by April Ryder
Contents
Copyright
One Skid Mark
Two Skid Marks
Three Skid Marks
Four Skid Marks
Thank you reader
About the Author
Skid Marks and the Selby Slammers
April Ryder
Copyright © 2016 April Ryder
978-1-927236-64-2
This bundle includes: One Skid Mark, Two Skid Marks, Three Skid Marks, Four Skid Marks, Last Christmas Skid Marks and This Christmas Skid Marks.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from April Ryder, except for the use of short quotations in a book review.
Cover images provided by
Mordechai Meiri / Shutterstock
Mordechai Meiri / Shutterstock
Mordechai Meiri / Shutterstock
Mordechai Meiri / Shutterstock
Cover fonts:
Good Foot © Jakob Fischer
American Typewriter
One Skid Mark
=^.^=
My head was killing me. My brain felt like it was in the middle of a prison break, trying to ooze its way out of the nearest orifice. Visual fireworks exploded whether my eyes were open or closed. My stomach? Was ready to reveal my shameful breakfast of one cheese, bacon and tomato croissant and a bottle of Coke to the world.
No, I'm not pregnant. I'm suffering from the mother of all migraines and all I wanted right now was to sit in a hot, dark shower and die.
And with that I set the scene as my bestie Adam drove me home early from work. I hadn't planned on it, but last time I had a migraine at work and tried to work through it, I ended up barfing on one of my boss' shoes. I have two bosses, in case you were wondering. Yes, I'm a sucker for punishment. I'm the personal assistant of two managers and they are such extremes that I sometimes wonder if they decided on it in advance. Just to mess with me. One of them is so laid back and highly sought after for meetings that I have to manage his time as if he has none—because he actually doesn't—he's that damn popular! The other is such a nit-picking control freak that I have to print her daily calendar, cut off the edges with scissors and glue it into her physical diary. Every. Damn. Day.
So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Walking through the door and straight into splitsville. Population: me.
"What are you doing here?" my fiancé of three years asked.
Through the visual effects that are my migraine I see Paul worriedly glancing at the clock, like I've caught him in the middle of something. And he is in the middle of something, I realise. A couple of bags sit on the floor by the door and stuff is missing from shelves.
"Migraine," I grunted through the pain. If you suffer from epic migraines you no doubt fully understand how miraculous it is that I'm capable of speech at this point—let alone still standing.
Paul made a face. Because I can't focus, I'm guessing it's a concerned one. The one that looks like he's trying to push out a really stubborn poop. It's the same face, I swear. I've seen him on the loo. Not that I tell people that. Even now, I can feel myself blushing at the thought of his poop face. No matter how hard I try, I embarrass too easily.
"Paul…whasss going on?" I slurred. I look in the general direction of the packed bags to make myself clear. Not that I can see clearly.
"Oh," said Paul. Now finished pooping—figuratively speaking. "I have good news and bad news. The good news it that I've found a job—"
"That's great Pool, um…Paul." This is excellent news. We had been saving for our wedding and because Paul was still in law school, we decided I should drop out of university and be the bread earner. The agreement was that as soon as he graduated and found a job, I could return to school and finish my degree. Paul's graduation was next month, yet he had already secured a job. I'm not sure how, but my migraine was temporarily forgotten as I started planning what I would need for next semester.
"The bad news is that it's in Wellington."
Crap. The migraine strikes back!
"That's the opposite end of the North Island, Paul. Why couldn't you have found a job here?" Here being Auckland, the largest city in New Zealand.
Paul grasped my shoulders and gave me an up close poop face. "It's okay. I've thought about this long and hard and I have a solution. You can keep the flat and I'll take a third of the savings—"
"What? Are you breaking up with me?"
The next thing I knew I was on the floor. I might have fainted. Don't worry, that was migraine related. No head injuries, unlike the last time. That would be after puking on shoes of the previously-mentioned boss.
I flung out my hand and Paul yelped. Totally not my fault but I had poked him in the eye while he was hovering over me. Wrong place, wrong time…
"Ouch. You know a third is more than fair," he said as he rubbed his eye. "I'm only taking enough to move to Wellington and get myself established. By law, I'm entitled to half."
He was right about getting half, but everything about this was unexpected. Just the other night we had been talking about setting a date for the wedding. Now that I thought about it, I had been the only one talking about that. Paul had been noncommittal in his responses.
"I have to go Hayley," he said. "My ride is waiting. I've texted Adam, he should be on his way. Please, say something."
How kind of him. Contacting my bestie so he can pick up the pieces he leaves behind.
I opened my mouth and said the first thing that came to mind as I stare up into his big poopy face, "You look like you've pooped your pants."
* * *
The door banged open and Adam let himself in. He found me pathetically mewling in pain on the floor, right where Paul had left me. The poopy-faced goober.
"Hayley, what happened? Do you need an ambulance?" he yabbered as he fussed over me.
"Turn off the sun."
He paused and for a moment I think he's seriously wondering how he could grant me that simple request.
"Curtains?" I suggested.
Adam did exactly that before helping me to my feet. "What's next sweetie?"
"Bathroom."
He nodded, no doubt concerned with my one word response but now calm enough to try and control the situation.
There was a method to my madness. My migraine medication was kept in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and that also happened to be where the shower was kept. Handy. God I loved showers. And boy did I love this one and its detachable head. Paul didn't know it but I had been secretly having an affair with our shower. I loved Paul, but he couldn't get those hard to reach places like Shawn the Shower could.
Once the medication had been taken and the rest of the apartment plunged into darkness, I stripped naked and sat in Shawn, with shower head in hand. For now, all I needed him to do was bombard my head and neck with hot water. We'd work on my other needs later.
Adam knocked on Shawn's door, almost startling the shit out of me.
I pushed the door open and looked up at my totally gay best friend as he tried not to look at anything he deemed icky.
"Sweetie, who was the skinny blonde I saw Paul leaving with?"
And that's when it really hit me. A sucker punch to the gut. Paul had dumped me.
Adam panicked when I started to hyperventilate at the bottom of Shawn. Tears ran freely, indistinguishable from the hot water sluicing over my body.
Thankfully Adam translated what my hysterical shower crying meant and he switched on the supportive bestie routine.
"That asshole," he spat. "That no good dickhead."
He said more, something about curvaceous dark-haired beauties—apparently me—being better than blonde stick insects. I tuned him out and thought my situation over. Paul had dumped me. He had also lied about why. Of course he could really be moving to Wellington for work. But, he forgot to mention there was another woman! And that made me wonder, when had that started? How long had I been oblivious of his cheating?
"Lop his balls off!" Adam punctuated this exclamation by smacking his hands together. He looked down at me again. Right in the eye. He was the only man who did and I loved him for it. I have rather large breasts—much like the rest of me—so men often spoke to my nipples. Adam was scared of lady bits though, which gave him an unfair advantage over the rest of his gender. Even Paul talked to my tits.
The crying jag hadn't helped but the medication had finally started to kick in and the pain that had initially crippled me eased. But I didn't know what to do next. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't stay in Shawn forever. We—I mean I—have a small water heater. Shawn's hot-watered ejaculation would soon come to an end.
"Ice cream?" I said halfheartedly.
Adam tsked and turned the shower off. "Dumped for another woman calls for something stronger than ice cream, sweetie."
I stepped into the rough towel he held out for me. I dried myself while he plotted. He had more experience with these situations. This was only my second breakup. Ever. And it wasn't like I was used to being rejected by boys. I had never asked any out. If you don't ask them out, then you can't get rejected. Right?
I hesitated to ask what the next step up from ice cream in consoling oneself after a breakup was, but I had to know. The last time I had walked into something Adam had organised without knowing the details in advance, I'd gotten a tattoo. I'd also had the worst hangover in the history of ever, but at least that went away—it took two days! The tattoo didn't. Because of my blind trust I now had a tiny dolphin permanently adorning my right shoulder blade, forever jumping from a small patch of what I can only assume to be sea. It wasn't awful, but I think the artist might have been as drunk as we were when he etched it into my skin. FYI: the dolphin also looked like he had imbibed.
He noticed my fearful look and attempted to placate me. "No tattoos. I promise."
"Then, what?"
"Copious amounts of alcohol, ogling of hot sweaty men and girl power!"
"That sounds worse than a drunk dolphin tattoo," I grumbled.
The landline chose that moment to scream. While the medication had kicked in, loud noises were still just as evil as bright lights and would be for another few hours. I would need a nap before I could even think of venturing into the outside world. Adam helpfully trotted off and answered the phone.
"Hello Hayley's mum," he said. He used his overly sweet voice when he talked to her. Adam didn't think much of my mother. At least not since she started going through menopause. What was once an opinionated woman had transformed into a hypercritical harpy in heat. My mother was the last person I wanted to talk to right now.
"Yeah, she has another migraine," he continued chatting with my monstrous mother in an effort to appease her. "She's taken something for it…No, I don't think that would help…I'll just see if she's out of the shower yet."
I sighed but accepted the phone. This had to be done sooner or later. My mother adored Paul. Sometimes I think she loved him more than she did me, her own flesh and blood. In her eyes the man could do no wrong. Now I was about to burst her bubble.
"Hi m—"
"Hayley, can you remind Paul to bring that wine that I like. I can't remember what it's called, but he'll know."
"Mum," I said and tried again. Being able to get a word in, while she was on a roll, was sometimes impossible.
"What is it dear?" she asked and I heard her suck on a cigarette through the phone. Brilliant, she had started smoking again.
I scrunched up my courage and blurted out that: "Paul won't be coming to lunch on Sunday."
"Why not? Don't tell me he's studying. I know he's finished all his exams, which is why we're going to celebrate his graduation."
"Yeah um…we broke up."
Silence.
More silence.
The staggeringly loud sound of a whole cigarette being inhaled.
"What did you do?"
"It's not what I did—"
"Then what didn't you do?" she demanded.
"What?!"
"Honey, men like Paul don't grow on trees you know. Once you've got one, you have to keep them hooked. Paul needs lots of attention, lots of love—you know what I mean right? Of course you don't. That's why he left."
My eyes bugged out of my head. I was being accused—by my own mother—of neglecting my fiancé's—ex fiancé's—sexual needs. This was too much. But it wasn't over. Oh no, not by a long shot.
"It's because you've gotten fat, isn't it? Men don't like fat girls. You should join a gym and eat better. A makeover wouldn't hurt either and wear something sexy—"
"What? Why?" I asked, confused and upset at her litany of insults wrapped in blunt—supposedly helpful—advice.
"To win him back, of course. Don't forget the fruit crumble."
I couldn't help myself, I had to know. "Why do I need a crumble?"
"To follow the roast of course. Paul likes roast and crumble. It's the only thing you have that will work."
She might have said more but I was too dumbfounded to listen. I did manage to cancel lunch with her on Sunday before I disconnected the call and the phone slipped from my fingers to the floor.
Adam watched me silently. He waited for my next move so he could decide whether he needed to provide soothing noises or call my mother names that were as vile as she was. Honestly I didn't know what I needed—let alone wanted—from anyone at this point. We locked gazes and waited for the other to flinch.
"So?" he finally prompted. Adam had never won a staring contest as long as I had known him.
I gnawed on my lower lip and pondered my options. Stay here all night where everything reminded me of Paul or go out and get trashed?
"I need to sleep first. Pick me up at eight."
Adam fist pumped the air. "Beer drinking and boy perving!"
* * *
Adam objected to my taste in clothes, always had and probably always would. So when he came by to pick me up he made me change—twice—before letting me go out in public. The first change was him hoping I would show some initiative, but when that failed he trawled through my wardrobe and found the sluttiest clothes I owned. Considering the sluttiest clothes I owned were a denim mini-skirt and a dark, sparkly cowl necked tank top, showed just how unslutty they were.
My bestie muttered something about taking me clothes shopping before we hopped into the taxi waiting for us. Adam really was intent on copious amounts of alcohol.
He turned to me with a grin and said, "I've found a way to combine beer, boys and girl power."
"Uh," I said, not sure I wanted to go to a strip club. As it turned out, that wasn't what he had in mind.
The taxi pulled up outside the local sports arena and after Adam paid the fare, we stepped out and joined the motley crowd making its way inside. I had no interest in sports, what was he thinking?
Adam took one look at me and grabbed my hand, no doubt worried I'd bolt the moment he took his eyes off me. "You look like you need a drink," he said, probably referring to the deer in headlight look I currently wore.
I agreed and let him lead me to the food counter, where he loaded us up with hot chips, hot dogs on sticks and beer in plastic cups. I carefully balanced my goodies and we climbed the stairs to our seats. Fans of whatever sport it was chanted slogans across the floor at each other. I was surprised to find so many families with young children around us. That was nothing compared to what I felt when the competitors skate
d out onto, what I now realised, was a rink.
Two large contingents of women zipped around below us on roller skates. Honest to god, roller skates. Some wore fishnet stockings, one a tiny kilt, others had holes in their clothes and one girl wore an anatomically correct full-body print on her tight-fitting onesie.
"What am I looking at?"
"The Auckland roller derby league. The Selby Slammers—the local team—versus the Manukau Maulers," Adam answered before he joined in on the cheering as the referees did their lap of the rink. One of the refs pointed directly at my bestie and waved. So that was how he knew about this, he had a friend on the inside.
As a child I had roller skated. I hadn't been very good but I remembered loving how the wind swept my hair behind me as I speed skated around the local church's carpark—nowhere else had asphalt that smooth.
"Is this the girl power part of the evening?" I asked unable to hide my smile.
"Derh, now eat up so we can drink more," he ordered and while I stuffed my face with greasy food he outlined the rules of roller derby.
"Each team has a jammer," he explained, "the number of times the one in the lead laps the pack is the number of points the team gets. Meanwhile, the pack are trying to block the other team's jammer from getting past them. They're allowed to use their bodies, not their hands, feet or skates. Oh and they have a sin bin as well."
I nodded. The premise seemed easy enough and I was quickly swept up with the crowd, cheering for the Slammers. The helmets, elbow and knee pads, gloves and mouth guards should have clued me in on how vicious the derby could be. Body blows and girls tumbling to the floor were what elicited the strongest roars from the crowd. I was amazed at how quickly they picked themselves back up and rejoined the pack.
"Like real life isn't it?" Adam yelled to be heard over the banging of feet and chanting.
I nodded in agreement, knowing what he was trying to tell me. Soon I would pick myself up and get back into life—into dating. That thought stilled me. I don't think I had fully accepted Paul's departure. He was gone, but was he really gone gone?
