When I finished, he smiled hugely and puffed out his chest. “I feel very privileged right now. You could’ve married a celebrity, and instead, ya chose me.”
“Shut up!” I said, smacking him on the head. We danced and laughed through some awful song, and then I asked, “Did you know about Laney?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You sure your middle name’s not Obtuse? Hold on, I’m gonna go ask your mamma.”
“I will divorce you!”
♥
On a fairly regular basis, the MC stepped in and invited a guest to offer up an anecdote and toast—Anita took the stage at least five times. With every speech, cups of beer magically appeared in our hands, and we drank to health and happiness and love and who only knows what else.
Suddenly, the guitarist ground out a song from a very different genre. At first, I didn’t recognize it, but when I did, I covered my mouth. It was my old Pete Walsh, you suck! ringtone—the one I’d very carefully chosen so I’d know when not to answer a call. Early in our relationship, he’d mercilessly tortured me. This was one of the many juvenile things I’d done in retaliation. Everyone stopped dancing—mostly because, how were you even supposed to dance to this song?—and stared at us as we belted out, “I hate everything about you!”
The next song was one we used to dance to on the boat between his epic air-guitar solos. I cocked my eyebrow and looked at him. “Did you choose these songs? His grin broadened, and he nodded. As the band played on, I realized Pete had created a soundtrack mapping out our relationship’s path, and I could barely wait to find out where he would take us next.
After a highly suggestive number that left me blushing from the memory, a really sappy love song, Journey’s “Open Arms”, began playing. My mother gasped as Gary twirled her onto the dance floor—yes, I said, “twirled.” I’d never seen my mother dance before tonight. Gary caught me staring and winked, then he pulled her against his chest and they swayed as though reliving a prom.
Pete stretched his arms wide, and I lunged into them—or fell, depending on eye-witness accounts—and kissed him solidly. At this point, running completely on alcohol, ten shrimp, and three bites of cake, Pete and I were doing our level best just to keep standing. As we leaned against one another, humming along, I realized the last time we’d danced to this tune had been nearly two years ago.
On the tail-end of yet another fight, Pete had kicked everyone out of the bar so we could talk. As this song played, we’d stumbled through our apologies, both trying to make sense of our feelings. Back then, we’d been afraid to utter the word love—afraid for our very souls.
“This one reminds me of that night at the Frog,” I said.
“I held ya in my arms so tightly. I wanted you to know how I felt. I wanted you to know that I was scared and that I knew you were, too. I guess I needed most to know that we were alright.”
“I loved you,” I said. “I knew it that night.”
“I loved you, too.” He shook his head ruefully. “I was so damned stupid not to tell you right then and there.”
My mind traveled to a short time later, when in the blink of an eye, our relationship disintegrated, leaving me gasping for air. Internally cringing, I shrank from those memories, willing them away. All that pain was over now. We were bound together for eternity.
“Hold On Loosely” by .38 Special played next. “You taught me how to do that,” Pete said soberly.
“To do what?”
“Hold onto ya loosely.”
“Pete, I—”
“It was a good thing. A healthy lesson.”
“You don’t need to hold on loosely.”
“Yeah, I do. But don’t worry,” he said, kissing my forehead, “I won’t ever let go.”
I sniffed. “If you do, I’ll probably die.”
We danced quietly through the remainder of the song, and I held onto him as tightly as I could.
“Feels Like The First Time?” I murmured, a few songs later. “Didn’t they already play this one?”
He nodded. “I’ve felt that way twice. The first time I made love to you, it was like I’d never been with anyone in my life, and I wanted to give you everything I had.”
“I promise it felt the same for me. And the second?”
“When you came back to me. It was maybe the first time I’d ever felt truly whole.” I pressed my face into his already damp chest, clinging to him as waves of emotion crashed over me. “Hey, no cryin’,” he said, dipping and then nearly dropping me on the floor.
Pete towed me away from the dance area to the edge of the platform near the abandoned tables. It was darker there. He lifted my chin and met my eyes. “You are my everything, Susan.” He touched my sticky face and kissed me tenderly. Next thing I knew, my back and the tabletop had become one, my fingers winding through his hair as our tongues took over the dancing business.
“If we don’t leave soon, I’m gonna peel that dress off of you right here in front of everyone.” He grabbed my hand, and we stumbled through the crowd towards the band.
Laughing, I said, “Where are you going? The boat’s that way.”
“I just gotta do one more thing.”
He removed the mic from its stand and blew into it. “May I have your attention, please? I wanna thank y’all for helpin’ us celebrate our weddin’. You only meet a woman like my wife once in a lifetime, and I wanna thank Jimbo for buyin’ the Rusty Frog, just so she could walk through its door. Thank you, man.” Pete waved, and Jimbo doubled over with laughter.
“I have loved Susan since the day I laid eyes on her, and now she’s mine forever.” Hoots and whistles augmented the raucous applause. Using the stand, Pete steadied himself. “Susie-Q, I’m gonna serenade you with a song that says it all.”
I shook my head fervently. I truly loved my husband and had promised to support whatever stupid things he decided to do in the future, but allowing a man who could not hold a tune in a flippin’ swimming pool to sing publically was more than I could bear. I stared into his eyes, begging him to seriously rethink this plan. Past the point of logic, he glanced back at the band and said, “Hit it, boys.”
The guitars groaned, and the drummer beat on his kit a couple of times then tapped a little bell. This was repeated once or twice more, and then Pete began. He slurred some lyrics about time and illusion—or something like that, and then met my eyes. “You’re my fantasy girl. Hold on mumble mumblemumble. Be my fantasy girl…”
I have to say this: either I was way drunker than I thought, or he had miraculously been cured of tone-deafness, because he sounded nearly professional—okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating just a hair. Enthralled by the spectacle that was my husband, I smile hugely. When the music unraveled into complete discord, I glanced at the band. The lead singer was bent over laughing, and the other guitarist, red-faced and shaking, was only hitting about every third note. The drummer seemed utterly unaffected, never missing a beat.
When it appeared he had forgotten the rest of the words, or possibly what he was doing, Pete placed the mic back in the holder and thumbs up-ed the singer before throwing his arms around me and dancing right in front of the little amp.
This all happened shortly before the earthquake. Seriously, the ground began tilting back and forth, and suddenly there were triplets everywhere I looked. I sank to the floor. Rather than sitting down beside me, Pete just sort of drop-seated, his legs deciding they’d had enough of this holding up his body business.
“Let’s just lie down for a minute,” Pete slurred.
“Good idea.”
23
Missing Luggage
“What’s your name, little girl? What’s your name?” Lynyrd Skynyrd belted out.
“Turn that shit off,” I moaned, prying my eyelids open. Faint light bathed a too close ceiling covered in tan material. Pete, his dead weight crushing me, merely snored in reply.
I struggled under him, finally biting down hard at the base of his neck. He made an unintelligible sound, and
then his panic-stricken eyes flipped open. “The alarm! Susie-Q, get up.”
“Can’t,” I groaned.
He catapulted off me, only to ram his head against the roof in an echoing thud. After spewing a solid curse, he moved to disentangle the two of us and tumbled onto the floor. His hair was a turbulent golden sea, and his tuxedo shirt and pants were rumpled and soiled. He looked so damn handsome, I thought errantly.
“Where are we?” I croaked through a fair amount of cotton candy.
“Looks like the back seat of my jeep.”
“Huh. What time is it?”
He squinted, trying to focus. “Five-thirty. That gives us…” Dazed by the impossible math, he finally said, “About twenty minutes before we have to leave for—”
“Our honeymoon!” I shrieked.
Pete kicked open the car door, and I scrambled out behind him. Dizzy and slightly nauseous, I leaned against the car for support, the cool dew offering me timid relief.
His bloodshot eyes roamed over me. “You are one beautiful lady,” he murmured. Though somewhat blanched, he sported that I’m not dead, therefore I want you look.
“Don’t even think about it. We’ve got to change, shower, and pack the car.” I marched up the sidewalk, towing him towards the front door.
“Wait! Let me carry ya over the threshold.”
“No time. Give me the keys.”
He patted himself down. “Don’t have ’em.”
“Check the stupid car.”
Once inside, I staggered to the kitchen and pulled out two large glasses, filling them with water. I gulped mine down like I’d been in a desert for three days and slid the other towards Pete. “Drink. And then for the love of heaven, get me out of this dress.”
His skilled fingers taking their own sweet time, he planted a kiss on my back after freeing each button. I wanted very much to submit to his warm hands and soft lips, but we had a full week in a tropical paradise to enjoy such pleasures. That is, if we made our flight.
I whirled around. “We don’t have time.”
“This is not how I planned our wedding night,” he grumbled, sounding beyond annoyed with himself. “I don’t know how this could’ve happened.”
“I’ll tell you exactly how it happened. Your stupid cousins got us stinking drunk then dumped us in our front yard. And if we don’t hurry, we’re gonna miss our damned honeymoon!”
“But we haven’t cons—”
“Look, Pete, I haven’t taken a full breath in eighteen hours.” I glanced down at my dirty feet and gasped. The front of my glorious wedding gown was painted in wide, tobacco-field-brown streaks; the silk sheath smelled like rotting beer. I wanted to cry. “It’s ruined anyway. Just rip it,” I said morosely.
“I’m sure we can get it cleaned.”
I turned and scrunched my eyes. “Just rip it, dammit!”
Buttons popped, hitting the floor like a tiny hailstorm. Free at last, I inhaled in ecstasy and wilted against the granite countertop.
“Oh Susan,” Pete whispered reverently as he peeled the material from my skin. “Your satin corset, your lacy garter belt, these gorgeous silk stockings…” His hands fanned over my hips and bare bottom, the thong embedded so deeply, I’d likely need surgery. Groaning as if in pain, he wrapped his arms around my stomach and rested his cheek against my back. “What have I done?”
“Make it up to me later.”
I stumbled to the bathroom and stripped off the remains of my intimates. My blue garter was gone. I have no idea who’d caught it, the memory of that ceremony a vague blur.
One look in the mirror and I snorted. That tiny shock of veiling was still attached to an up-do that looked every bit as perfect as the moment I’d stepped out of Dottie’s salon yesterday. The rest of me? Not so much.
I yanked off the veil and dropped it, the little pearls pinging as they hit the marble floor. I didn’t bother giving the water time to fully heat, but jumped in and quickly rinsed off the dust and grime. Drying off at the speed of light, I flew by Pete’s gloriously naked self. Partially erect from his failed attempt at seduction, I took a split second to admire him. I’d deal with that piece of equipment later.
Throwing on the first thing my fingers touched, I looked around the bedroom frantically, noting the curling rose petals littering the floor. Then I ran back into the bathroom, where Pete was brushing his teeth like a madman.
“Where’s our luggage?”
He spat out minty foam. “No idea.”
“Dammit! We’ll just buy clothes when we get there—or at the airport. It doesn’t matter.”
Grabbing one fistful of underwear from my drawer and another from his, I flew downstairs and stuffed them into my oversized purse, pre-packed with our money and passports.
Pete appeared moments later in cargo shorts and a polo shirt, his hair dripping wet. He locked the house, and we hopped into the jeep. Pete jammed the key in the ignition and…nothing.
He turned the key again. The engine didn’t even make a sound. “C’mon,” he growled, past the point of patience, our furious hangovers and empty stomachs not helping in the slightest. He slammed his hands on the wheel. “Did they leave the damn lights on all night?”
“Evidently,” I spat. “We’ll take mine.”
I raced back into the house for keys and then sprinted into the garage. Pete skidded to a halt behind me, and we simply gawked.
Amongst the white graffiti, Just married was scrolled across the back glass and side windows. Crêpe paper wound around the frame like an ill-fitting bandage, and cans dangled by taught strings from the trunk. I hit the button on my fob, and the cans clanked loudly as they fell onto the cement floor. Under the Happy Honeymoon sign inside was our neatly—Mona neatly—packed luggage.
Pete chuckled. “Gotta love that girl.”
“Or hate her,” I growled.
Pete opened the passenger door. “Get in, sweetheart.”
♥
Passing the strip mall housing Michelangelo’s, the hands-down best pizza restaurant in the area, a pitifully-stocked Food Lion grocery store, and a fairly decent ice cream parlor, Pete screeched into the Bojangle’s parking lot.
“Four large teas with extra lemon and two bacon, egg, and cheese—” he glanced at me for confirmation, and I nodded frantically, “biscuits. That is all. Thank you very much.” He hit the gas before hearing the total and skidded to a stop at the pick-up window.
Oh, bloody hell!
Boasting an unprecedented six back-to-back employee of the month awards was Freddie, the overly chatty server. He stuck his head out the window, smiling broadly as if working a fast food drive-thru was his dream job.
“Good mornin’, Pete. And a fine hello to the fair Miss Susan. How’re y’all this beautiful mornin’?”
“Fine,” Pete curtly replied.
“What are y’all doin’ up at the crack of dawn? Goin’ fishin’?”
“Fred—”
“And what happened to Miss Susan’s car? Did some kids get hold of it or somethin’?”
“Freddie, we’re kinda in a hurry, if ya don’t mind.”
“Well, the thing is, Pete, the bacon’s gonna take about five minutes to finish up, but I promise it’ll be good and hot. And to thank you for your patience, I’ll throw in an order of hash browns on the house.”
Pete shook his head. “No can do. What else’ve ya got?”
“Well, let me see… We’ve got a couple of country ham biscuits, enough gravy for maybe one Bojangle’s special—I’m makin’ more as we speak, one—no, two sausage, egg, and cheese biscuits. Wait, only one has cheese. The other—”
I leaned over Pete’s lap and looked him straight in the eye. “Freddie, here’s the deal: we got married last night, and if we’re not in Raleigh in ninety minutes, we’ll miss our honeymoon flight. Now, if you’ll hand us our tea, throw two of whatever the hell you’ve got in a bag, and not say another word, Pete will slip you a twenty on the sly. Got it?”
Freddie�
��s mouth popped open to respond, but I cut him off. “Nod your head if you understand.”
Bewildered, he nodded.
“Now go!”
He immediately disappeared from view.
Pete’s grimace melted into a giant smile. “I do love you.”
“I know, right?”
Exactly seventy-three seconds later, Freddie returned. “Here’s y’all’s—”
I held up my hand. “No words!”
He quickly shoved who only knows what through the window, Pete threw money at him, and we flew back onto the highway, leaving smoking tire marks in our wake.
24
Social Media Disaster
The greasy biscuit and hangover-helper tea were doing wonders for my throbbing temples, and thanks to the blue ribbon wrapped bottle of Motrin Mona had thoughtfully placed on the dashboard while vandalizing my car, humanity was nearly restored. Color had returned to Pete’s cheeks as well, as had his trademark good humor.
As we flew westward, spears of sunlight poked through the ordered litter of pine trunks. Yearning for a few more hours of sleep, I stifled a yawn, glad that Pete was behind the wheel. We’d no more passed the marine base when Pete suddenly exploded with laughter. Pulling onto the shoulder, he doubled over and shook against the steering wheel like he was having a seizure.
“What’s wrong with you?!”
“Look,” he choked out, pointing through the windshield.
Covering most of the faded Rusty Frog billboard’s façade was a huge white sheet, reading, Congratulations Pete and Susan! Don’t forget the condoms! At least twenty rolls of toilet paper streamed from the catwalk, undulating in the faint breeze like lude tongues. Grabbing his phone, Pete hopped out and began taking pictures. I did the same.
“This is goin’ on Facebook as soon as we get to Raleigh!” he said, peeling back onto the highway, still chuckling.
“I’m sure it’s already there.”
“Check and see.”
Back Where I Belong: A Wonderfully Witty and Completely Absorbing Love Story (Susan Wade Series Book 3) Page 18
