"Duke, you asshole. I want to go to a wedding about as much as I want to stick dynamite in my pussy, drink lighter fluid, and hump some flint." Dove knew she should fix her robe or her tit would pop out.
Fuck you, floppy tit.
"No, it's cool. This’ll be the perfect wedding. Pissboy is marrying Cross-eyed Knockers. It will be Epic." Duke sat on her coffee table and pressed down while he passed gas. The resulting noise sounded like a jet breaching the sound barrier. "That was the rare F-14 ass-shout. You're a lucky girl."
"Pissboy and Cross-eyed Knockers?" Dove was wallowing in her despair, but still her interest perked like cold nipples.
"My cousin, Pissboy, who wets himself if he sneezes when he gets drunk, and his nasty girlfriend are bumping uglies legit." Duke cracked his toe knuckles.
"Cross-eyed Knockers, how'd she get her name?" Dove looked at her tit again. It was cresting like a moon or one of those expensive birds at Petco.
Fuck those birds. Shitters.
"She's cross-eyed and has huge fucking knockers." Duke shrugged. "Me and my cousins aren't brain surgeons."
"Nah. D, I'd rather lick a gorilla's taint after food poisoning." Dove finally covered her boob when it was too close to the exit.
"Pissboy is allergic to pollen and the count is insane right now. He's going to be like an unmanned fire hose." Duke showed no signs of giving up.
"I have nothing to wear and where is this thing?" Dove saw a footprint on her carpet from Johnson. Then, next to it she saw the two bloody prints from her rug-burned knees.
Damn, that round had been good.
"It's about five hours away. My sister has a free bed in her room. I'll pick out your clothes." Duke grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "You can't sit around moping all weekend. Fuck that shit. All for a guy that gives it to you up the ass by accident?"
"How the hell do you know that?" Dove sat straight up and leveled a hard stare at him.
Duke stood and stretched, as if her sudden rage was nothing, "When I was outside lighting my dick on fire, I heard you guys. Close your fucking window if you're not making a porno."
Dove slouched down again, her anger deflated. Of course Duke had heard that part. That's how Dove's life went.
She wanted to swallow Twitter and have her whole nervous system rattle when Johnson tweeted. She wanted to cyber stalk him, find his house on Google Earth, and get a street view to see into his fucking windows.
She checked her phone. No new tweets.
"Okay, fine. I'll pack your bag." Duke got an empty trash bag from under her kitchen sink and shook it out with a snap.
"You'll need all this shit?" he called from the crapper. Dove heard bottles getting thrown into the bag.
Duke moved into her bedroom. "Let me guess, your idea of getting dressed up is your fucking yoga pants and a booby top. We'll stop and get you a dress." Duke came out of her room with a sack full like a gassy Santa.
He wasn't wrong; sitting around waiting for Johnson to tweet about his time with Beth would be torture. She could sit around listening to her heart breaking, or she could go watch a grown man piss himself.
"How crossed are her eyes?" Dove asked.
Duke gave her the shit-eating grin of victory. "So crossed-eyed that she can see herself change her mind."
Dove stood and accepted defeat with a nod. She’d go to the wedding with Duke and his sister. It beat trying to let Johnson's time with Beth strangle her. And she could keep track of his whereabouts from her phone.
Yeah, be breezy. Be too cool to wait by your computer.
As Dove went to get dressed, her heart remained rooted to the spot in front of her computer, waiting for something--anything that would tell her last night was not a mistake for him.
Add Fire in the Hole to your TBR list!
There are a lot of eyes in Debra Anastasia’s house in Maryland. First, her own creepy peepers are there, staring at her computer screen. She’s made two more sets of eyes with her body, and the kids they belong to are amazing. The poor husband is still looking at her after 17 years of marriage. At least he likes to laugh. Then the freaking dogs are looking at her—six eyeballs altogether, though the old dog is blind. And the cat watches her too, mostly while knocking stuff off the counter and doing that internal kitty laugh when Deb can’t catch the items fast enough.
In between taking care of everything those eyes involve, Debra creates pretend people in her head and paints them on the giant, beautiful canvas of your imagination. What an amazing job that is. The stories hit her hard while driving the minivan or shaving her legs, especially when there’s no paper and pen around. In all of the lies she writes hides her heart, so thank you for letting it play in your mind.
Debra has a smattering of books in a few genres. There are two in the Seraphim Series and three in the Poughkeepsie Brotherhood Series with a prequel, Poughkeepsie Begins in the near future. Fire Down Below is the first in the comedic Gynzaule Series. The second, Fire in the Hole, will be published in late 2015. The Revenger, a dark paranormal romance will debut this summer. And last, a novella called Late Night with Andres is special because 100% of the proceeds go to breast cancer research. (So go get it right now, please!)
You can find her at DebraAnastasia.com and on Twitter @Debra_Anastasia. But be prepared...
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Available May 3rd, 2015
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Violet
It’s 6:51 on Thursday morning and I’m thirty second away from an amazing orgasm. Women everywhere should take a page from the man manual: Just because I don’t sport the obvious signs men do, such as morning wood, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take care of my personal needs before I hit the shower. My day is always so much better when I take a shot from the orgasm bottle before heading to work.
I’m right there, teetering on the brink of heaven. Every nerve ending is on fire in the best way possible. My muscles are tight, fingers moving at a furious pace, the vibrator—God bless the damn vibrator—is hitting the s-s-s-spot, and everything is about to go blissfully white.
In that exact moment my mother’s shrill voice breaks all orgasmic magic, destroying my morning jill-off. She must have let herself in again, as per usual.
Here’s the thing, I don’t live with Skye. I moved out over four years ago—into the damn pool house. Technically, it’s on the same piece of property, but it’s supposed to be my private space. My refuge from my crazy awesome, albeit super-inappropriate mother.
The door to my bedroom crashes open as I shut off the vibe and pull the covers up. My vagina is raging. I can’t even begin to explain. It’s the female equivalent of blue balls.
“Mom, seriously.” I slump further into the sheets. “How many times do we need to have this talk?”
“I thought you’d be out of bed already! I have something for you!” She waves her hands around in the air like a crazy inflatable balloon guy on TV. It’s too much this early in my day.
“I literally just woke up. I need five minutes before we have a conversation, okay?”
Her arms drop to side, her shoulders slumping along with her face, which would make me feel bad, except she’s let herself into my home and barged into my bedroom unannounced, so all I have is frustration.
“Oh, sure.” Her dejection is blissfully short-lived. “How about I put on a pot of coffee?”
Skye loves to be useful, and while I’m annoyed, I don’t want to hurt her feelings in spite
of the inconvenient interruption. “That’d be great.” Any reason to get her out of my room is a good one, but a fresh pot of coffee is more than welcome.
She backs out and closes the door behind her. For three seconds I contemplate finishing what I’ve started, but there’s no way I’m going to come with my mom tooling around in my kitchen. Instead, I toss my vibe into the nightstand and make a stop in the bathroom to wash my hands.
At twenty-two I should be able to maintain some distance from my mom, however Skye has a great deal of difficulty with the concept. In my Freshman year of college I threw out the idea of moving into an apartment close to campus. Skye and Sidney had recently tied the knot which meant they were worse than teenagers. I’ve had the misfortune of walking in on them in compromising positions more than once. The third time was my breaking point.
Guilt ridden and embarrassed over the psychological damage he caused, my stepdad offered to renovate the pool house. I agreed only because it saved me thousands on rent; since I’m no longer carrying the burden of tuition, my situation has changed.
When I first scored my job several months ago, I started looking for my own apartment again, in part because of the frequency of Skye’s unplanned visits. Being the ever helpful parent, my mom tagged along on the expedition and told me roommate horror stories à la Single White Female. Seeing as the only places I could reasonably afford at the time were shared accommodations, I chose to stay put in the pool house a while longer.When I enter the kitchen, Skye sits at the table, leafing through one of the gossip rags she loves to reads while she sips a cup of coffee.
“I think they made Buck look way worse here than he really is, don’t you?” She turns the magazine around so I can see the horrible pictures of my stepbrother.
I grab a mug and fill it with liquid heaven, then drop into the chair across from Skye. “I think Buck does a decent job of making himself look bad all on his own, without the help of the media.”
My stepbrother is such a whore. I’m tempted to apply this label to all professional hockey players. It’s a blanket statement, an overzealous and possibly incorrect generalization. However, based on personal experience, it’s true for the most part. It certainly applies to the one hockey player I dated in the past. I consider him to be like Voldemort: he who shall not be named.
The third page of last week’s entertainment section confirms this hypothesis. The evidence is splashed all over the grainy two-page spread of Buck with his hand up some woman’s skirt. In a public bathroom. He appears to be devouring her face while getting her naked inside a stall—with the door open. So dirty.
The picture itself isn’t a surprise. Hundreds of similar images can be found through an Internet search. Buck has shared his manstick with half the female population in the continental US. The woman he’s making out with is the problem. He’s not macking on a random hockey hooker, oh no. It’s his former coach’s daughter. Her name is Fran. She’s adorable, and now she looks like a total puck bunny thanks to Buck.
In his defense, he said he didn’t know who she was. He’s not bright, and he was hammered, so it likely was an honest mistake, not that it makes his whoring ways any less abhorrent. This little incident is the reason behind his recent trade to the Hawks. His return to Chicago, means I’ll be seeing a lot more of him again.
“Well, I think they’ve blown this way out of proportion. Sidney’s excited to have him back in the city, though. Anyway . . .” She pushes a piece of paper toward me. Upon inspection, I realize it’s a plane ticket.
I snatch it up and frown. “What’s this? Why does it have my name on it?”
“Surprise!” She does jazz hands. “It’s Buck’s first away game with the Hawks.”
“Mom, I can’t—”
“We’re going as a family to support him. He’s had a rough couple of weeks.”
“It’s not my fault Buck can’t keep his dick in his pants and out of his coach’s daughter.”
“Violet!” Her brow arches and her lips purse as if she’s sucking a lemon. “Don’t be so crass! This isn’t about Buck’s . . .” She trails off and gestures below the table.
“Yes it is. Buck doesn’t care if I come to his games.”
“He was very upset when you couldn’t make the last few. Maybe if you’d been at this one”—she points at the magazine—“he might not have gotten himself into so much trouble.”
“Are you trying to guilt me into coming?” I glare over the rim of my mug.
“Not at all. I’m just throwing out hypotesticals.”
I cough-choke, spraying coffee on the table and my plane ticket. “Do you mean hypotheticals?”
“That’s what I said.”
Correcting her is as pointless as fighting her on this. Once Skye makes up her mind, rationalizing an alternative is like slamming your head into a titanium wall—painful and futile. I need to reconsider the apartment situation.
I give getting out of going to the game a last-ditch effort. “I have to work this weekend.”
“No you don’t.”
“How do you know?”
She ignores the question. “A car will be coming by the house to pick us up at six.”
“I don’t get off until five. How are we even going to make it to the game on time?”
“The flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.” She taps the date on the ticket, which I’ve failed to read.
“Oh.” So much for finding a way out of this. It looks like I’m going to another hockey game. Yippee.
“It’ll be so much fun! We can go outlet shopping! Whelp, I’ve got to go! Don’t want to be late for my Pilates class!” Skye jumps out and bounces out the door, off to the next thing.
After my mom leaves I check the time, I have half an hour before I need to leave. Snatching the magazine from the table, I rush to my nightstand, grab my vibe, and hit the bathroom—first it needs a wash—then I flip to the Milk advertisement. The subject matter is a fuckhot guy who completely misses his mouth and dribbles a glass of milk down his chest. I don’t know why it’s so hot. I mean, milk isn’t really a sexy drink, but whatever.
I heft one of my feet onto the vanity and go to town while looking at the milk porn guy. The orgasm I missed earlier takes me to the floor, the magazine lands on my face. It doesn’t matter. All I know is I’m coming and it feels so good.
The jilling session takes a little longer than I expect, so I have to drive a little faster than usual to get to work. As a recent graduate from the Accounting program at the University of Illinois, I scored the job through my internship—which Sidney set up for me. Having a stepfather who scouts for the NHL does have some perks. I’m a junior accountant for a PR firm specializing in, wait for it, sports financial management. This includes investing professional hockey players’ fortunes. I’m surrounded by hockey all the time.
Charlene, my bestie and colleague, sits on the edge of my desk, sipping her coffee while I frantically try to organize files.
“I can’t go out tonight, I have too much to do on the Beaufort account,” I tell her.
“You’re bailing on me to work late on a Friday?”
“Skye’s making me go to Buck’s game tomorrow. Apparently we need to band together as a family to support his inability to keep his dick in his pants.”
Charlene makes a sympathetic face. “He really messed up this time, didn’t he?”
“Don’t get me started. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, we’re flying out early in the morning, so I need to be prepared for Monday before I leave work.”
“Can’t you work on it while you’re there?”
“Skye wants to go shopping, so I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have. Plus we have our stupid book to finish for book club.”
Charlene rolls her eyes. “Friggin’ Lydia. I say we blackball her out of the club.”
“You can’t blackball people out of book club.”
“Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.”
It?
??s not a half-bad idea. Although, being the competitive person I am, I would hate to go into the book club discussion with only a vague understanding of the crappy book she’s making us read. I’ll suffer through it if I can come up with an intelligent argument why it’s so terrible.
“I’ll probably bring the book to the game, just in case I can get in a little reading time.”
“Oh come on, Vi. The Hawks are having a killer season. I bet the game will be awesome.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m sure she’s not wrong. However, I don’t have the same warm fuzzies toward the game or the players Charlene does.
She’s been a die-hard Hawks fan her entire life. She watches every game and even participates in those ridiculous pools where you create your own team. Like Fantasy Football, except with hockey.
“Anyway.” Charlene flaps her hand around. “That’s not the point. The point is you’ll be hobnobbing with the players afterward, right? Which means you’ll meet Darren Westinghouse.”
“Who?”
Charlene looks down her nose and curls her lip. “He plays right wing for the Hawks.” She starts listing off his stats; it sounds something like blah, blah, blah. I tune most of it out until she asks, “Will you take a picture of him if you get the chance?”
“First of all, Char, hockey players don’t ‘hobnob’, they hang out. Secondly, I plan to skip the after-party crap. I’ll have to catch up on work.” I pat the file folders on my desk.
“What a load of BS!” She peeks over the edge of my cubicle to make sure no one is paying attention to her. Jimmy, whose cubicle is across from mine, raises an eyebrow and points to the phone at his ear, so she lowers her voice. “Come on, Violet, you have to go. For me, please? Just long enough to snap a pic. Then you can go be boring in your hotel room by yourself.”
“I’d send you in my place if I could.”
I have no problem watching hockey, even though the rules evade me for the most part. Some of those boys are hot, but the appeal ends there. Buck is a case in point, as is the one, and only, hockey player I dated a year ago. He wasn’t even an NHL’er, just some douche in the minors, looking for a leg up. Unfortunately, I turned out to be the owner of said leg. Not only was he horrible in bed—just because those boys are built, doesn’t mean they’ve got the equipment to match—he humiliated me in a way I’m not likely to forget anytime soon.