Fire in the Hole, Page 5

  Duke patted her back. “Listen, you know what advice I have for you? If you’re not having a good time, it’s your own goddamned fault.”

  Duke’s phone rang. He stood up and pulled it from his pocket. Dove flopped backward and started making blanket angels on the hotel room bed.

  “Yes, Mr. Anastasia! My man. Tell me the good news.” Duke turned his back on Dove and adjusted the crotch of his pants. “What? No! No way in hell! Are they that stupid? For fuck’s sake… Well, shit! No, dude, it’s not your fault… Thanks…Well, maybe we can have a go at it without the electronics. Yeah, I’ll call you later.” Duke turned his phone off and tossed it next to her on the bed. “Those bastards. Well, there goes my hopes and dreams down the toilet with your M-80 farts.”

  Dove sat up. “What happened?”

  Duke paced. “Well, the patent for the Ballssiere® will be denied by the Consumer Products Safety Commission. It’ll be ruled terminally unsafe.”

  “The Ballssiere®? Did someone like Beth choke on one?” Dove asked.

  “No, the stupid assholes who signed up as test cases tied the drawstrings too tight and couldn’t get the Ballssieres® off when the interior grooming mechanism kicked in. Over fifty percent of the men who used it damaged their testicles. You know what? I should’ve listened to Mr. Anastasia when he suggested we keep the product organic. But no, I wanted to add a power tool function. Okay, fine, I needed to do that so that maybe Lowes would agree to carry my product. Now you know why I’m sort of obsessed with body hair. I used Whiffle’s braces as a starting-off point and engineered miniscule clippers to keep the men’s testicles supported and hairless. Now I’m responsible for fifty-three men being diagnosed with gangrene of the nuts.”

  Duke sat down and held his head with one hand and his privates with the other.

  Now it was Dove’s turn to comfort Duke. “It’s going to be okay. Remember ‘if you’re not having a good time, it’s your own goddamned fault.’?”

  “Oh my God! I’m a serial ball-killer. Fifty-three men now have to put on their driver’s licenses that they are eunuchs. That’s fifty-three angry, ball-less, high-voiced Celine Dions I’ve unleashed on the world.” Duke looked at Dove with despair.

  Dove patted Duke’s back. “You have to talk about your testicles on your driver’s license?”

  “Well, you can. I mean, if you want to be an organ donor.” Duke shook his head and looked mournfully at the ceiling.

  “D, I’m pretty sure they don’t do nut transplants.” Dove tried to sound hopeful.

  Duke nodded and leaned in for a hug. “Well, at least there’s that. I’m going to catch a shower. Then hit the bar. You coming?”

  Dove shrugged. “I don’t want to create a scene. At all.” She didn’t think her heart could take seeing Johnson with Beth so soon after having his penis inside her.

  “Don’t hide from shit. Crap, my family thinks we’re married. Come, pretend to be happy. It’ll kill Beth. Especially when I taunt her about the picture.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “I’ll think about it.” Dove tossed herself on his bed while he moved into the bathroom.

  “Smells like death in here!” he bellowed.

  “Ugh. Close the door. Should I go over to your sister’s room?” Dove sighed and unlocked her phone to check Johnson’s Twitter.

  “No. Use your eyelids as your door. I’m not locking myself in with this nonsense your ass has perfumed this room with.”

  Johnson hadn’t tweeted. Duke sang off key while he showered. When his verses started to taper off, she yelled, “Don’t you dare spank that monkey with me here!”

  “You can get in here and help me if you want.” He laughed.

  “I’m all good.” She flopped over on her belly. “And that’s no way to help a girl get over a guy.”

  The water ended abruptly. “The show is about to begin. Prepare your eyes.”

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before. How are you healing?”

  Out of nowhere, Johnson started to tweet about broken hearts. Which didn’t make any sense.

  Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

  I think I felt my heart break.

  Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

  There is no cure for a shattered pair of dreams.

  Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

  No love lasts.

  “Good. Apparently the genitals are one of the faster healing parts of the body. Thanks for asking. That brings a tear to my dick’s eye.” He emerged from the bathroom, and Dove snapped her eyes shut as he used his famous spin dry maneuver while singing about his propeller.

  She took a peek when he told her it was okay to look. He was actually dressed, not pranking her into having to see his man business. With a pair of jeans and a sweater, he looked fancy. Well, clothes in general looked fancy on him, as opposed to the sausage and egg covered undies he favored with the words “Eat me” on them.

  She addressed the most obvious problem. “When are you going to tell your family we aren’t married?”

  He spritzed himself with cologne. “At least by next year. After you’ve left me for a woman.”

  She gave him her best angry schoolteacher stare.

  “Tonight. For you. Tonight. I’ll go down there and do it now. By the time you get downstairs, I’ll have set them straight. My sister knows we aren’t really married.” He held out his fist for her to pound. She covered it with a high five, committing the illustrious awkward turtle. He stepped into the sitting area between the two rooms and came back with a key card for her. “Text me when you’re coming down. Or if you decide not to. No pressure.”

  “Can I ask you a quick question?” She plucked at the bedspread.

  “Of course.” He waited.

  “So your last name is Munch, right?” She knew that her efforts at trying not to smile were failing.

  “I see where you’re going with this. My Gammy’s last name is Gizz. So yes, officially my name is Marmaduke Gizz Munch. Glad you caught that.” He gave her the middle finger, closing the door as she fell over laughing.

  It took a few tries to get up off the bed and put a stop to her giggles, but finally she was able to head to the bathroom. After her shower, she dried off and stood naked. The hotel lighting was unflattering, and this interior designer was also a fan of huge mirrors. She twirled and watched as shadows created dents and dimples in her thighs.

  Fuck thighs. Thighs are assholes. Why do they need so much meat anyway? That’s me. Meat and skin. Just like a fucking chicken. And I bet it’s my pre-cooked chicken body that made Johnson turn back to Whorth.

  In her mind’s eye, Dove could see the picture of that very girl clamped on Duke’s dick. And then she wondered if they made mind’s-eye bleach. It would have been a great question for Johnson on Twitter. And after handling Duke’s man-meat way too much, Dove knew Beth must be able to hock back a shitload of cock.

  Aaaand there’s another thing that sucks about me—my stupid wicked gag reflex.

  Dove couldn’t even look at a Q-tip without picturing the super long one the pediatrician used to slap in her throat’s punching bag dwadalie thing to test for strep without gagging. And then she remembered that Johnson had referred to it as the uvula. He was so scientifically accurate. She missed him.

  She clicked on the TV, and of course, it was preloaded with Pay-Per-View porn. Dove left it on while she dug through her trash bag to find her pajamas. Low and behold, Duke had packed her favorite penguin flannel pants and her softie T-shirt.

  God, he pays more attention than I ever give him credit for.

  The porn whores screamed in some simulation of ecstasy, so Dove tried to change the channel. Ironically, every click brought her to a new position with a different porn twit. She felt unclean and turned off the sex tube.

  It was time to face her nightmare. She wanted to see him squirm, to show him that she could stand up and be a woman after being torn from her heart’s desire. Pride was all she had left.

  She ignored the paj
amas and put on the long skirt and pretty top that Duke had added to their purchases at Bamshell’s. It looked great with her flats. She wanted to go downstairs and make sure that Duke had set everyone straight. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Johnson was dressed in his suit and ready for the rehearsal, but his heart had been deflated like a balloon, lying listless in the toilet. Beth was finding new and inventive ways to stand next to him, putting her hand possessively on his biceps as often as Johnson would let her.

  “Beth, take your hand off me, please. Just because I’m at this wedding doesn’t mean we are together again.” Johnson massaged his temples.

  Beth tried to flip her hair, but nothing moved thanks to the half ton of hair product—it briefly stood straight out before flopping back down in one hairsprayed piece. “Sweetheart, I’m willing to forgive you for losing sight of our future together.”

  Johnson shook his head and left without justifying her craziness with a response.

  After a tense, quiet elevator trip, he walked to the bar as a skinny, angry woman began shouting orders in a very deep voice. “Men to the left, ladies to the right.” She clapped loudly. “We’re going to practice our wedding walk. No one, and I mean no one, will be out of step.”

  Johnson was stymied, with no idea what to order at the bar. He pulled out his phone, logged into the Twitter, and posted:

  Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

  What drink should a gentleman order when he is at the bar and can hardly breathe because his heart wants to die?

  The responses were cute and flirty. Johnson thanked the ladies and closed his phone. He ordered a Manhattan neat and drank it down before the liquid had time to settle in the glass. The wedding photographer had flounced into the rehearsal and turned into a one-man paparazzi, and the coordinator was fighting for control. The melee was quickly getting out of hand. The bride was stomping, and Beth pouted when Johnson ordered another drink.

  This weekend sucks.

  Johnson overheard the photographer’s plans to organize the wedding party into what he claimed would be a tasteful, clothed orgy. He drank his Manhattan a bit slower and stepped into the common room between the other ballrooms. There was a sign in front of each of the four gaping party holes, announcing the very special, unique, one-of-kind couple who would be celebrated inside.

  Duke, Dove’s new husband, came strolling down the elaborate stairs looking spiffy and buff. Johnson finished his drink and tried not to break the glass clenched in his angry hand.

  Duke looked happy. Of course he looked happy; he probably just got done nailing Dove in the anus with his penis. His happy-go-lucky look faded when he spotted Johnson from across the large room. The new husband shook his head and bit his lip and strode closer to him.

  Johnson gave the bastard the finger. This must have pissed Duke off—the veins in his neck started to pop out. Johnson knew he was scientifically outweighed by Duke who was built like a Mack truck, but Johnson’s long, pointy fingers knew where all the meathead’s soft tissue was located. A few good pokes and that bitch would flop like a phosphorescent bacterium without a black light. Duke looked like he wanted to pound him so hard he would wake up dead.

  The smug fucker was acting like he was the angry one. As if Duke hadn’t had to leave Dove upstairs with Johnson’s stupid name written all over her damn heartfail.

  Fuck it.

  Duke went caveman.

  “You wanna go, pill pusher? Let’s do it.” Duke advanced as he prepared his fist to meet skin.

  Johnson tossed his wimpy-assed glass, and it shattered on the hotel’s expensive marble floor. Squatting in what looked like a pre-dump stance, he nodded once at Duke and folded his hands in a kung fu prayer.

  Crap, if Dove ever gets back with this bastard, their kids are going to be doomed.

  “Get up, crouching tiger, shitting dragon. Don’t embarrass me.” Duke took a step back to try to clear the adrenaline and testosterone from his head.

  People began staring. Pissboy and his wedding dudes entered the lobby and swept Duke up with their merrymaking, not even giving him a chance to throw down. They pulled him from the confrontation.

  “Let go of me.”

  Pissboy slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Hell no. Davina would kill me if you got arrested. And you were about to change that dude’s world. What the hell?”

  “That fucking fucker is a fuckhead.” Duke tried to peer around the wall of meat that surrounded Pissboy, but he couldn’t see past them. He figured Davina was Cross-eyed Knockers—he sucked at remembering people’s names.

  “Well that sums it up. Listen, Davina had a cheese and sausage table arranged out by the pool. You in?”

  That stopped Duke in his homicidal tracks. “All you can eat?”

  “All you can eat.” Pissboy confirmed.

  Duke wanted to white knight for Dove, but an endless buffet of sausage was something he needed in his world, and it was as freaking rare as a unicorn.

  “I could swallow some meat.” He straightened his shirt.

  “Let’s hit it.”

  Duke still had every intention of making Johnson count all his vertebrae using his own face. Right after he’d pounded some sausage.

  Sausage made things better.

  Johnson felt all the tension fist up in his balls. Duke was being dragged away from the confrontation as though they were two toddlers on a playground. Beth’s steps stuttered on her way over to him.

  “Are you okay?” She pretended to care.

  “Fine.” Johnson stalked back to the bar and grabbed a fistful of napkins, fully intending to clean up the mess he’d made in his anger.

  The bride from their wedding was crying, though Beth explained that it was because she’d found out that the wedding cake was the wrong shade of lavender.

  An employee at the venue rushed over to the glass in the lobby and started to suck up the mess in a very efficient vacuum. The Celebrate-o-matic® seemed to be a very specific machine.

  Johnson went over to watch and Beth followed. The employee explained as he turned off the nosy contraption. “A lot of weddings have plate breaking or glass breaking as a way of honoring their traditions. We’re ready for anything. Please consider us when you two tie the knot.”

  Johnson gave the man a hard look before he scurried away. Johnson headed back to the bar. When he turned to face Beth, she tucked her hands behind her back in a very suspicious way.

  “You know, I’m okay with you not amounting to a full-fledged doctor.”

  Johnson sighed. “I’ve amounted to exactly what I need to be, Beth. Getting you to marry me? That would be a real dream come true.” He let his sarcasm drip from his tongue.

  Johnson heard a small gasp.

  He leaned around Beth to see the retreating form of Dove.

  She looked great leaving, nice tight butt and long free hair.

  Damn it.

  An engagement ring. An engagement ring.

  Beth had a big, gorgeous engagement ring on her left hand. Easily clearing two carats. And then him, him. Telling Beth that marrying her was a dream come true.

  Dove wanted to have the guts to walk up to them and tell them off. To tell Beth that she remembered exactly what Johnson’s sex face looked like. That she could mimic it perfectly in her mirror—and had. Probably more than she should.

  When she pushed her way out to the patio, the low-hanging white twinkle lights and the fountain made it feel like a safer place. When she smelled the waft of sausage, she instinctively knew that Duke would be there.

  She thought she heard her name being called. Instantly, her heart had a scenario mapped out. Johnson would see her, run from Beth and their impending nuptials, and beg her to understand, that it had all been a wild miscommunication.

  On the patio, Duke waved to her, and she made her way over to him. He looked past her and must have seen Johnson because when she got to him, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. “I’m sorry
he was there. Did he say anything to you?”

  Dove didn’t think the feeling in her soul would ever go away. She’d been in love. She knew it now. She felt like her heart had been ripped out of her chest and run over with a tractor. That other people could carry on with the night seemed absurd. They had no idea her life was over. Maybe they didn’t care. She’d won at life for exactly one week. Maybe it had been a tear in the universe or something where she’d been accidentally granted happiness instead of shit.

  “Drink,” was the best she could manage.

  “Sure. Listen, I haven’t told them yet. About us not being an us. I’ll do that right now.” Dove nodded, feeling his soft sweater against her cheek.

  A drunk guy stumbled in front of them. “I’ll tell you what, Duke. We thought for sure you were too fucking disgusting to ever wind up with a woman. I mean seriously, processing that sausage all the time? You are like the most unloveable thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Dove happened to be looking at Duke’s face as he absorbed the words the moron in front of him spewed.

  Duke’s jaw tensed, but there was a defeat in his eyes. Dove put it together; she was forcing Duke to make the announcement about their non-marriage, and then everyone would know it was all a lie.

  “Well, you won at life, Bill. You got it all, right? Wife, kids, a boat. Congrats, buddy.”

  Bill waggled his eyebrows. “You know you just need to know how to do it. And now you’re starting. I mean. Look at your wife. And those fabulous tits.”

  Dove covered her chest while drunk Bill just stood there openmouthed, staring at her cleavage.

  Duke stepped in front of her and backhanded Bill right across the face. Duke didn’t even spill a drop of his beer. Then Duke whispered close to the stunned man’s face, “Listen asshead, you stare at my wife’s funbags and I’ll tell your wife about it. Get some fucking class.”