Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters)

by Robyn Peterman

  “Steve, I’ve had a really long and horrific week, so could you get to the point of all this? Quickly?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, wiping his eyes on my shirt, the shirt he’d just de-wrinkled. “Before your grandma died, Lutheran God bless her soul, she scheduled work on the building. New roof, new electric, some plumbing issues . . . So we all knew the building would be closed for two weeks and that’s why Steve and I are going to the Bahamas. And now those nasty bitches made the guys cry and the boys said they wouldn’t go back in there until the dykes left.”

  “Did they actually say dykes?” I asked.

  “Um, no,” Steve admitted. “I just added that because I thought it sounded good.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I sighed and pulled on my hair. “Could I ask you a question you might not know the answer to?”

  “Absolutely. And if I don’t know the answer, I’ll make one up.”

  “Okay, um . . . great. Are Mrs. C and Edith, um, girlfriends?”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven up above, I think you’ve made me permanently lose my appetite,” he groaned. “And I like to eat.” He demonstrated his love of food by lifting his shirt and gracing me with a view of his ample, hairy tummy. I was fairly sure he’d made me lose my appetite . . . at least till I was able to block out the visual he’d just gifted me.

  “Well, are they?”

  “Hell no, those old geezers have different gal pals every other week,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Did you make that up?” I asked, feeling nauseous.

  “Shockingly enough, no. I couldn’t make something like that up. Even thinking about it makes my manhood shrivel.” He shuddered.

  “You did not just use the word manhood in place of penis,” I groaned.

  “I most certainly did. Steve and I are having a contest to see who can use more penis slang in public and get away with it,” he said, grinning like a twelve-year-old.

  “Have you tried pork sword, divine rod, man-tool, or skin flute?” I asked, leaving my short rotund buddy almost speechless.

  “Kristy, those are fabulous,” he squealed, hopping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. “Where did you learn such dirty lingo?”

  “Rena.”

  “Of course.” He slapped his head and laughed. “She has a mouth like a sailor after my own heart. I have to run inside and write those down so I don’t forget them. Can you handle this clusterfuck?”

  I nodded mutely and he laid a big wet one on my cheek. As he skipped back into the salon, he gushed, “I’m gonna kick Steve’s ass in the penis game.”

  “Glad I could help,” I muttered as I made my way over to the weeping husky guys. “Hi, um . . . I’m Kristy, the owner. I understand that there was a . . .” Holy shit on a stick. Wandering eyeball, my butt. That eyeball didn’t just wander, it raced around in the socket like a pinball. It was all I could do to look at the stationary eye. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting “look at me.” Stopping myself was difficult, but I was better at it than the two nasty women peeking out the window at us had been.

  “How can eye help you?” I bit down hard on my lip, praying they hadn’t noticed my homonym.

  “Well, ma’am, these working conditions are unacceptable and unless those women are removed from the area . . . we won’t be able to honor our contract.”

  I barely heard a word. Something about unacceptable, removed . . . contract. Focus, damn it. He couldn’t help it that the Indianapolis 500 was taking place in his ocular cavity.

  “Eye will take care of that,” I whispered, racking my brain for a replacement word for first-person singular. Slowly, I backed away. I prayed to Brett Favre and all the quarterbacks in the NFL for strength. I would not make a grown man cry. I am a good person and God knows there’s plenty in my own life to poke fun at . . . it just wasn’t as obvious to the naked eye. Son of a bitch, even my inner thoughts were trying to bring me down.

  I’m pretty sure I heard them say “thank you” as I turned and ran into the shop. I slammed the door behind me and slid to the floor. Sweating . . . profusely.

  “You wanted to yell ‘look at me,’ didn’t you?” Edith barked, scaring the hell out of me.

  “No, I did not,” I lied, getting to my feet and putting my back against the wall so neither one of them could sneak up on me. Holy hell, Mrs. C and Edith were dressed up. They’d traded their sweatpants for tight polyester leggings paired with house slippers and sequined stretch tops. It was hard to look away, kind of like a train wreck. The house slippers were hurting me bad. I closed my eyes to block out the horror, but alas, their new look had embedded itself on my brain. Shitcrapballs. Flushed with anger that I would never be able to forget these outfits, I decided to let them have it. “That was hateful and mean, what you did to those men.”

  “God bless him,” Mrs. C chimed in, “but I wouldn’t let some wild-peepered freak work on my electric or my roof or my plumbing.”

  “Or my hooha,” Edith added.

  I ignored her and threw up in my mouth a little bit. I refused to have a conversation with them about vaginas. I grabbed a bottle of water from my purse and took a huge swig.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my shirt. It was already wrinkled and had Steve’s tears all over it, so what the hell. “The building will be closed for two weeks and you two can’t be here—at all.”

  “I call bullshit,” Edith snapped. “We can be here whenever we want and you can’t tell us what to do,” she smirked.

  “That’s right, you little hussy,” Mrs. C cackled. “I’m guessing all the silicone in your hooters ate your brain. We run this place and you answer to us.”

  “First of all”—I smiled sweetly—“my hooters are real, and if I didn’t think it would excite you so much, I’d show you.”

  They gasped and tried to speak. “Quiet,” I bellowed. The volume thing was a great tool with these gals. I decided shouting the rest of my conversation would be fun. “It’s true I may not be able to fire you, but I can absofuckinglutely tell you what to do. I can cut your hours, make you clean toilets, or have you work from ten p.m. till five a.m. . . . counting buttons.”

  “I dare you,” Mrs. C hissed and narrowed her eyes beneath her gnarly unibrow.

  “Actually,” I continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “I think what we need in here is some new blood. Bless your nonexistent hearts, you two are getting up there in years and I don’t want you to strain yourselves. I’m going to hire several homophobic, right-wing, militant, religious zealot, superpreppy, bored housewives.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” a very pale Edith spat.

  “Try me,” I shot back, refusing to break eye contact.

  They glanced at each other uncertainly as I smiled benignly at them. While they exchanged some kind of weird silent lesbian-sister telepathy, I realized this was another omen in my quest to ban cops from my bedroom—I mean life. Losing the bet and eating with Mrs. C and Edith would be a fate worse than death. Between my talk with Louise and my time spent with Satan’s gay spawns, I knew my decision to avoid Mitch for the rest of my life was a sound one. Depressing, but sound.

  “Fine,” Edith said tersely. “We’ll take two weeks off.”

  “Give me your keys,” I said with my hand out.

  Very reluctantly and cursing the entire time, they handed over their keys. Lutheran God was watching over me. I wasn’t going to lay eyes on these abominations for two whole weeks! I grinned as they waddled out of the store. The construction guys screamed and ran for cover when the old gals walked out. I found them still hiding in their truck a half an hour later. I handed them the master key to the entire building and left. My vacation started . . . now.

  Chapter 8

  As I entered my apartment building, ahead of me was one smokin’-hot man-butt. Who in the hell was he and why was he in the lobby of my apartment building? I wondered if his man-face matched his man-butt . . . the hell w
ith Mitch, this man-butt was way better than his and this one potentially lived in my building. Things were looking up. I pretended to get my mail so I could check him out. His hoodie sweat jacket hid his face and hair color from me, but as he retrieved his mail, I saw his left hand, and it was ringless. Awesome.

  “Did you say something?” Hottie McMan-butt asked with his back still to me.

  Oh my God, did I say any of that out loud? That was a total asshat move. I mean, he had a great behind, but I didn’t want him to think I regarded him as a piece of meat. That would be sexist, not to mention rude. Although if he were a piece of meat, I suppose he’d be a filet mignon . . . maybe. I hadn’t seen the face yet, but a butt that great had to have a good face. Right? Wait, what was wrong with me? He was not a piece of meat. He was probably a very nice guy who was going to think I was a crazy dingbat with loose morals and a man-butt obsession. Balls.

  My gut clenched and I wondered if I could make it to the stairs without the new hot neighbor guy seeing me. The odds were slim, but I had to try. I shut my mailbox and ran.

  “Goldilocks?”

  I jerked to a halt on the third stair. No, no, no, no . . . Could this day get any worse?

  “Mitch?” I choked out.

  “How are you?” he asked, grinning at me.

  I grabbed the stair railing because my knees were about to give out. Damn it, what the hell was it about this guy that turned me into a noodle?

  “I’m good. What are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” he said, pointing to Jack’s apartment.

  “You can’t,” I gasped, willing my spaghetti legs to work.

  “Why not?” His silky voice held a challenge. He stepped closer, and because my lower body was useless, all I could do was sit down to get a little farther away.

  “I live here,” I stammered. “And since I’m avoiding you until I die, you can’t live here. It would make my life difficult and I’d be tempted to break my vows.”

  “Are you going into a nunnery?” he asked as he sat down next to me and made my brain short-circuit.

  “Of course not,” I giggled. “I’m Lutheran.” I tried to move away, but instead, conked my head on the railing. “Shit,” I muttered.

  “Come here.” Mitch leaned in and felt around in my hair for a lump. For such a big strong guy, his hands were incredibly gentle. I wondered how they’d feel on my . . . Stop. Don’t go there.

  “I’m okay,” I whispered, aching to kiss him. I stood up shakily and put a little distance between us. “I have to go.”

  “Wait—” Mitch grabbed my hand. “Why won’t you go out with me? It feels like you’re liking me and God knows, I’m liking you.”

  “Mitch, you seem like you’re very, um . . . nice, but I don’t date cops.” I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip tightened.

  “Well, you’re in luck. I’m not a cop. I’m a DEA agent, so that argument won’t stand.” He grinned lazily and my heart skipped two beats.

  “That’s the same thing,” I told him, trying not to smile.

  “Nope, it’s not. You’ll have to come up with a better excuse for not going out with me than that.”

  “Okay, fine.” I pulled my hand from his and crossed my arms over my chest so I wouldn’t bury them in his hair. “I can’t go out with you because if I do, I’ll have to eat lots of dinners with hostile lesbians and I’ll lose Brett Favre forever.” If that didn’t scare him away, then I didn’t know what would.

  He laughed and I almost jumped him in a very sexual way. “I’m a little confused,” he said. “Let’s break this one down . . . I’m very sure Brett Favre is married. Am I wrong about that?”

  “It’s not real Brett Favre. It’s Cardboard Brett Favre,” I explained rationally, halfway hoping my crazy would make him give up and move to Alaska. Of course the other half of me wanted him to grab me by the hair and shove his tongue in my mouth.

  “You mean like the one in Rena’s office?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered slowly. I was beginning to wonder what he already knew. Was he in on this? Had Rena convinced him to hit on me so I would lose the bet?

  “And the hostile lesbians?” he asked, pulling on one of my curls.

  “I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about,” I said with a sarcastic edge to my voice. I was sooo not falling for this. He was as bad as all the rest of the loser cops I’d dated . . . maybe worse.

  He stared at me for a long moment and I almost forgot how much I didn’t like him. Those damn blue eyes. “No, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If I did, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Right,” I snapped. “I really have to go, Mitch. Good luck with the new apartment. I’ll be moving out next week.” I turned and ran as quickly as my stupid pasta legs would carry me . . . which was not very fast.

  “Kristy. Stop.” The sexy command in his voice made my throat go tight and everything inside my body tingle in anticipation. God, this jack-off knew how to push every one of my hoochie mama buttons. “Look at me,” he instructed.

  I turned and waited.

  “Your reasons aren’t good enough. I’m not quite understanding the Brett Favre and hostile lesbian thing, but it’s very clear you have dated some asshole cops. I’m not one of them. I’m the guy who can’t get you out of my head ever since I saw you the other day. That kiss in the library is burned into my brain and I keep replaying it.”

  “Me too,” I whispered, then purposely banged my head against the wall. Admitting I wanted to trade spit with him was not going to help my case. His sexy answering smirk lit my panties on fire.

  “Give me a chance,” he said, sending some kind of magic hoodoo straight to my brain and other unmentionable parts of me. “Get to know me . . . Let me take you out.”

  I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to say no even if the fate of mankind was resting on my answer.

  “Okay,” I said in a voice that belonged in a porno. I quickly cleared my throat and tried again. “Okay, but here’s the deal . . . You can’t tell anybody. Not Jack, not Rena . . . no one.”

  He put his hands on his hips, stretching his T-shirt across his insanely hot chest, and tilted his head to the side. My mouth went dry . . . “Are you ashamed of me?” he asked with mock severity.

  “No,” I gasped. “It has something to do with the, um . . . lesbian–Brett Favre thing.”

  “I’m going to take your word on that,” he chuckled. “Hell, short of doing something illegal, I’d do anything to go out with you. So if you want to keep it a secret . . . it’s a secret.”

  “Thank you,” I blurted, grinning like an idiot.

  “Tomorrow night?”

  I thought for a moment. Rena and Jack were going to a concert . . . perfect. “Yes, tomorrow night.”

  “Seven o’clock,” he said. “Do you want to meet me somewhere?”

  “Um, no. Rena and Jack won’t be here; you can pick me up at my apartment . . . if you want to.” Crap, did that sound like an invitation for nookie?

  “I’ll be there.” His voice was so damn hot I found myself leaning toward him. Thankfully I caught myself before I tumbled down the stairs and landed in a broken mess at his feet.

  I righted myself, turned, and walked up the stairs with a little extra swing . . . I knew full well he was watching my butt. I might have to break bread with the hostile lesbos, but I had a weird feeling it would be worth it.

  “Aunt Moon-Unit has called six times for you,” Rena informed me as I scrounged through the fridge looking for something that didn’t have a past-due date or wasn’t growing fur. Damn, nothing but salad dressing and hot dog buns.

  “What did she want?” I pulled out a hot dog bun, checked it for mold, and ate it.

  “No clue, I didn’t answer,” Rena said, grabbing another bun and joining me. “Holy fucking hell, we need to go grocery shopping.”

  “Agreed,” I replied with a mouth full of dough. “Did she leave a message?”

  “Not really. She jus
t kept yelling your name louder and louder—like you would answer if she broke your eardrums.”

  “Why didn’t you pick up?” I asked, searching for something that might taste a little better than an old stale hot dog bun.

  “Because I spent an hour on the phone with her this morning discussing ways to murder bad chi with spatulas and fly swatters when I should have been crunching numbers for my clients.”

  “’Nuff said. I’ll call her back in a minute.”

  “How was your day?” she asked, unearthing some vanilla pudding from the salad crisper.

  “Sucked. What’s the date on that stuff?” I asked, digging my own pudding cup out of the drawer.

  “I can’t make it out.”

  “I didn’t buy this crap. Do you remember buying it?” I asked, searching the little container frantically. I realized I was starving. In the midst of my hellacious day, I’d forgotten to eat.

  “I never buy shit like this.”

  “Well, we don’t have a pudding fairy as far as I know,” I snapped, still searching for an expiration date.

  “Relax your crack,” Rena laughed. “Jack loves this stuff and the only time he ever grocery shopped for us was a week ago, so knock yourself out.”

  I did and it was amazing. “God, we should buy this all the time,” I said grabbing another pudding out of the veggie drawer.

  “You know what?” Rena said, stopping mid-pudding-shovel. “I think that wanker hid these. He thought if he put dessert in the veggie bin, we’d never find it.”

  “What else do you think that rat bastard hid?” I asked, giving the crisper another search.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  Ten minutes later we were settled on the couch with chips and salsa we’d found in the laundry room, cheese puffs we’d found under the bathroom sink, and beer we’d found on the top shelf of Rena’s closet.

  “Jack’s a dick,” I said, enjoying the fruits of our hunt.

  “Totally,” Rena agreed. “I think I’ll withhold sex for a week.”

  I almost choked on a puff ball I laughed so hard.