point about the rock star thing. It’s a powerful force. Guys who look like Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler wouldn’t have a shot in hell at getting laid without it, and they’ve spent decades shoulder deep in p-ssy.
“But no, not me,” he says. “Kate and I are in the past. That doesn’t mean she’s sticking with you, though. How long have you known her, Evans? Eight months? I dated her for eleven years and I was her friend for nine before that. I think I’m a lot more qualified to predict what Kate will or won’t do.”
Okay—that one hit a little too close to home. It’s one of the reasons I hate the fact that Kate still talks to him. Because he had her before I did. I don’t mean the sex; I could deal with that. I’m talking about the fact that she loved him, came close to marrying him. So no matter what I do—no matter how good Kate and I are—I’ll never be her first where it counts. And that sucks. Second place is just first loser.
But I’ll eat my own tongue before I admit that to f*ck-face.
“You’re talking out your ass. I know Kate. I--”
He cuts me off with a shoulder nudge. “You know what Kate lets you know. I had a front row seat to every significant moment in her life, a*shole. Twenty years worth of memories will always mean more to her than you ever—”
Not to go all Popeye on you? But that’s all I can stand and…well…you know the f*cking rest.
I pull back and punch him right in the jaw. Iron Mike’s got nothing on me right now, and it feels great. I should’ve done this months ago.
He staggers back. I expect him to come back swinging and I’m ready for the block. What I don’t expect is for him to tackle me low in the waist with the skill of a NY Giants linebacker.
We fall back in a heap, taking out the pasta station behind us with a crowd-drawing crash. Marinara sauce flies everywhere, raining down on unsuspecting heads and spattering people’s clothes. Kind of looks like the pigs blood scene in Carrie, doesn’t it?
Now, contrary to popular belief, these kinds of things don’t go down like they do in the movies. Those fights are planned out. Choreographed. Real-life guy fights involve more rolling around on the ground, cursing and grunting, while getting in the occasional punch or kick between the verbal jabs.
Watch.
We roll over till we’re side by side. I straight arm him, holding on to the front of his shirt. I get in a nice right hook to his chin, drawing first blood. With a growl he flips over so he’s on top, straddling my waist. He nails me in the eye from the left.
I shake it off and grind out, “My sister hits harder than that. p-ssy.”
He grits his teeth, holding me down at the chest. “Suck my dick.”
I bring my leg up and knee him in the back. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Oh, no, that’s right—you wouldn’t. Kate sucks fantastic cock, by the way. You don’t know what you were missing all those years, you f*cking idiot.”
Yeah—I know.
I can’t believe I just said that, either. In front of a room full of people. In front of Kate’s mother.
And if the horrified gasp that sounds suspiciously like my girlfriend’s voice is any indication? There’s an excellent chance I’ll go the rest of my life without ever getting head again.
Still, it was a great comeback, wasn’t it?
Without warning, the scent of coffee fills the air. And a second later my legs are burning. It’s scorching, like the boiling oil castle guards used to pour down on the invaders in Medieval times.
“Ahh! Christ!”
Instantly, Warren and I forget about knocking each other’s teeth out. We’re too busy trying to get away from the sizzling liquid that’s being poured on us.
I look up into the diabolical eyes of Amelia Warren, who’s proudly holding two stainless steel carafes that used to be filled with coffee. And now aren’t.
She reaches down and grabs my ear with one hand and Warren’s with the other. And we’re immobilized. Immediately. Amelia Warren—pain in the ass by day, ninja warrior by night.
She drags us out of the room by our respective ears, not unlike Sister Beatrice would have in the good old days. But we don’t go quietly.
“Ow…f*ck…oooowwww!”
“Aunt Amelia, let go! I’m a musician, I need my ear!”
“Stop your whining! Beethoven was deaf and he did just fine.”
We’re dragged towards an adjoining room. Out of the corner of my eye I see Kate tagging along. Arms folded, back stiff—not a good sign for me. She opens the door and the four of us walk in.
And we all stop dead in our tracks.
Because there, on an empty table, is none other than Kate’s mother, Carol, and Steven’s father—good old quiet, number-crunching George Reinhart—going at it hot and heavy like two teenagers in the backseat at a drive-in movie theater.
I shit you not.
Kate’s mouth opens wide, disbelief clear in her exclamation. “Mom?”
I raise my brows. “Wow. Go, George.”
Have I mentioned that Kate’s mom is smokin’ hot? She is. Very.
She’s in her fifties, with wavy russet hair, familiar dark eyes with the barest of wrinkles, and a warm smile. Her body’s softly rounded with age, but still petite. The best way to tell how a woman’s going to look in her later years is to look at her mother. If I didn’t know I was a lucky son of a bitch before? The moment I laid eyes on Carol Brooks, I was sure of it.
Carol and George bust apart like they’re on fire, sputtering embarrassed apologies as they readjust their clothing. Carol’s face reminds me of that pink dog on Blues Clues. Guess that’s where Kate gets the blushing thing from. George straightens his tie, trying his best to look dignified—like he wasn’t just caught with his hands on Carol’s fun bags.
He nods in our direction. “Boys. Kate.”
I wave.
Then Kate sputters, “Mom, the photographer needs you.” Carol seems relieved to have an exit strategy and they scurry out the door. Amelia-san releases her kung fu grip on my lobe and turns on her heels like a drill sergeant.
I try to lighten the mood. “Boy…didn’t see that one coming, huh?”
Kate frowns. And Amelia pokes me in the chest. “Even though you are not my responsibility, if I ever hear such profane filth out of your mouth again, I will hog tie you, hold your nose, and pour dish detergent down your throat like your mother should have a long time ago! Am I clear, mister?”
Her wrath turns to Warren. “And you—for God’s sakes, act like you have some sense! If you think you’re too old for me to take the belt to, you are sorely mistaken, young man. I raised you better than this.”
He looks down. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I expect you boys to stay on opposite sides of the room the rest of the evening. Any more trouble from either of you and I’ll have you thrown out on your asses.” In a huff she walks out of the room, with Warren trailing behind her like a stray puppy.
Leaving Kate and me alone.