“I bet we’ll go to Hollywood for the premiere,” Boo shrieked, startling me. Her voice was the exact opposite of Mariah’s . . . high and squeaky.
“Oh my God.” Kim paled and began to shake. Sweet baby Jesus, was she having a heart attack? “If we go to Hollywood,” she said, shushing Hugh’s Disney extravaganza, “there’s a good chance I could see Steven Seagal or John Stamos. Or at least drive by their houses repeatedly.”
“Or Cher’s house!” Hugh shouted triumphantly, breaking into a dizzying version of “Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves.”
“What is wrong with you idiots?” Edith barked. “There’s only one man in Hollywood worth shit.”
“Yeah,” Mrs. C said. “He’s the one man we’d go straight for.”
Eww, the thought of them getting it on with anything made the vanilla pudding in my stomach curdle.
“George Clooney?” Mariah guessed.
“Nope, not hot enough,” Edith said. “Guess again.”
“Sylvester Stallone?” Boo volunteered.
“God, no. I can’t understand a word he says,” Mrs. C said, clearly enjoying the game.
“Jay Leno,” Kim yelled.
“He is hot,” Edith admitted, “but not as hot as my man.”
“All right then, who is it?” Aunt Moon-Unit asked, taking a break from her trolls or fairies or whatever.
“It’s David Hasselhoff, you imbeciles! He’s the hottest piece of man-meat to put his pecker in a Speedo,” Edith shouted, waving her claw at everyone.
“And he sings like a wet dream,” Mrs. C added.
“Oh shit, that’s disgusting,” Mariah moaned. She was joined by a chorus of groans from the rest of the group.
“What in the hell is wrong with you nose pickers? David Hasselhoff is a god,” Edith screamed over the boos and hisses.
As a loud argument ensued over the quality of David Hasselhoff ’s package, I lost it. I was laughing so hard I was crying. I sat down on the floor and rocked back and forth, hoping I wouldn’t pee myself.
“Care to share?” Rich asked as he settled his big old self on the floor next to me.
“Oh my God,” I sputtered, “David Hasselhoff is why I’m here.”
“You know him?” he asked, impressed.
“No, actually I think he’s a fucktard.” I collapsed in another fit of laughter. “Sorry,” I wheezed. “I made a bet with my roommate Rena about David Hasselhoff and I lost, so I had to bring Aunt Moon-Unit to these meetings for two months.”
“So you’re really not a Sasquatch believer?”
“No, I’m sorry . . . I’m not,” I said, hoping he’d still be my friend. Even with his bizarre accent and regrettable looks, he was the most normal person there.
“Do you make bets often?” he asked, smiling.
“Unfortunately yes,” I told him. “And I usually lose. My latest is a real doozy.”
“Tell me.”
“You don’t really want to hear this,” I said, trying to keep my eyes on his face instead of his pubic head.
“I really do.”
“Okay, you asked for it.” I grinned.
I explained to him my hideous record with dating cops down to the married, two-timing, Dallas Cowboys bastard and the bet Rena had made about me not sleeping with this really sexy cop named Mitch. How I had taken the bet knowing full well I would win, until I laid eyes on Mitch. He was every fantasy I had ever had rolled into one package, but so much was at stake . . . Cardboard Brett Favre and dining with the dykes. Problem was, I really wanted to tackle this Mitch guy to the ground and do all sorts of nasty things to him . . . plus I’d already made a secret date with him. I even confessed how I was cheating on the terms of my bet.
Rich sat silently for a moment, looking shell-shocked. Shit, I’d probably scared the hell out of him.
“TMI?” I asked in a worried tone.
“No, no,” he said. “I’m just trying to get all of this straight in my head. So, if you sleep with this hot cop guy, you’ll have to eat with Mrs. C and Edith for two weeks?”
“Right.” I nodded. “And I’ll lose Cardboard Brett Favre.”
“Do you like this guy?” he asked.
“Yes, but with my luck, he’s probably a serial killer or has a harem stashed in Iowa.”
Rich laughed and his man-boobs jiggled. I jerked my eyes back up to his face. Pubic head was far easier on the eye than man-boob. “Well, Kristy, you are already paying for the bet, whether you sleep with the womanizing serial killer or not.”
“How do you figure?” I asked, confused.
“You will be eating all your meals with the lesbians for the next two weeks on our little sojourn into the wilds of Duluth looking for Bigfoot. So, Brett Favre aside, you can sleep with your hot cop because you’re already paying the price of losing.”
“Motherhumpin’ cowballs,” I gasped. “You’re right. What should I do?”
“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said. “You should do whatever your heart tells you to.”
“Or my lady bits,” I muttered.
“Those too,” he chuckled.
“Rich, you are a great guy and I’m sure we’re going to be good friends. Thanks for listening to all my crap and not laughing at me,” I said, giving him a hug and getting squished by the man-boobs again. Amazingly, this time I didn’t care. He can’t help what he looks like on the outside. He was quickly proving he was quite good-looking on the inside.
“Good luck, Kristy.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
I grabbed Aunt Moon-Unit as the Hasselhoff discussion turned into a brawl. Hugh, in regular form, was screeching the theme to Baywatch . Kim was trying to hold Mariah and her fists back from Edith and Mrs. C, and Boo just stood there crying. The next two weeks were going to be fucking fantastic. Watching the mayhem around me, I decided to give up swearing in the fall . . . possibly.
Chapter 10
“Get out ol town!” Rena laughed, examining me like I’d had a lobotomy.
Maybe I had. Sitting on the couch retelling the events of last night sounded ridiculous even to my own ears. I pulled my knees to my chest and grabbed my Minnesota Vikings fleece blanket. I needed comfort.
“Son of a bitch,” Rena moaned, ransacking the cabinets. “We don’t have any breakfast food. Do you want pudding and a beer?”
“Too early for a beer, but I’ll take a pudding,” I said. “Did you tell Jack we found his stash?”
“Nope.” She giggled. “I’m going to let him discover it for himself. He’ll be horrified.”
“You’re awful,” I laughed.
“Yep,” she agreed.
She handed me a pudding cup and a spoon and plopped down next to me on the couch. We ate our healthy breakfast in companionable silence. I vowed to grocery shop that day. There was no way I was going to drink salad dressing for lunch.
“So let me get this straight . . . You’re going to Duluth to hunt down Bigfoot for a reality TV show.”
“Um, yes.” I bit my lip and wondered how much more I should tell her. In the light of a new day it was mortifying.
“And you’re going to find the elusive Yeti with Aunt Moon-Unit, Kim, and Hugh.”
“Yep,” I muttered, deciding I’d only answer questions . . . not offer up any excess humiliating information.
Rena already knew Kim and Hugh from her own tenure of taking Aunt Moon-Unit to her meetings. She’d also met with them for research on her on her appalling book, Pirate Dave and His Randy Adventures. She’d invented an oversize, hairy, Bigfoot-ish character named Sam in the piece of crap novel that had brought Evangeline O’Hara’s romance writing career to a grinding halt. Sam was an immortal time-traveling pirate shifter with a huge package. So huge, he’d been unable to fornicate for centuries.
“There seems to be a lot missing from this story,” Rena said, stealing some of my blanket.
“Yep.”
“Spill.”
“Fine,” I sighed and pushed my hair out of my face. “I’m w
horing myself out for fifty thousand dollars for the shelter. I’m going to host the show with my tits and my ass, leading a band of freaks through the wilds of Duluth, looking for something that doesn’t exist.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Rena said, licking her spoon. “Is Hugh doing the sound track?”
“Yes,” I giggled. “Yes, he is.”
“Then it’s sure to be a big hit. I hope he does a few originals about the unknown mating habits of Sasquatch.”
“Oh my God,” I groaned, trying not to laugh. “Stop joking. This is my life we’re talking about.”
“Okay.” Rena grinned and swiped the rest of my blanket. “Honestly, I’d do the same thing if I were you.”
“You would?”
“Kristy, I tried to become the new Sunshine Weather Girl by showing up at the news station every day for a month, which clearly didn’t end well. You think I wouldn’t make a gaping ass of myself by hosting an imaginary monster show for fifty thousand dollars?”
“Point taken.”
“Exactly,” she said, getting excited. “You have the summer off and you’ll make a shitload of needed money for the shelter. The way I see it, it’s a win-win.”
I knew I should be wary of anything Rena thought was a good idea. My mind was swirling with paranoia and doubt. My best friend’s good ideas have often landed her in the slammer. I might not end up in the pokey, but there was a fine chance I’d land on YouTube . . . forever. Crap, what had I done?
“There’s more,” I whispered.
“It gets better?” Rena’s eyes grew wide.
“There are other Yeti believers coming with us.”
“Oh my God.” She hopped up and grabbed two beers. Handing me an open bottle, she made herself comfortable again. “I know it’s early, but I have a feeling we might need this.”
I took a swig and then a deep breath. Maybe if I said everything out loud, it wouldn’t be so awful . . . or maybe I’d wake up and realize it was all a dream. I pinched my leg to test my theory. Ouch . . . balls, not a dream.
“Mariah Carey is going on the trip.”
“Holy shit, the singer? Damn, her career is in the toilet if she’s doing crap like that. I read this thing where she only washes her hair in champagne . . . no, wait, maybe it’s orange juice or buttermilk and . . .”
“No,” I cut her off. “Not the singer. The nose breaker from the shelter.”
“No way,” she cackled.
“Yes way, and it gets better.” I took three deep calming breaths. I realized if I said the next part out loud it would be true. “Edith and Mrs. C are going.”
That shut her up. Rena turned white and grabbed my hands, spilling beer all over the couch. “You’ll die,” she gasped. “Or end up serving a life sentence for murder.”
I hadn’t thought about that. Was I really capable of killing the old girls? I’d been so focused on the amazing fact that I could jump, I mean date, Mitch, I hadn’t really thought about being with the twins 24/7.
“I can’t do this,” I muttered frantically, grabbing the runner off the coffee table to mop up the spilled beer. Rena was right, I might off them. The temptation to permanently get rid of the lesbians could be too much to handle. It would probably be self-defense, but since I’d considered the kill, it would be ruled premeditated murder. Fuckmonkeys, I had to get out of this.
“Wait,” Rena said, sensing my hysteria. She soaked up the remaining beer with my beloved Vikings blanket. If I hadn’t been in such a panic, I would have wept that she’d desecrated my blanky. She grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me down on the still-damp couch. “Is anyone normal going on this clusterfuck of a trip?”
I pressed my hand to my forehead and tried to refocus. “Well, normal being a relative word, there’s one guy who seems nice,” I said, still feeling ill.
“How relative is normal?”
“He’s shaped like a pear, his hair would look better on a crotch, his teeth are very British, and he has man-boobs, but he’s funny and kind.”
“Well, there’s something.” She rolled her eyes and sat down next to me. “I feel really guilty.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the reason you had to go to these stupid meetings.”
“Nope,” I told her. “I took the bet. It’s my own fault.”
Rena jumped up off the couch and started pacing the room like a caged tiger. She grabbed two new beers and handed me one. “Kristy, there may be a silver lining here.”
“And that would be?” I asked skeptically.
“You can boink Mitch now,” she shouted. “This is great! You’re such a freaking rule follower, you never would have let yourself cheat and be happy. Since you’re eating with the skanks for two weeks anyway . . . you’re free and clear to boink away. Of course, you would lose Cardboard Brett Favre.”
“I don’t want Cardboard Brett Favre.”
Rena was speechless.
“Okay look, I have to tell you something . . . I was already going to cheat. I’m going on a date with Mitch tonight.”
She grinned from ear to ear. “So it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy,” she said.
I waited for her to continue . . . I knew she would.
“You were destined to sup with the muff divers, just as much as you were meant to do the nasty with Mitch. The bet was just a foretelling of the future.”
“That is totally fucked-up and discombobulated,” I told her. “It doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Rena argued. “But you do realize Mitch is a cop.”
“He’s not a cop, he’s a DEA agent.”
“Same thing.”
“Nope,” I informed her, not wanting to admit I’d had the same conversation. “It’s different.”
“Ooo, you really like this guy,” she laughed.
“Well, I definitely lust him and I think I like him too.”
“You’re more than in lust with a guy when you’re willing to forgo Cardboard Brett for him,” she said smugly. “You’ll be bumping uglies tonight.”
“I will not be bumping anything tonight,” I insisted forcefully. “I’m going to get to know him first.” I got up off the beer-soaked couch to make my point. If I could make her believe me . . . maybe I would too.
Rena just smiled the kind of smile that made me want to slap her.
“Rena, I can’t, won’t, will not sleep with him tonight,” I yelled. “I’ll be screwed if I do it . . . No pun intended.”
“Okay fine,” she said in her “I’ve got a great plan” voice. “Go out with him tonight. Tell him you’re going away on business for two weeks and then have nightly phone sex while you’re on the mission to capture Sasquatch. Get to know him while having great orgasms in the privacy of your own tent or whatever-the-fuck and then come back and screw him till his eyes cross.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I think that sounds good.”
“You see?” she chirped gleefully. “You need me.”
She tackled me on our couch, which now smelled like it belonged in a bar, and hugged me so hard I had to tickle her to get her off me.
“What should I wear tonight?” I wheezed and tried to get my breath back.
“Do you have any clean good-butt jeans?” She balled herself up on the couch, covering all her tickle spots. “Sweet baby Jesus, the couch reeks.” She jumped up and ran to our cleaning supply closet.
“Yes, it reeks and yes, I have clean good-butt jeans,” I laughed, removing my wet rear end from the couch.
“Okay, wear those, but put on some granny panties and don’t shave your legs,” she said as she began spraying the offending couch with air freshener.
“Stop,” I coughed and took the aerosol can of floral stink away from her. “You’re making it worse. Why in the hell would I go out with gross panties and hairy legs?”
“If you really don’t want to sleep with him, do as I say. Nasty panties and stubbly legs will be an extra incentive to keep your pants on.”
“I know.” She grinned. “I’m taking the day off from work because all my clients are away on book tours. So I say we are going for manicures, pedicures, and therapy shopping. You need a sexy new top for tonight and some rugged yet revealing pieces for your stint as the host of the Bigfoot bonanza.”
“Don’t remind me,” I said, and snatched my purse off the table. “I’m ready. Are you?”
“Kristy, Kristy, Kristy,” Rena chuckled. “I was born ready.”
I rolled my eyes and giggled. I had the greatest best friend in the whole fucking world.
Chapter 11
In the dimly lit back room of the most charming Chinese restaurant in Minneapolis, I sat across from the most beautiful man in the world. Of course, Asian Wind, the name of the restaurant, brought to mind unpleasant gastric explosions, but the food was delicious. It was owned by the Wang family, who swore they were first-generation Americans. Their insanely heavy Minnesota accents belied their claim, but no one in their right mind would call them on it. Mr. Wang was a very sensitive culinary genius and Mrs. Wang was a ball-buster. Mr. Wang was the chef and Mrs. Wang, the hostess. Frighteningly, Mrs. Wang fancied herself a chef too. Her Peking duck slathered in cream of mushroom soup and Ritz Crackers was a hit only amongst the most hard-core casserole-loving Minnesotans.
“You look beautiful,” Mitch said across the table.
My insides tightened at his compliment. I did feel pretty. Rena had insisted I buy a flirty, sexy, off-the-shoulder top that was way out of my price range and now I was glad I did. With my good-butt jeans, sexy top, and shocking pink toenails, Rena declared me hot to trot. My strapless push-up bra gave my not-fake tatas that extra oomph. Mitch was having a difficult time peeling his eyes away from my oomph. Hell, since he had picked me up forty-eight minutes ago, it was everything I could do to keep my hands to myself. He had on his own good-butt jeans and a lightweight, long-sleeved blue shirt that hugged his muscles and made my mouth water.
Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) Page 8
