The tub filled with water for a long time. Red currant fragrances the air, so I know L won’t be leaving her refuge anytime soon. Too bad the scented candles don’t disguise the odor I’m encountering.
Damn, L. What did you feed this kid today?
Luke’s lying on the changing table, his blue eyes watching me as he waits for his nappy to be removed, and I’d swear he’s grinning and giggling because he’s amused by the deposit he’s left for me. I put my finger under his chin and tickle his neck, making him burst into laughter. “Your mother knew you were going to do this. She fed all of you the same thing today and that’s why she asked me to change and bathe you.” I look over at Luke’s clone crawling on the floor and wonder if he’s already done the same thing. My guess would be yes. “Hudson, have you blown up your nappy like your brother?”
He crawls toward me and uses my pant leg to pull up. “Da.”
I reach down and muss his dark hair. “You’re next, little buddy.”
I survive the toxic waste left for me by my two sons and wonder how in the world nine-month-old babies can do what they just did. It shouldn’t be physically possible but then I decide the universe must be against me when I find that MJ has done the same thing, but on a larger scale.
L plotted this. It’s retaliation for me telling her I was ready to try for another baby, I know it.
I guess it’s too soon for a fourth. Our hands are pretty full with a two-year-old and nine-month-old twins. The boys are rambunctious, beginning to get into everything, and I’m certain it’s only going to get worse. However, MJ is the sweetest child ever born. She’s daddy’s little girl and has been since I saw her tiny little face when she was still inside L and we thought we’d lose her.
It’s true. A little girl can wrap her daddy around her finger. That’s what Maggie James has done to me, but what else would you expect from a little angel with warm chestnut hair, the ends kissed with curls? My heart melts every time her caramel eyes look my way but the doozy is hearing her call out for me, her daddy. There’s never been a more precious sound.
The trio is bathed and ready for bed when Laurelyn comes into the twin’s room. She sits in the rocker for me to hand them off for their last feeding. This is our nightly ritual, so I already know Luke will nurse for ten minutes before he’s out with Hudson following five minutes later, and then L will lie with MJ in her bed until she falls asleep.
I can’t believe L ever feared that she might be a shitty mother. No one could do a better job with our kids.
But she needs a break.
When the threesome is down for the night, we go into the living room and fall onto the couch, L on one end, me on the other. I bring her feet to my lap for a good rub. “Did you enjoy your alone time?”
L’s head rests on the arm of the couch, her eyes closed. She looks as though she could fall asleep any second. “Very much so. That tub of bubbles was much needed. Am I still pruny?” She examines her fingertips. “Thank you for taking over with the kiddos tonight.”
She seems more tired than usual. “Is something going on, love?”
She doesn’t open her eyes. “I’m just exhausted because one of the boys was into something all day long. I almost wish they were immobile again. Things were so much easier then.”
She needs a break before she breaks. “Let’s take the kids to my parents and go away for a few days.”
Her eyes pop open and she lifts her head to look at me. “You know we can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m still nursing the twins.”
“They can take bottles for a few days. It won’t hurt them.” I don’t give her the chance to argue before I continue with more reasons we should get away. “Our kids need you to be well rested so you can be the best mum possible. You have to take care of you so you can take care of them. As your husband, it falls on me to recognize when you need a break, and it’s time.”
Leaving the kids at my parents was a mess. All three were crying and L was too. I practically had to drag her out the door so we wouldn’t miss our flight, but all is good now that we’re on the plane.
“I’m glad we’re doing this.” Her tune has changed.
“You didn’t look so happy about it an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry I lost it, but we’ve never left them for more than a few hours. I just started thinking about their confusion when we don’t come back for them. They could think we’ve left them forever.”
She’s going to start again. “Stop, L. They’re fine. My parents will spoil them rotten. And don’t forget that Evan and Emma are bringing the kids over tomorrow so they can play together.”
She’s so emotional, convincing me further that this trip is exactly what she needs, so I’m going to do everything I can to take her mind off the kids while we’re away. “Our lives revolve around our children twenty-four seven, so I don’t want to talk kids while we’re away. This getaway is about you and me.” I wish I’d booked a private plane. I’d take her to the back and give her something to make her forget it all.
“Okay—not a word about MJ, Luke Henry, or Hudson until we return to Sydney on Sunday afternoon.”
“That’s my girl.”
We spend our first afternoon on the beach and then go into town for dinner at our favorite restaurant before returning to the house. Since making the decision to get away with L, I’ve been counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds until I could have her without distractions or interruptions by the kids.
We’re barely through the front door when I pull her into my arms to kiss her. It begins slow and romantic but quickly escalates to heated and urgent. For once, the urgency isn’t because one of the kids could start crying and interrupt us at any minute. “Tell me what you want, L.”
She pulls back and touches my bottom lip with her finger. “To slow down. We’re always in a rush and I’d like to take our time so we can enjoy one another.”
She’s right. Since the kids came along, I usually only operate in jackrabbit speed, but with good reason. Eight out of ten times, we’re going to be interrupted by one of the three. It’s like they were all born with some kind of sensor enabling them to cock-block me. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Trust me. I want to enjoy having you all to myself.”
“It’s okay. I get it.” She splays her hands on my chest and watches them as they move down. “I bought something new to wear for you.”
F*ck, yeah. I was hoping she would. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen her in something hot and sexy. She may want to take this slow but it doesn’t mean we can’t get started as soon as possible. I lean down and pick her up, throwing her over my shoulder to carry her into the bedroom. “Jack Henry, I can’t believe you.”
I set her feet on the floor once we’re in the bedroom and grab her bum to pull her against me. I hover my mouth over her ear. “I’m ready to be inside you so don’t keep me waiting too long while you change.”
“Will you light the bedroom candles while I change?”
“I will do anything you tell me to.”
She grabs my face and pulls me in for a quick kiss. “I won’t be long, caveman.”
I watch her disappear into the bathroom and then begin my task of lighting the bedroom candles. There are three, giving the room the perfect amount of illumination while setting the perfect romantic ambience. Even I feel lovey-dovey looking at the candlelit canopy bed, flowing sheers kissing the floor. It’s a reminder for me to make love to L because it’s what she wants, not to f*ck her hard and fast … unless it’s what she wants later and I’ll be very willing to oblige.
I’m undressing when L comes out of the bathroom. She’s wearing a red lace slip—not one of her usual colors but it should be because she looks hot as hell in it. Her tits look fantastic, even after nursing our three kids. She’s wearing a mischievous grin and I know why when she turns to show me the ruffles over her bum. She shimmies a little before she asks, “Like it much?”
F*ck, she looks amazing. My cock immediately rises to tent the only thing I’m still wearing—my boxer briefs. “You look so f*cking hot, babe. Come ’ere.”
“Wait. I want the mood to be perfect for what I have in mind.” She walks over to the nightstand and picks up her phone. My girl loves to set the pace with music so I’m certain she’ll choose something slow—and it’s a good idea. Otherwise I might forget I shouldn’t rush this.
The song begins and I recognize it as one I’ve heard her singing. It’s a slow, romantic song she composed for Southern Ophelia—inspired by our love—but it’s my first time hearing them perform it.
“It’s beautiful.” I hold my arms out to her. “Come to me.”
I watch her slink ever so slowly in my direction. Her movement, each step she takes, seduces my mind and body. I must remind myself of what I’m to do—take my time and enjoy Laurelyn. My wife. My lover. My American girl and partner in life. The mother of my children.
I place one hand at her lower back and cradle her face with my other. She leans into it and covers the top with her own, closing her eyes and appearing as though she’s completely savoring the feel of my skin against hers. “The simple touch of your hand against my face is still enough to melt my panties right off my body.”
“All you have to do is breathe and I want to slide your knickers off.” I reach beneath her red lace slip to feel what kind she’s wearing and I get two handfuls of cheek with a tiny strip of fabric up the middle. “Mmm … I love your sweet cheeks in a G.” I hoist her up. “Wrap your legs around me.”
She does and I move to the bed, depositing her in the middle. I begin at her ankles and kiss my way up her body as I crawl over her. Her body still looks amazing after three babies. She occasionally voices a concern about the stretch marks she got with the twins but they’re low on her abdomen and minimal. I don’t see them when I look at her. She’s perfect to me.
I push her slip up when I get to her hips and look at the tiny scrap of knickers covering her in the front. I put the heel of my palm against her pubic bone and lower it. The lace at her crotch is warm and already wet, so it takes every bit of strength I have to not shove it over and bury myself deep inside her.
I glide my fingers under the elastic waistband and tug. She lifts her bum and I bite the red lace triangle with my teeth, dragging it down her legs. “Oh God.”
I toss her knickers and migrate up her body slowly. When we’re face to face, I cradle her cheeks with both of my hands. “I love you, pretty girl.”
“And I love you, caveman.”
She brings her legs up around my waist and wiggles beneath me until I’m positioned at her drenched opening. “I was planning to go down on you.”
She shakes her head. “Later. Right now, I want you inside me.”
She squeezes her legs to coax me closer and I glide in slowly. I push her legs back, bending them out and she tilts her hips. I thrust in and out several times and she meets each one, bringing me deeper inside her. “Oh, L. This is where I love to be—buried so deep we become one with no beginning and no end.”
I move my hand to where we’re joined and briefly enjoy feeling myself sliding in and out of her before I seek out her *. We may be making love instead of f*cking hard, but I’m still making sure my girl comes.
She moans when I find the spot and I circle it with my fingers. “Does that feel good?”
“Oh yeah,” she moans. “Right there. Don’t stop.” She still says that after four years, although she knows I never stop until she comes.
She tenses and squeezes her legs tightly, signaling the onset of her climax, and then I feel that magnificent way her body squeezes my cock. That, combined with the knowledge of knowing I’ve brought her to orgasm, ignites the onset of my undoing. I thrust a few more times and then drive deep inside her, emptying all of myself. I love coming inside her even when we’re not trying for a baby.
I’m blanketing her with my body while I remain inside. I kiss her forehead and lift my head so I can see her face. “Hi.”
She smiles and giggles. “Hi.” She releases her legs from around my waist and they go limp beneath me but I’m not ready to pull out.
I lower my face to hers and gently scrape her with my whiskers. “You’re going to take my first layer of skin off with that, caveman.”
“I’ve been thinking of shaving it.”
“No way! It’s sexy as hell and I love the way it feels when you go down.”
“Then I’ll keep it for you because I want my girl happy.” I plant a quick kiss against her mouth before pulling out and rolling to my back. I reach to take her hand in mine, lacing our fingers.
We lie motionless and I decide it’s a good time to bring up the making-a-baby talk, although we agreed we wouldn’t talk about kids. Technically, this child I want to talk about doesn’t exist so it doesn’t fall under the forbidden-discussion category.
“I understand if you’re not ready for another baby.” She doesn’t say anything and I wonder what’s up with her—why she isn’t agreeing.
She moves her hand to my chest and circles the endless infinity symbol, signaling that she’s thinking hard about what I’m saying. “Your hands are full with the three we have so we can wait. Maybe we can think about trying when the twins are two. That would make them three when the new baby is born—that would be a good space between them, right? I’d be thirty-five—much younger than I expected to be by the time we had our fourth.”
She brings her hand to her forehead. “Can we have a confessional session? We haven’t had one in a while and I think it’s time.”
I’m surprised. That’s not at all what I was expecting to hear. “Sure. Same rules as always?”
“Yes. No discussions. No explanations. No grudges.”
“Okay. Three minutes?”
“No timer for this one.”
Oh hell. I always depend on the timer to stop the train before it runs out of control. “If you’re sure.”
“I am, but I want you to go first.”
“Okay.” I briefly think and say the first thing that pops into my head. “I love our kids but sometimes I feel like our marriage takes a back seat to them.” I’m grimacing on the inside because that was a rough way to start.
“By the time I get the kids bathed and ready for bed, a lot of times I’m so exhausted, I don’t feel like having sex.” That’s not a confession, that’s a fact—but I’m glad she’s at least willing to admit it.
“We came here to get a break and take things slow since we don’t often get that luxury, but once you’ve had enough of that, I’m going to f*ck you ninety-nine different ways.” I’m thinking about turning over to start with way number one.
“You should probably enjoy f*cking me ninety-nine different ways while you can since you’ll only get to do it for about seven or eight more weeks before I’m put on pelvic rest again.”
“What?” There’s only one reason she’d be placed on pelvic rest.
“I know I just killed our confessional time but … surprise.”
I rise from the bed so I can see her face. “You’re pregnant again?”
She nods. “I am.”
I put my hand on her belly and don’t detect any change in it. “How far along?”
“I’m guessing around six or seven weeks.”
“Oh, L … I’m so happy.” And I am but then I remember her telling me she wanted to wait a little while longer when we discussed having another one. “How do you feel about it?”
“Well, I was shocked at first, maybe a wee bit upset, but I’ve had time to get used to it and now I’m really happy. I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to handle a newborn with a three-year-old and a set of twenty-month-old twins, but I’ll figure it out.”
“What about Healing Melodies?” I’m so proud of L—her work to create a foundation using music as therapy and expression for children of addicts is nothing short of miraculous. But she has so much on her plate since she refuses to stop composing. I don’t know how she’ll juggle all of it. Perhaps we’ll revisit the discussion of hiring a part-time nanny or maybe Nanna and Pops will take her up on the offer of coming for an indefinite stay. They seem to be warming up to the idea since Jolie is gone on the road with Jake most of the time.
“I’m not sure. Maybe I can talk Addison into helping. She’s expressed some interest but there’s plenty of time to figure that out.”
“I haven’t told you yet, but I’ve decided to sell some of the vineyards so I can spend more time at home with you and the kids. I haven’t decided which ones or how many, but I’ve been discussing it with Ben. I figure giving my brother-in-law first pick is the right thing to do. I’d rather help him get established here so he doesn’t relocate my sister to California. I don’t think Mum could take that, especially before their baby arrives. And I’m thinking of making a proposition with Zac after I know what Ben wants to buy.”
She rises from the bed and throws her leg over to straddle me. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. The kids and I need you at home with us.”
“And that’s the only place I want to be—with you and our swarm of kids.”
This has been an amazing year and I couldn’t possibly publish this book without a word of thanks to the incredible people that helped make it possible.
I thank my family for their love, support, and patience while I hibernated in my writing cave, forcing them to eat takeout more often than anyone should. I won’t forget your encouraging words or the treats you brought me when you thought I needed a break or a sugar rush so I could push onward.
My agent, Jane Dystel. You’re the best. Thank you for being the one I can run to.
Readers and bloggers. I can’t do this without you. You’re the butter on my bread.
My word and grammar ninja, Jennifer Sommersby Young. You are the cat’s meow and you make me (appear) smarter than I really am.
My dear friend, Ani Markarian. Thank you for your words of wisdom and encouragement when they’re much needed. I adore you.
My Aussie advisor, Sharon Luth. Thank you for steering me out of the wrong and into the right when I don’t know my ass from my elbow.
Beauty from Pain Support Group. I can always turn to you. Thanks for loving Jack Henry and Laurelyn as much as me. I love your enthusiasm.
Emily Beach Thomas. Your legal advice was invaluable. Really. That whole Blake scenario would have sucked without your help.
I have a ton of author friends that have offered love and support this year. I can’t possibly mention them all but there’s a handful that hold a special place in my heart. Amy Bartol. Shelly Crane. Samantha Young. Michelle Leighton. Katie Ashley. Raine Miller. I’m so happy to call you my dear friends.
Trish Brinkley. You’re one classy lady. Thank you for all of your hard work. I adore you.
The Brian Jonestown Massacre ? Anemone
Dixie Chicks ? Not Ready to Make Nice
Elton John ? Blessed
Elvis Presley ? Can’t Help Falling In Love
Emeli Sandé ? Next to Me
Gotye ? Somebody That I Used to Know
Imagine Dragons ? Demons
Jay Ollero ? The Man I Want to Be (feat. Tyrone Wells)
John Legend ? All of Me
Katy Perry ? Unconditionally
Norah Jones ? I’ve Got To See You Again
Plumb ? My Sweet, My Lovely
Plumb ? In My Arms
Plumb ? My Child
Sleeping At Last ? Light
The Swell Season ? The Moon
Georgia resides in rural Mississippi with her wonderful husband, Jeff, and their two beautiful daughters. She spent fourteen years as a labor and delivery nurse before she decided to pursue her dream of becoming an author and hasn’t looked back yet.
Connect with Georgia
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It has been such a pleasure corresponding with some of you via Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, email, and by my blog. I love being in touch with my readers so don’t hesitate to contact me at any time. I love you all and thank you for your support through this journey.
Young Adult Books by Georgia
Blood of Anteros
The Vampire Agápe Series Book 1
Blood Jewel
The Vampire Agápe Series Book 2
Blood Doll
The Vampire Agápe Series Book 3
Going Under
A Going Under Novel #1
Shallow
A Going Under Novel #2
Adult Books by Georgia
Beauty from Pain
Beauty Series - Book One
Beauty from Surrender
Beauty Series - Book Two
Beauty from Love
Beauty Series - Book Three
Excerpt for Must Love Otters
by Eliza Gordon
Hollie Porter is the chairwoman of Generation Disillusioned: at twenty-five years old, she’s saddled with a job she hates, a boyfriend who’s all wrong for her, and a vexing inability to say no. She’s already near her breaking point, so when one caller too many kicks the bucket during Hollie’s 911 shift, she cashes in the Sweethearts’ Spa & Stay gift certificate from her dad and heads to Revelation Cove, British Columbia. One caveat: she’s going solo. Any sweethearts will have to be found on site.
Hollie hopes to find her beloved otters in the wilds of the Great White North, but instead she’s providing comic relief for staff and guests alike. Even Concierge Ryan, a former NHL star with bad knees and broken dreams, can’t stop her from stumbling from one (mis)adventure to another. Just when Hollie starts to think that a change of venue doesn’t mean a change in circumstances, the island works its charm and she starts to think she might have found the rejuvenation she so desperately desires. But then an uninvited guest crashes the party, forcing her to step out of the discomfort zone where she dwells and save the day … and maybe even herself in the process.
Buy links:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Amazon Australia
Barnes and Noble
iTunes
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Get in touch!
www.elizagordon.com
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Chapter 1 - Batman Jerry
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My husband … he’s not breathing. He’s blue. His lips are blue. Jerry, wake up! Wake up!”
“Ma’am, did he choke on something? Tell me what’s happened so I can help you.”
“I think it’s his heart. He has a bad heart. He didn’t take his pills today. Or maybe he did, I don’t know. This doesn’t matter! Help me, goddammit!”
“I’m trying to help you. Where is your husband right now?”
“On the bed. He’s on the bed,” the caller says.
I look at the clock. Sixty seconds since the call started. Nineteen minutes until my shift is over.
“Okay, an ambulance is on its way. What’s your name?”
“Linda.”
“Okay, Linda, I’m Hollie. Before the ambulance gets there, we need to do a few things. Can you listen to his chest or feel if his heart is beating?”
“I can’t. Oh, his lips are so blue.”
“Why can’t you listen to his chest, Linda?”
“Because … he has a chest plate on.”
“A chest plate?”
“He’s dressed up. It’s Batman night.” Excellent. Oh, Batman. Your timing is impeccable. I’ll have to do yet another karmic inventory to see where I screwed up. I hear my father’s voice: It’s not all about you, Hollie. Guilt squirts into my gray matter.
“Listen to me, Linda. Check his neck. Two fingers alongside his neck.”
“His chest plate goes up his neck.”
“We gotta get the chest plate off so you can check for a pulse and maybe start compressions.”
“Hang on … I gotta put the phone down.” Shuffle, shuffle, grunt, curse. “I can’t get it off.”
This is bad. If we can’t get to his chest, dude’s gonna die. If he’s not already floating to the bat cave in the sky. “Linda, can you cut through it?”
“He’ll kill me if I ruin this costume. He paid a fortune for it.”
I want to tell her that he probably won’t ever know because at this rate, his brain is guano. “Linda, listen to me. We need to do CPR. You said he’s on the bed?”
“Yes.”
“Can you drag him onto the floor?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He weighs 300 lb.! I can’t lift him,” she shrieks.
I’m supposed to be in control here, but that flash of powerlessness never goes away. Unless you’re Les and then nothing bothers you because your soul oozed out of your pores years ago and that mass in your chest formerly known as a heart is now nothing more than an algae-encrusted river rock. With boogers.
“Linda, did he take any drugs tonight? Did he drink anything? Anything I can tell the medics so they’ll know how to help?”
“Umm … Viagra. And some scotch. It’s Batman night …” Linda starts to cry.
Despite the fact that Batman night is over—abruptly—I feel bad for Linda. “I want you to put the phone down and try to do chest compressions.”
“But the chest plate—”
“Work with me, Linda. He’ll forgive you for wrecking the costume if you save his life. Okay?”
The rest of the call does not go any better. I do hear later, however, that Batman Jerry (deader than a fruit bat in the vegetable aisle) had a stiffy that would make Zeus jealous. Details I don’t need. Note to the world: Viagra + scotch + heart condition = dead with a boner.
That disgusting feeling of I just listened to somebody die washes over me. It’s gross. Been at this job for two years, eight months, sixteen days, since disappointing my union -loving nurse father—yes, my dad is a nurse, so get your jokes out of the way now—and leaving school early secondary to questionable financial management. I am the only person in the family who faints in the presence of blood, an unending source of ribbing at those insipid annual family gatherings. Whatever genetic predisposition to medicine that runs like plague through my family? Yeah. It skipped me. Working 911 was the easiest compromise—I sit in a room and listen to blood, but I never actually have to see it.
But dead people never get easier, especially the ones who are already dead when the call starts. Aneurysms. Heart attacks. Strokes. Embolisms. Mother Nature is a clever, clever girl.
I lean back in my chair and slurp on the remnants of a long-ago melted iced coffee. Les is staring, those beady little eyes fixed on me. I know he’s going to do it when I see his hand move to the chest pocket of his ugly brown flannel button-down. The mothballs and Old Spice piggyback a puff of recycled air.
I shake my head no.
Don’t do it, Les. Don’t pull it out.
He does. The Black Book of Death. He’s going to put a goddamned checkmark next to my name. Again. To show that I’ve killed someone else.
It would be funny if he weren’t such a raging, infected prick. Little stooge goes into advisory board meetings every two months and pulls out that confounded book to gloat about how many lives he’s saved, and how many I’ve lost. He doesn’t mark down Troll Lady’s dead people, but I suspect it’s because she’s playing his skin flute in the unisex bathroom during their lunch break.
I’m not sure what disgusts me more: watching Les pull the greasy black comb out of the back pocket of his Wranglers to straighten the twelve hairs still sticking out of his head, or thinking about Troll Lady’s smudged red lips wrapped around his member.
It’s a tossup. I feel sick to my stomach.
I’m now twelve minutes into overtime. I will be reprimanded if I reach the thirty-minute mark—“Budgets are tight! Cuts are coming!”—the same war cry from administrators who make six fat, beach-house-owning figures a year. Sorry. Batman died. What was I supposed to do, tell his Catwoman to call Robin for help?
The tiny vacuum starts up. My signal to go home. Troll Lady is aggressively rearranging her collection of frizzy-haired beasts, using the handheld vacuum to suck the dust free and keep their multihued coifs at attention. Because she’s been here the longest—pretty sure she started with 911 when they were still using pterodactyls as messengers and Flintstone cars for ambulances—she gets away with shit that would never fly for anyone else. I’ve heard that people have lost their jobs over complaining about her troll collection, the dust it collects, the simple fact that they’re horribly ugly, despicable little demon spies for the CIA. She compromises by keeping the troll army small and dusted daily.
“This one, my pride and joy. Elvis. I spent $400, not including shipping. Straight from Graceland! I’ll bet Priscilla touched it. Wouldn’t that be something?” I try not to listen, but she is loud. Really loud. And my console abuts hers. The troll looks nothing like Elvis. Maybe fat Elvis. Right before he died, drugged out and on the shitter. I wonder what that 911 call sounded like.
I unplug, log out, power down. Grab my logbook. Lock my drawer so the dispatcher due to my console in thirty-nine minutes won’t steal the last of my Lucky Charms. I’m the one who painstakingly separated all the boring cereal from the delectable marshmallows, so I’m the one who gets to eat ’em.
Grab the report that confirms Batman Jerry didn’t make it through our call.
Sorry, Batman Jerry. Rest in peace.
Chapter 2 - Nacho Fun Time
The evening’s saving grace: upon opening the apartment door, it smells a little like food. Keith made dinner. I am so grateful.
“Hey,” I say, dumping my backpack on the floor. His black jump kit takes up the entire space on the ornately carved foyer bench. The bench I bought to someday grace the grand foyer of my amazing house that I will somehow manage to buy on my pathetic salary. Which is why it’s still sitting against the wall in my shitty two-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment.
Why we need a jump kit inside the apartment at all times—“You never know when the Big One might hit, Hol, and people will need my help”—ergo, a 40 lb. bag of gloves, surgical tubing, IV bags, gauze, tape, water purifying salts, and silver emergency blankets sits in my hallway and takes up all the space on my pretty bench.
I sort of hope an earthquake does hit. And when it does, I hope it opens a chasm below this apartment and swallows the jump kit whole. I’ll miss my bench, though.
The Yorkies go apeshit. I live here. This is my abode. And every single night, these stupid little ass-licking, ankle-biting shit machines bark like I’m the Creature from the Black Lagoon. A*sholes. I hate Yorkies. And by hate, I mean I want to drown them. Or magically turn them into clouds so they will float away on a breeze of my own making.
“Your dad called,” Keith says from the kitchen. “Again.”
“Mmm-hmm. What’s for dinner?”
“Wait! Don’t come in here.”
“What?” I freeze. The Yorkies are yipping at me. I make my meanest face at them. They bark louder. Why can’t we have a cat? Cats are so much cuter than Yorkies. Plus cats look like otters. Otters are the bestest creatures in the whole wild world. Thus, because it is not legal or practical for me to have an otter, we should have a cat. To balance out all the doggish hormones and slobber and ball-licking.
Keith leans around the corner, baggy flannel pants doing nothing for his ass, stethoscope around his neck as per usual. Why he does this, I don’t know. I have zero fantasies about humping a doctor. Or an EMT. Because Keith is not a doctor. He’s the guy who drives the ambulance and jams the IV in your arm until he can take you to the hospital where a real doctor will help you. “I have a surprise for you. Go in the bedroom. Get comfy.”
“Oooookay …”
“And by comfy, I mean naked.”
He leans close for a kiss but I push him away. He smells like dogs. And Cheetos. Have I mentioned how much I hate Cheetos? Well, I am telling you now: I f*cking hate Cheetos. On a dare, I ate an entire bag at Charlotte Smith’s ninth birthday slumber party because I wanted the little ceramic rainbow pin she was offering the winner, and I puked orange for four straight hours.
For the record, I won the pin. I still have it. But I don’t eat Cheetos anymore.
God, I am a crabby cow tonight. I might need a chocolaty intervention to balance out the meanness.
He wants me naked. Now? “I need a shower. And you need to brush your teeth. You smell like Cheetos,” I say.
Keith honks my boob. “Fine, fine. But hurry. You’re gonna love this.”
I squint at him. Do I hear adventure coming from that boy’s mouth? Is this real life? “What’s going on?” I ask cautiously. I’m tired of Naughty Nurse. And Doctor and Nurse. And Doctor and Patient. And I Saved You From a Burning Building So You Should Have Sex With Me Even Though You’re Unconscious and Could Be Dying from Smoke Inhalation. Shall I continue? All the games either end with me mummified in gauze and anchored to the bed, or with me pushing his stethoscope out of my face while he’s pumping away. The romance is overwhelming. I know. Here’s a cloth to wipe your fevered brow.
“Go get more comfortable. I mean it—no clothes. Find something to blindfold yourself.”
I smile at him. “Really? Is this going to hurt?”
“Hollie …”
“No stethoscope. No medical dramas. I don’t want to play Grey’s Anatomy anymore.”
“This is something different.”
“Okayyyyy.”
“Do you trust me, Hols?”
Does he want a real answer to that? “I’ll … get changed.” I slide into the bathroom to shave so he doesn’t complain about my prickly legs again (if he doesn’t like the legs, he certainly won’t like my panty tarantula). It’s been a while since we did anything that involved being naked. Maybe a good toe-curler is just what I need, even if it involves something battery powered. And a warm shower does sound lovely. Wash the stink of death from my brain and body.
Once the tub tap is turned off, I hear him shuffling in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Hmmm, maybe he’s bought strawberries and whipped cream, or chocolate body glaze, or honey … that would be something we’ve never tried before.
I throw some lotion on all the newly excoriated body parts and sneak out naked into the bedroom. I catch my reflection in the closet mirror. Turn sideways. Suck it in. I’ve only got a few years left with this body. I’d better take up yoga. Troll Lady keeps telling me how big my ass is going to get from my job once I turn thirty or pop out a pup, whichever comes first. She’s also told me that at forty, white hairs start growing from your chin and the sides of your face, and your body odor becomes unnatural. Which is why there’s a huge cupboard of scented baby wipes in the bathroom at work.
These are not sexy thoughts. These are gross thoughts. Must have sexy thoughts.
I pose my sexiest in the mirror. Push out my boobs. Tough because they’re a B cup. Okay, A cup. Whatever. The tarantula is under control. It’s no Brazilian, but it’ll do. I can’t imagine having my pubes waxed completely off. First, the screaming. I would definitely scream. Second, doesn’t it say something about a guy who wants a totally bare playground? It seems a little … disturbing. Worrisome. Little girls are hairless. Women are not. Third, the ungodly itching. I cannot even imagine how bad that shit would itch when it grows back in—
“Babe, you’re not blindfolded.”
I throw my arms over my nakedness, embarrassed that I’ve been caught ogling myself in the mirror.
“Eyes are closed. I swear I’m not looking.”
“Okay. Get on the bed. Don’t peek,” Keith instructs.
“Should I light some candles?”
“Probably not. Fire hazard.” The bedroom door clicks closed. We’re alone—without Yorkies! Cause for celebration.
I hear him setting up a TV tray. My stomach quivers in anticipation of the coming treats. I’ve seen porn with this. Food and stuff. Culinary naughtiness. Granted, it involved eating fruit salad out of …
“Lie flat, Hols. And don’t move.” I do so. He shuffles something around. “Get ready. It’s going to be—”
“COLD! Holy shit, Keith, is that ice cream?”
“No,” he laughs. “Just hold still. This will take a second.”
I try to steady myself, but he’s just smeared something, a lot of cold something, all over my stomach. Goosebumps break out on my arms. “Must be cold,” he says, flicking my nipple. I smack at him. “Don’t move! You’ll ruin the surprise.”
I’m thinking this must be whipped topping of some sort. It feels like that. Or maybe ice cream because it’s really holding the cold. He’s layering something else on top of it. I hear a jar opening. And a can. Then something plopping into the mix on my belly. Cherries, maybe? God, it’s been forever since I’ve had a good chemical-infused maraschino cherry.
He opens a plastic bag and I almost open my eyes.
“Tell me those aren’t Cheetos.”
“Not Cheetos. Almost done. Hold still. This is awesome. I should take a pic—”
“If you so much as finish that sentence, this party is over.”
He laughs. “Final touches. You ready?”
“Go.”
It’s a squirt bottle. Has to be chocolate or caramel sauce. He’s drizzled some over my boobs. That will be fun to lick …
Wait a second. Why is it burning?
“Keith …”
“Almost done, babe. This is classic.”
“Keith, what did you just squirt on my boobs?”
That’s it. I’m opening my eyes.
I do, expecting to be greeted by a belly covered in ice cream, whipped cream, cherries, the works.
“You—you made nachos? On my stomach?”
“Yeah! Isn’t it awesome? I saw this the other night on Food Porn.”
“Is that a show?”
“It’s these two guys who mix food and porn, but the food they make is porn all by itself. They said that this is a fun way to spice things up in the bedroom.”
“Keith, my boobs—they’re burning.”
He leans in for a kiss. “That’s so hot, baby …”
“No, I mean like my nipple is on fire.”
He sits back, reaches over to the TV tray, and grabs the squirt bottle. “Oh. Shit.”
“Oh shit what?”
“Babe, I’m so sorry …” He can’t finish his sentence because he’s laughing like a goddamned fool. He hands me the bottle.
“Extra hot Sriracha. Excellent. That’s brilliant. My nipples are going to melt off and you’re laughing.”
“I’m … so … sorry.” He stumbles into the bathroom and gets a wet washcloth. When he tries to wipe it off, I smack him again and take the cloth, careful not to spill the entrée onto the bed. Because, of course, we’re on my side of the bed.
As I’m wiping the sizzling rooster sauce off my tits, Keith sneaks over to the dresser for his iPhone.
“I’m not kidding. You will never get another piece of this ass ever again in your life if you take that photo.”
“Come on, Hols. I promise not to get your coochie or any boobage. Just one shot?”
I glare at him, blowing alternately on one nipple, then the next. “I think I need ice. F*ck, I think you blistered me!”
“I did not …”
“LOOK, KEITH.”
He flicks on the bedside lamp. “Wow. Shit. I think you’re right. Oh, baby, I am so sorry. Let me get some ice. I have WaterGel in the jump kit, but we should maybe eat first, don’t you think?”
I don’t know if I should cry or scream.
“Here. Just try this.” He reaches into the bag of chips and scoops sour cream, guacamole, refried beans, and an olive onto a chip. “Here comes the airplane!”
Instead of opening my mouth, I grab a handful of his culinary masterpiece and smear it all over his face. Ahhhh, that feels better.
“What the—geeze, Hollie, you’re going to get this all over the bedding now.”
I respond with another handful, this time across both cheeks. Now I’m laughing. He’s not sure what to do. I lick my fingers. Mmmm, that guac is good.
“Pass me the chips.” He swipes his finger down one cheek and pops it into his mouth. Hands me the bag.
“Damn. Not bad.”
The Yorkies are onto us. They can smell the food. Now they’re whining outside the door. Keith, for once, tells them to quiet down. They do. He kneels next to the bed and removes the washcloth from my left nipple. Stares at it closely, then looks back up to me. I think he’s asking for permission.
He pops it in his mouth and gives it a little twirl of the tongue. Feels decent enough. Until he suddenly releases and runs to the bathroom. “Still hot. Still hot!”
The bedroom door thrusts open and I’m a goner. Three Yorkies are on the bed like, well, like Yorkies on an open buffet.
“Keith! The DOGS!” As much as I want this to be erotic, it is exactly the opposite. I don’t mind a little kink, but bestiality is not on my list.
“Trixie! Pixie! No! Moxie, get down!” he yells, shooing them away. As soon as he drops one dog on the floor, another takes its place.
“Get them out of here, dude! Jesus!”
“I’m trying!”
The nachos—what’s left of them—are completely inedible. “Hand me a towel, please. Now.”
With two dogs under one arm and me holding the third one back from eating through to my navel piercing, Keith tosses me a towel. I scoop and dump the remaining Mexican feast onto it.
“I’m taking a shower.”
“So … are we not going to …”
“No, Einstein. We’re not.”
The Yorkies bark at me, pissed that they can’t have the rest of the nachos. “Come to Daddy. Mommy’s not mad at you, babies, don’t you worry. Come here, mwuah, mwuah, mwuah.” He’s kissing them again. Those dogs get more action than I do. Which is disgusting. And pathetic.
I’m sensing a trend here.
“Not their mommy,” I mumble, moving in for my second shower in under thirty minutes.
Once cleansed of nachos—nipples still on fire—I dress in clothing decent enough to leave the house. Throw on my coat, grab my keys.
“Where you goin’?”
“I need food, Keith. Unless you have some kibble in the pantry that the Yorkies haven’t eaten.”
“I don’t feed them kibble.”
“Leaving now.”
“Wait, I’ll come with.” He dresses and turns the monster TV in the living room to kids’ programming.
“I don’t think the dogs like Thomas the Tank Engine.”
“They like the songs on this channel. Keeps them calm.” Duh, Hollie.
Keith throws on his ginormous parka with, you guessed it, huge pockets filled with medical supplies. Just in case. He’s a caricature of himself.
“Leave the steth, Keith.”
“What? No way.”
“You look like a tool. Leave it.”
He stares at me for a second, that hurt look I’m sure he gave his mother when she told him to stop operating on the neighbor with her kitchen utensils, and pulls the stethoscope from around his neck. He kisses the Yorkies again, three little bastards licking his face and ears, and moves away from the couch.
“If someone dies at the restaurant, it’s on you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time today.”
My phone chimes in my pocket en route to the car. Text from Dad. “Call me. Have a surprise for you.” I hate surprises. The last one involved me wearing a ridiculous pink taffeta gown and a cupcake hat—seriously, a silk and taffeta hat sewn and stuffed into the shape of a cupcake—for my non-sister’s wedding to a creepy guy who smells like other women’s perfume most of the time.
As we’re in the drive-through for Noodle Yu, another buzz from my phone. An email. I should never have introduced my father to technology. I open it to find a registration confirmation from a resort. Dad, what are you up to?
It reads “Revelation Cove, British Columbia, Canada. Gift registration, four days, three nights, Sweethearts’ Spa & Stay Package for two. Love, Dad.”
“What the hell?”
“What is it?”
“Umm … my dad … you know that resort we were talking about?”
“The one up north?”
“Yeah.”
“What about it?” Keith shoves a fortune cookie into his mouth before his debit transaction has finished. He chews with his lips open. The young girl working the drive-through window looks unimpressed.
“He bought us a gift certificate. For four days, three nights.”
Keith finishes chewing. “What will we do about the dogs?”
I stare at him. Seriously? The f*cking dogs? How about, “Thanks, Mr. Porter, for spending a grand on a weekend that will undoubtedly provide many opportunities for me to practice impregnating your daughter.”
“Well, uh, I don’t think the dogs are invited.”
“Does it say when we have to go?”
“You don’t have to go anywhere, Keith. If you’d rather stay home with your dogs.”
He stabs a straw into his soda cup, driving with his knee. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m sure you can get your sister to dogsit. It’s only four days.”
Keith stares at me, as if I’ve just asked him to donate a kidney to a walrus. “Uh, I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t trust her to take proper care of them.”
“We’re not taking them with, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He pauses too long at a green light. Someone honks behind us and he flips them off. But the vacancy in his eyes confirms that I’ve clearly just delivered terrible news. “Why not?”
“On a floatplane? And Yorkies on a romantic getaway for two is way not romantic and very much not a getaway. We might as well stay home.”
“I’m not comfortable leaving them behind, Hollie.”
“With your sister?”
“Yes, even with my sister. She kills things. You should see her plants. Nothing but stems and dirt.” So this plan is better than I thought. We leave your three Yorkies with Yvette and come home to no Yorkies. I like this plan. So much. Must resist cackling and witchy wringing of hands.
“Well, then find a plan B. I don’t want to take the dogs with us.”
“But I wuvs them … what will they do without their daddy and mommy to tuck them in at night for a four whole days?”
“If you wuvs me, Keify, then you’ll stop talking like you’ve spent your childhood eating lead paint and find a dogsitter.” I quickly email my dad back and tell him I’ll call tomorrow, and thank you but you didn’t have to do this. I’m out of the car before Keith has it in park. My appetite has been replaced with annoyance.
Time to give this body some narcotic sleeping aids and put it to bed.
But before that, before I can sneak upstairs and sedate my frustration, I have to get past The Door.
Her door.
A finger against my lips, I motion to Keith to shut up. At all costs, do not speak.
Squeeeeeak, mutters the first step. Shit.
“Hollie? Is that you?” Keith shoves past me and bolts up the stairs. I throw my Chinese takeout box at him, hoping it will explode against his back. It does not. Merely bounces and flies over the railing, splaying open on the grass. A*shole actually laughs at me.
“Yes, Mrs. Hubert. It’s Hollie.”
A tiny wrinkled body that I think was at some point human shuffles to her screen door. She’s wearing the same housecoat as usual—snaps up the front, pockets bulging with spent Kleenex, her lucky, fifty-year-old Avon perfume pin clipped limply over where her left boob should be, if it weren’t dangling down around her belly button. Suntan knee-high stockings crumple around bony, knotted anklebones, her feet stuffed in slippers that were pink in their former lives. Behind her, a sickly meow echoes through the kitchen.
“Hollie, I need half-and-half and some frozen peas. And Mr. Boots needs wet food. Go get it.”
“Mrs. Hubert, I’m exhausted.”
“And I’m a lonely, dying woman who spends her days and nights praying that Jesus will come for her. Have you seen my hands?” She thrusts her hands through the gap in the screen door. Her skin is so translucent, it’s easy to trace the bulbous veins snaking up her arms and disappearing under yellowed sleeves. “Hurry up. Jeopardy is on soon and I don’t want to have to get up again.”
I lock eyes with this—this—creature, wishing the apocalypse would happen right this second and I would be saved from her terrible wrath. A look up the stairs proves that Keith is nowhere in sight.
Lifting my purse strap back over my shoulder, I do the only thing I know how to do.
I turn around and slither back to my car so I can go to the market to do Mrs. Hubert’s relentless bidding, hoping that while I’m gone, Satan will come and claim the prize that’s been missing all these years from his wicked collection.
“Take Mr. Boots too,” I mumble.