Beer Goggles Anthology

by Anthology

HA! In his stupid, gorgeous face because I won this battle.

  But at what cost?

  Poor, poor portly puss.

  My keys jingle as I pull them from my purse. I want them in hand when Shana pulls into the lot so I’m ready to put my car back in its rightful spot.

  She shifts the ignition into park and follows my line of vision. “Oh, good, your car’s free.”

  “Imagine that,” I squeak.

  “And I don’t see Sydney’s boyfriend’s penis truck, so that’s good,” she adds.

  Erm. What? “Penis truck?” I ask, giving her my full attention.

  “The behemoth-sized automobile a man buys to compensate for his inadequate manhood. It’s called a penis truck.”

  I press my lips together and nod in understanding. “So you’re saying Sydney’s boyfriend…”

  “Has a tiny dick? The probability is as big as his douchemobile.”

  “Can we just call him that from now on?” I ask.

  “Penis truck? Or tiny dick?” she verifies as we get out of the car. She faces me over the roof, stretching her arms high above her head while she waits for my answer.

  “Definitely Tiny Dick.”

  “I’ve mentally been calling him that for weeks.”

  I laugh, shouldering my purse as I head toward my car. “We’re terrible people.” Me probably more so than her.

  “Yeah,” Shana agrees. “We’re going to hell for sure, but I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints,” she says, quoting Billy Joel.

  You only get one life—it should be both admirable and sinful. Otherwise, what’s the point of living? Right?…right?

  I hit the button to unlock my car, but stop short when I see another sheet of paper under my windshield wiper. My teeth sink into my lip, the muscles in my stomach tightening in nervous anticipation. Another wave of guilt washes over me, head to toe. It’s even worse now that my vehicle isn’t being held against its/my will. Having his car towed was a bit dramatic. And really bitchy.

  I should never be allowed to make decisions when I’m angry. Or hungry. Both can have horrible outcomes.

  The bulb flickers in the light post overhead, adding an eerie ambiance to the moment. I tug the newest note free and notice how shaky my hands are as I carefully unfold it.

  Did you know it’s illegal to have a car towed from private property when you are not said property’s owner? It’s basically theft. First my parking spot. Then my car. What are you going to steal next, Winona?

  P.S. You owe me two hundred bucks. I’ll pick it up tonight.

  Oh look, yet another witty note. Winona Ryder hasn’t been busted for stealing in years. And no. I did not know it was illegal to have his car towed. I just thought it was shitty.

  Crap.

  My tummy hurts.

  Okay, so I irrefutably did not think it through this morning. Leave it to my quick Irish temper to go off half-cocked, the consequences be damned. I mean, he knows where I live. We’re neighbors. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Another letter from your secret admirer?” Shana murmurs, her breath billowing against my cheek. She pushes into my arm, trying to read over my shoulder. “Holy shit!” Her close vicinity makes my ears ring. “You had his car towed? What were you thinking?”

  I shake my head and lift my hands helplessly. “I don’t know! He was holding my baby hostage.”

  “Yeah, but you blocked his spot.”

  “And he wouldn’t move so I could get out of his spot.”

  Shana takes a step back, her expression disapproving, which coming from my friend whose favorite pastime is getting up to no good, says a lot. Where is the girl who would rather laugh with us sinners?

  “It was a dick move on his part,” she says, “but he would’ve had to leave at some point. I had you covered today. You jumped the gun.”

  “I missed smoothies and window-shopping in Bellamy Square because of him.” It comes out nasally and whiny. Gross. I sound like…a spoiled princess. Ugh.

  Shana heads toward the stairs as I open my car door. It’s a sad, sad day when my best friend is ashamed of me.

  I’ll make it right, I decide, turning my key in the ignition. It will cost me money I don’t really have right now, but I’ll make it right. Maybe I’ll even make him some cookies as a peace offering. I bake a mean-ass chocolate chip cookie.

  Chapter Six

  Rawn

  “Where is my Mare-Bear?” I call as I step inside the door.

  I hear her toddler-sized feet padding quickly down the hallway before I see her. Her dark curls come into view, bouncing around her chin as she races toward me with the grace of a drunken penguin.

  “Unk-Ra-Ra,” she screeches, holding her arms in the air in the universal kid sign of “Hold Me.” I scoop her up and place her on my hip while I scan the living room. It looks like missiles full of toys were dropped here.

  “Tumen?”

  I shake my head. “No, I didn’t bring him today. He’s at my house. Probably scratching up my couch.” I form faux claws with my fingers and attack her tummy, making her squeal with laughter.

  “Where’s Daddy?” I ask, stepping over stuffed animals having a tea party with alphabet blocks for sandwiches.

  She sticks a forefinger from each hand into her mouth. “He sweep.”

  “He’s sleeping?” I verify as we make our way through the bomb field and toward the bedrooms. My pulse picks up speed because it’s not like my brother to fall asleep when Mara’s awake, even the day after treatment.

  I should have been here. I shouldn’t have been working overtime to make up the two hours I missed this morning when I was trying to track down my car and get it back. The chick in 3B may be hot, but she is vicious.

  “In dare,” Mara says, pointing a slobbery finger toward the half-closed door at the end of the hall.

  “Okay, sweet girl. Can you be my big helper and start putting your toys away? How about you get all your animals and put them in the basket? Can you do that for me?”

  She nods, smiling around her fingers. I set her on her feet and wait until she’s down the hall before I push the door open.

  “Rhys?”

  My brother’s sprawled across his bed on his stomach, feet hanging off the edge, shoes still on.

  “I tried,” he mumbles with half of his face in a pillow. “But I just couldn’t hang. She has so much energy.”

  I chuckle, relief washing over me like a tidal wave. “Hasn’t she only been home for a couple hours? You having a bad day?”

  He rolls onto his back and squints at me. “She’s been here all day. All. Day. If I could bottle just a fourth of her energy and sell it, I’d be a billionaire in a week.”

  “Mrs. Forester didn’t drop Mara at daycare for you?”

  He shrugs tiredly. “I didn’t ask her. I barely ever see my kid these days. I thought a daddy/daughter day home together would be nice. Thought I could handle it.”

  I don’t point out that he had a chemo treatment less than twenty-four hours ago. Or that he knows how it affects his body. Or that he should have called me. He knows all this already. So I keep it simple. “Dumbass.”

  “Assface.”

  “Assface? We both know I’m the pretty one,” I reply, edging his door shut.

  “Pretty ugly,” he utters, eyes already falling closed.

  In the living room, I clap my hands together, making a mental checklist. “All right, Shortstuff, looks like it’s just you and me for the evening. What do you say we get this place cleaned up and make some dinner?”

  Mara slaps her hands together, mimicking me and it’s all the answer I need.

  After getting my brother’s house cleaned, dinner made, and my niece fed, bathed, and into bed for the night, I am finally trudging up the stairs to my apartment. I started fantasizing about my bed on the drive home. The only thing I can think about is sleep. There is absolutely nowhere better than one’s own bed after a long day.

  This is why I walk past 3B’
s door. I’m collecting the money it cost me to get my car back, but it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.

  An envelope crinkles under my foot as I step inside. I open it and slip the letter out.

  3C,

  I’ll write you a check. Just let me know who to make it out to. I don’t think the bank will accept The Guy In 3C.

  Magnanimously,

  3B

  I puff out an unexpected laugh. Magnanimously. This girl is too much. It’s not an apology—not even close—and she obviously thinks she’s acting gallantly, doing me a favor, but at least she’s going to reimburse me.

  Chapter Seven

  Kenadie

  It’s been two days and 3C is a no-show. The first night, I stayed up late making him cookies while I waited for him to come by. Sometime after midnight I drifted off at the kitchen table and woke the next day with a stiff neck and back. He’s obviously not a man of his word.

  Then yesterday, I stopped over after work, twice, but he wasn’t home either time. His cookies are getting hard and he will never appreciate just how moist and gooey they originally turned out. Today, after I’m ready for the day, I stop at 3C’s door, plate of (slightly stale) extra chocolate chip cookies and checkbook in hand.

  I feel bad waking him up again, but at least it’s a more suitable hour. I purposely didn’t go into work early just so I could give him an extra hour of sleep. Plus, I come bearing gifts. Who can be cranky when given presents?

  I knock and one-handedly smooth my skirt. Several moments later, 3C greets me with a less than pleased expression.

  Okay, it is not my fault our schedules don’t line up. I am only trying to be the bigger person and do the right thing. If this guy could give me a break, that would be super great.

  “Seriously?” he croaks. “What do you have against me sleeping?”

  I smile brightly, ignoring his question, which I assume is once again rhetorical. “Good morning.”

  “It was,” he mutters on a sigh.

  Ignore his rudeness, Kenadie. Rise above it. Be the bigger person.

  I peer around his shoulder, into his apartment. “Where’s your BFC?”

  He narrows his eyes, one brow arching in annoyance. His lips flatten into a straight line. “My what?”

  His overweight cat appears out of nowhere, trailing its tail around his leg. Yay! He’s alive and well. And still nice and plump. So. Cute.

  “Oh, there it is. Your big fat cat.”

  He gasps. He literally gasps. “He can hear you!” he hisses as he bends, picking up the tubby tabby, wheezing as he lifts its weight. He cuddles the cat to his face, cooing, “Just ignore that mean lady, Truman. She’s got a big fat mouth.”

  Now I gasp. I have a very normal-sized mouth, thank you very much. And I didn’t mean to insult his cat. I think Truman, and his pudge, is adorable.

  “To whom am I making this check out to?” I grit between clenched teeth.

  “Rawn O’Rourke,” he spits right back. “Spelled R-A-W-N.”

  “Of course it is.” I roll my eyes as I juggle the plate, checkbook, and pen. I am not giving him my cookies now. Big fat mouth…I will show him a big fat mouth.

  “What does that mean?”

  I pause, mid pen stroke. “What?”

  He sets his fat feline on the ground with a grunt, pinning me with a glare as he rises. He lifts two fingers on each hand, making bunny ears. ‘“Of course it is.’ What does that mean?”

  Wow. He is not a morning person.

  “Nothing.” I focus on writing the check, my face reddening with irritation. “It’s a unique spelling.”

  His head tips to the side, his hand resting on the doorframe. “What’s your name, Princess?”

  There it is again. Princess. Not a compliment.

  “Kenadie Forbes,” I utter. “Spelled K-E-N-A-D-I-E.”

  “Of course it is.” He smirks, the left side of his mouth a few centimeters higher than the right.

  “How much was the tow charge?”

  “You owe me two hundred bucks,” he supplies, both brows lifting in challenge.

  “That’s not what I asked.” Jerk. “Do you have a receipt?”

  “You want a receipt?” His voice sounds incredulous, but who hands over money without some kind of proof? Especially since we are far from best friends.

  “Yep,” I reply, popping the P. “I want a receipt. From the tow company.”

  He pats his pajamas, placing his hands in the pockets. Really? Girls can’t even get pockets in their regular pants and guys have them in their pajamas? So unfair.

  “Oh, here it is,” Rawn says, his tone overly cheerful. He removes his hand, showing me his middle finger before flashing it an inch from my face.

  I smile because Rawn O’Rourke has just declared war. Again. I cannot believe I ever felt bad for him. I snap my checkbook closed. “You know what, Rawn?” I carefully enunciate each letter in his name. “Screw. You.”

  “No thanks, lady. I’d rather stick my dick in an electrical socket.”

  A trill of laughter bursts from my lips. “You can fit it in a socket? I wouldn’t go around advertising that little tidbit.” Ha ha ha. Little tidbit.

  “Go fuck yourself, Princess.”

  “Sounds like I’d have more fun that way.”

  His gaze meets mine, eyes flaring. My stomach twists in this weird way. All butterflies and queasy anxiety. Almost as if I’m enjoying myself. But I’m not.

  I’m definitely not.

  He takes a step forward, inserting himself into my personal space. His stomach presses into my cookie plate, forcing it back into my chest. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

  “Well they have to be conscious to complain,” I retort.

  “Whoa, are you calling me a rapist? What the hell?” He steps back, disgust coloring his features.

  Shit. I did. Didn’t I? I DO have a big fat mouth.

  “Did you really wake me up for this shit?” he growls. “Do us both a favor—the next time you’re thinking about knocking on my fucking door, DON’T. You can leave the check in my mailbox.”

  “Are you kidding? I am not writing you a check now. And to think, I was going to give you my cookies.”

  He grins wickedly. “I already told you, I’m not interested in your cookies. Stop begging, Kenadie. It’s pathetic.” And then he slams the door. In my face. AGAIN.

  Rawn O’Rourke is going down.

  Chapter Eight

  Rawn

  “She called you a rapist?”

  I tip my bottle to my lips and take a deep pull. “Well, she implied it,” I explain to Rhys. “She said women can’t complain about my—” I look over my shoulder, making sure Mara is out of earshot. She’s seated on the floor in the living room, a Disney princess in one hand and Iron Man in the other. That’s my girl. Perk of being raised by two men, my niece likes superheroes just as much, if not more, as she likes princesses. I turn back to my brother, across the kitchen table from me. “Women can’t complain about my dick size because they’re unconscious when I’m having sex with them.”

  Rhys explodes with laughter.

  Prick.

  “Oh my God. I need to meet her. I want to shake her hand. No, I want to hug her. That’s the best thing ever. You should marry her.”

  “Hell. No. That chick is all sorts of crazy. Besides, she called Truman fat.”

  “Truman is fat.”

  “It’s mostly fluff,” I reply dryly. “He’s a giant pile of fur.”

  He rolls his eyes and supplies, “fur doesn’t weigh sixteen pounds.” His incredulous expression morphs into something almost deviant as he wiggles his brows, now thin from chemo. “And for your information, the crazy girls are the freakiest in bed. It could be fun.” Then, on a quiet sigh, he adds, “at least one of us should get laid.”

  I chug more of my beer, not touching that one. He grins, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s hot, isn’t she?”

  I can’t deny it.

  “S
o hot.”

  Rhys sits forward, wrapping his hands around his steaming mug. “Details, man. I live vicariously through you now.”

  That’s just sad since I have nothing going on in my life at the moment. I haven’t been with a woman since the move.

  “What does she look like?”

  “Beautiful in this scary, deadly way.” I’m not even joking. She looks exactly how I imagine the angel of death. “Dark hair, pale skin. Tiny little thing. Her body was made to perform dirty deeds.” I shake my head, finishing the last of my drink. “She wears these skirts—they come down to her shins. Shouldn’t be sexy, but they fit her like a second skin. It’s a damn shame she’s such a cold bitch.”

  Slapping his palm to the table, Rhys declares, “You should tame the beast. Fuck the ice right out of her heart.”

  I release a low chuckle. “Not going to happen. I’m horny, not stupid.”

  “I don’t know,” he says on a sigh. “You sound pretty stupid to me. Missed opportunities, brother.”

  “Don’t forget she’s the reason I wasn’t able to get over here and take Mara to daycare the other day.”

  He waves me off. “Mara and I had fun that day.”

  “You had fun right up until you passed out while watching your daughter.” I feel like an ass for throwing that up in his face, but who knows what could have happened if I hadn’t gotten over here when I did.

  “Rawn, you’re my brother and I love you for dropping your life and moving out here to help me out.” He raises his hand, silencing me when I open my mouth to tell him it’s not a problem. “But,” he continues, “parents sleep all the time. Kids are tiring. So, we adjust. We evolve. Sleep changes. It’s this thing that happens when you become a dad. You learn to rest in this half-sleep phase, one ear always perked. Yes, the house was a mess. Yes, that day kicked my ass. Yes, I appreciate you coming over and helping—that day and every day. But the world wouldn’t have ended had you stayed in. Or hell, actually went out and did something for yourself. Maybe this neighbor of yours is exactly what you need. You’re too uptight. Too serious. Too high-strung. A night or two with a crazy chick might loosen you up. At the very least, she’s a change of pace.”