My Coyote Ugly Life

by Jessica Spoon

  My Coyote Ugly Life

  Jessica Spoon

  My Coyote Ugly Life

  Jessica Spoon Copyright © 2014 ISBN-13: ISBN-10: Jessica Spoon All rights reserved worldwide. First published 2014 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non- commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Request: Copyright Approval” @ www.facebook.com/authorjessicaspoon

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is not a public domain work and I hold the necessary publishing rights.

  DEDICATION

  Tara (and your wonderful husband, Justin), Brittany (and your full of shit husband, Joe), Nicole (and your TC husband, Adam), Kari (and your blonde-of-all-blondes husband, Jesse), and Frick.

  I dedicate this book, hell this entire series, to all of you for the endless laughter, love & support.

  Also, for the most hilarious stories to fill a lifetime of memories.

  ChapterOne

  Viagra and Gold Diggers

  How on earth do I get myself in these situations? I swear it’s like a never ending bad dream. One of all my mistakes that continuously bite me in my size ten ass.

  I take a long, deep breath and let it out slowly and very quietly.

  God forbid I wake up the ogre next to me.

  Fuck! What the hell is wrong with me?

  Seriously!

  Does anybody have any suggestions?

  Answers…?

  No…?

  Of course it would probably help if I didn’t get shitfaced every weekend only to wake up and want to Coyote Ugly my fucking arm off.

  If you’re not familiar with the term, you are truly blessed.

  It’s a horrendous way to wake up.

  Maybe you should know a bit more about me and what in the hell I am talking about.

  ***

  It all started twenty seven years ago on a blistering cold November night. I came into this world as a blessing to Michael and Sandra Gable. In a cruel twist of fate they named me Azaria.

  Azaria Elle Gable.

  I think they were high on something.

  That would explain a lot of my issues. Mom says she thought it was such an exotic and beautiful name that she couldn’t pass it up.

  I think she had some residual hostility from being named Sandra. And decided to be amazing and think of a unique name that no one else has.

  There is a reason for that!

  She always said how much she hated her name, but I never found anything wrong with it. One of my favorite movies is Grease. She would get so mad at me when I was younger for singing Sandra-D to her all the time.

  I found it hilarious.

  Just a little fact, I find it amusing to see how easily people are irritated.

  One of my many charms.

  Dad didn’t argue because he never argues. He just goes along with whatever Mom wants.

  Always.

  I find this disturbing, but it seems to work for them and after thirty five years of marriage who am I to say any different?

  Anyhoo… most everyone calls me Ree. I prefer it that way, really.

  I am the youngest of four children. So I am, of course, the show off. The Attention Getter. At least that is what I’m told. And in a way I can see that. I’ve always been the center of attention. Mostly by making people laugh. But, I don’t need the attention.

  Not at all.

  Most of the time I actually prefer for others to have it. Especially these days.

  I’m the only single one in my family. It’s like some cardinal sin that I’ve never been married or engaged… Or had a boyfriend for longer than six months… Or that I’ve never taken a guy home since my freshman year of college…

  All of my siblings (two brothers and one sister) are all married and settled down. And most of the time I have always thought that they were miserable. Well, they looked miserable. Just doing what is expected of the human race.

  Reproduce.

  My oldest brother, Chase, is married to an awesome woman named Katherine, or Kat. They have two kids, Sydney, who is ten years old, and Colt, who is six. Chase is seven years older than me and Kat is a couple years younger than him. They live in the “Big City”, Des Moines, Iowa, U.S. of A. Well a suburb really-Urbandale. Chase is an accountant at a Law Firm and Sydney is a stay at home, minivan driving, multitasking freak of a mom.

  My second oldest sibling is my sister, Kassandra, or Kassie. She’s thirty two and married to Hank Anderson. They live in another suburb of Des Moines in Waukee. They have three boys, Lukas (six), Braydon (four), and Graham (two). Kassie owns a bakery in Waukee named Sweet Tooth Cove, while Hank is a pussy-whipped president of the Wells Fargo Bank there in town.

  My last sibling, Wyatt, is thirty and recently married to Abbey. They are expecting their first child in just twenty four weeks. (I only count in weeks because Abbey has rubbed that shit off on me. Before long I’ll be saying that Lukas is three hundred twelve weeks old.) Wyatt lives near Mom and Dad running a ranch and Abbey is a kindergarten teacher in town.

  Mom and Dad live about forty-five miles Northwest of Des Moines in a little town called Belton.

  Population: Five thousand three hundred twenty seven.

  My home town.

  I live in a great little town house in Ankeny.

  Yes, another suburb of Des Moines.

  I studied Graphic Design at Drake University, received my bachelor’s degree and I now work from home.

  All of the Gable kids look pretty similar. Except me. I swear I was destined to be the black sheep.

  Chase and Wyatt could be twins. They are both six foot two and built. Of course Wyatt is stacked from ranch work and Chase works out all the time in his and Kat’s top of line home gym. They both have strong jaws and straight noses.

  They both have dark brown hair. Chase keeps his short with almost a faux-hawk going on. Wyatt keeps his hair a bit longer so that it’s always in his face. He says he is too busy to get it cut whenever I give him shit about it. I then respond by telling him he’d probably get a lot more work done if he wasn’t constantly pushing his hair out of his face. Wyatt always responds by rolling his eyes. I’m pretty sure that he keeps it long only because Abbey likes it.

  Eck.

  My sister, Kassie, is five foot nine, thin with just the right amount of curves to keep her from looking too thin or too fat. And it hasn’t changed after three kids. Sometimes I really hate her. She has wonderfully straight dark brown hair that hangs to her shoulders. I don’t know how Kassie manages it, but somehow she always manages to appear petite as well as imposing, all at once.

  I, however, am petite. I’m five foot four. I’m not fat. I’m not thin. I have an overabundance of curves. Lots of T & A basically. My hair is multiple shades of brown, which I have colored, because my natural hair color is hideous; it also has a natural curl to it that none of my siblings have, but my grandfather had curly ha
ir.

  The only thing that we all have in common is the blue eyes that we got from our mother. They are a pretty kickass blue that sometimes change to green depending on our mood or what color we’re wearing. My eyes are probably the only thing about myself that I would never change if given the chance.

  Okedoke. Now that you are all caught up on the background of my family here is some of my history…

  As I mentioned earlier, I have not brought a guy home to meet my parents since my freshman year of college. Nothing dramatic happened to me.

  Nothing that any girl in the world hasn’t been through anyway…

  ***

  The school year was almost over and I was excited to spend the summer with my boyfriend, Andrew. We had been dating for almost seven months. It was a record for me. I was hopelessly in love with him… We had already planned out our future; where we would live… how many kids we would have… our careers… etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

  Andrew lived three hours away from me, so we were going to split the summer. Half the time with his family and the other half with mine. We had met each other’s families over the holidays and everyone got along gloriously.

  It was going to be the best summer of my life. I was sure of it.

  I was just finishing packing my suitcase when he came into my dorm room. My bitch roommate Kimmy (what kind of name is ‘Kimmy’ anyway?) had already left for the summer.

  “Hey, babe!” I greet him excitedly as I start to zip up my suitcase. “Where’s your stuff?” I ask noticing his empty hands.

  “Ree… we need to talk…” he says solemnly, not meeting my eyes.

  Oh.

  Shit.

  I know that line.

  I know it by heart.

  I invented that line!

  Son of a bitch!

  My throat starts to clog up with a massive fucking lump and tears begin to sting my eyes.

  ***

  And that was my first and last experience with heartbreak. It was bad enough having to go through the dramatic experience, but then having to explain to everyone what happened? That was the absolute worst. Having to constantly relive the whole ordeal again and again.

  I began to doubt who I was.

  What was wrong with me? Why didn’t he want me anymore?

  All the things that goes through a girl’s head when she has to recover from a breakup.

  I didn’t like that feeling and vowed to myself, that I would never go through that again. Ever!!

  And I haven’t.

  I date guys here and there, but never more than a month.

  Ree’s One Month Rule.

  All my friends give me shit for it, but I’m not the one crying over a box of tissues, trying to catch the snot to keep it from running into my rocky road ice cream… anymore. I don’t become a shell of myself; constantly thinking I need to change who I am for a man.

  Nope.

  Not me.

  Never again.

  I meet men, sleep with them and usually don’t ever have to see them again. Every once in a great while one will take my fancy and I’ll hold onto him for a bit longer.

  It works for me. I’m happy with my life and don’t see it changing.

  Sometimes it does feel exhausting and lonely, but when that happens I just pick myself up and go out and have a good time. Whether I find a guy for the night or not is never the goal. I’m not a slut or anything; I’m not sleeping with a new guy every night or anything like that. Maybe just every other month or so. Sometimes there are dry spells and those are the times that I start to feel lonely.

  Well… I think that brings you up to speed on my life.

  ***

  As I lay in bed, I think back to my Thursday night bar crawl and meeting this guy at Dirty Wells. That’s what we call Wellman’s Pub. There are two of them in Des Moines, one on Ingersoll and one on the west side. The one on Ingersoll is the original and kind of my favorite of the two. It’s not called Dirty Wells because it’s a nasty place. It’s just the new one is… well… new, which makes the Ingersoll one look less bright and shiny.

  I was having a good time meeting new people, talking with some of the regulars that I know pretty well when this guy walked in. I was about one sheet to the wind (as opposed to the more common three sheets to the wind) and my beer goggles were in place and ready to mingle.

  I had just finished a project for a client and was ready to celebrate with some good sex. This guy came up to me, offered to buy me a drink and said all the right things to draw my attention for the night. I was on board with Operation: Take Me To Pound Town.

  I look at the, earlier mentioned, ogre to my right. His face is pressed into the pillow and facing towards me. I’m lying on my back with my arm under the pillow that he is resting his peaceful little noggin’ on. One of his arms is thrown over my stomach.

  I study his face, noting that he’s not as unsightly as I had earlier thought. He is actually kind of good looking.

  “Nrguh.” The sound from this decent looking man startles me a bit, making me jump.

  And… now I remember why he’s an ogre.

  Snoring.

  Ugh.

  The worst.

  He passed out shortly after our aerobics with the horizontal mambo (as well as a bit of vertical mambo thrown in for good measure) and his snoring immediately grated on my fucking nerves. (Pardon the language, I have a bit of a sailor mouth.) It took me forever to get to sleep and when I finally did I kept waking up because he also thrashes around in his sleep. I think I finally fell into a fitful sleep around seven o’clock.

  Which reminds me…

  I look around me for a clock and spot one lying on the floor by the door. I twist my head, trying not to move too much of my body, so that I can see what the numbers display on the upside down alarm clock that is partially covered with clothes.

  Christ. I’m going to end up with a massive crick in my neck, all because this asshole doesn’t know that alarm clocks belong on a stand! Is it really too much for a guy to clean their house? I mean seriously!

  Fuck!

  It’s twelve twenty and I’m supposed to be meeting my besties for lunch at one o’clock!

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Fuckity! Fuck! Fuck!

  I try to quickly run through an escape plan in my head, come up empty and just decide to be as quiet as possible. First I gently slide my right arm out from under his head; seriously debating Coyote Uglying the fucking thing off, but then decide against it as I realize I kind of need my fingers. I slide my left leg out of the covers and slowly move my body to the edge of the bed.

  “Nrguh,” he snores again startling me and making me freeze.

  I slowly turn my head to look at him, verify that he is still sleeping and continue my excursion out of the king sized bed. Thank god this guy has satin sheets. So much easier for-

  “Argh,” I grunt as I fall onto the floor and immediately freeze.

  I raise my head up and peek over the edge of the bed…

  “Nrguh.”

  Whew! Thank goodness.

  I begin to crawl around the floor, locating all of my clothes, purse and shoes. I stand and scurry to the bathroom. I quickly dress in my short, black and sequins hoochie dress. I look in the mirror and muffle a startled scream at my appearance. I should really be used to it by now.

  I pull my emergency stash of facial cleansing wipes, brush and hair tie out of my purse. I fix myself up then prepare for the final stage of my escape. Every time I do this, Pink’s song Walk of Shame plays in my head.

  I whisper-sing the lyrics to myself as I make my way across the floor.

  I open the door from the bathroom into the bedroom, heels in hand, and tiptoe to the Door of Freedom. I barely get my hand on the doorknob when he wakes up.

  “Hey, Ree, baby,” he says sleepily, making me cringe in frustration. So. Fucking. Close. “Where you going?”

  I take a deep breath and stand up straight. I turn around and look at him. Mmmm… th
ose abs do look tasty…

  “Hey…” I begin.

  Shit! What the hell is his name? God dammit! He watches me struggle and I give him a look that clearly says, ‘What the hell is your name and don’t you dare judge me! You slept with me!’ His face becomes dead serious with an irritated expression as he realizes what I’m asking.

  “Dave,” he deadpans.

  “Dave!” I exclaim in relief, thrusting my fist into the air. “Look, last night was great…” I always struggle with this part. I’m not good at this. Which is why I always try to be a lady and sneak out! “Really good moves you got there…” What the hell are you talking about Ree?! It wasn’t that good. “I mean that twisty thing you do with your leg when you had me… you know… really wow.” Oh dear sweet oral diarrhea please stop.

  Dave gives me a half smile that makes him look a bit deranged, but I think he thinks it makes him look sexy.

  Stupid women. Convincing men that half smiles are sexy. They’re not. Okay? You look like a creeper. Show me a smile. I need to know that you have good dental hygiene or I am going nowhere near that mouth.

  “Well,” he begins, creeper smile still in place, “come on back to bed,” he throws the covers back to invite me, showing off his rather impressive body; my head tilts to the side, my eyes wander and focus in on his length that is beginning to harden, making the muscles that I worked out last night to throb. Oh God… I am a slut. “And I can show you a few more moves I have stored away.”

  As good as some more sex sounds, it goes against my rules. This guy is a few crayons short and I worry that he may become a stage 5 clinger. Besides it sets a bad precedence.

  Long live Ree’s One Month Rule!

  “That sounds… great,” I say lamely, “but I really have to go. I have to meet some friends of mine.”

  “Okay…” his smile falters as he pulls the covers back over him, “how about you come back after and we can spend the whole day in bed?”

  “Don’t you have a job or something?” Oops. I meant to think that, not speak it!