Unscrewed

by Ren Alexander

  Unscrewed

  Ren Alexander

  Published by Ren Alexander, 2018.

  UNSCREWED

  By Ren Alexander

  © 2018 Ren Alexander

  Copyright License Notes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. 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. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ahh! This is the hardest part of writing a book for me, not because I’m ungrateful but because I’m never able to express enough how thankful I am.

  I’ll keep this short and sweet.

  Thank you to Tim and our girls. You put up with a lot of my crap. When I’m in the middle of a particularly difficult part of my book, you all know it. So thank you, and I’m sorry.

  My PA/partner in crime, Angie. Without your help/beatdowns, I’m like a little kid lost at a mall. They do still have some of those in Canada, right? Malls, not kids. Anyway, thanks for all you do for me. Blah. Blah.

  Thank you, Trin, for your unwavering support, friendship, and never-ending reminders I’m three weeks older than you.

  Tricia Daniels. Without you kicking my ass into gear, this book would still be unwritten. That’s a lot to digest. I wanted to make a joke about shutting your pie hole but... Yeah. I still will.

  Shelli! Thank you for riding shotgun with me through this! This book was like a damn roundabout, and everyone knows how I hate those damn things! I’m just glad you were there to keep me from going in circles.

  Karen H., the editor with a machete aimed at my throat. I won’t do it! You can’t make me! It’s my rebel yell! Just let me have my thing, woman! Still, thank you 10 times for the smackdowns! Is that one word, two, or hyphenated? Screw it.

  Thank you to my Beta Fishies. Along with your good eyes for errors, your shock and awe were worth the blood and sweat. Tami, you kill me every fucking time.

  Thank you to the Finnatics who actually let me know they’re still alive. Just saying. Your support is awesome.

  Thank you to all my blogger friends who supported UNSCREWED! I need you. Always.

  Thank you to Vanessa Mendozzi of Vanessa Mendozzi Design for the kick-ass book cover. I wanted something different for my Greg Rodwell, and it definitely stands out. You brought him to life. How do we even top that for the next cover? I’m scared.

  Thank you to my family for your support and eye rolls. You know who you are.

  Thank you to Milli Vanilli. Just because.

  Stop circling the airport and let’s land this fucker.

  ~GREG RODWELL

  For Eden.

  CHAPTER 1

  Dear Gregster,

  If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Shocker. I know. I hope you made sure I didn’t look like a clown prostitute in my casket. Mom was always big on trying to make me normal and not the queen of the damned I was. Her normal was most definitely not mine. I swear if she made me look like I hawk Avon, I will haunt your dumb ass.

  I wish I could comment on what heaven or hell is like. I’ll just say that either one could use more nachos. I’ll always remember that time we ate nachos in the backward seat of Aunt Amy’s old station wagon. Being the faulty tool you are, you blew chunks everywhere. It dripped down the back window! Even if I did beat you within an inch of your eight-year-old life, that was a special memory for me. I’m telling everyone here about it.

  You’re probably wondering why I’m writing to you. In a diary. On my borrowed time. Sitting in the bathtub. I’ll pause while you think about your naked sister. Pervert.

  As I was saying, you’re probably killing your brain cells trying to think of reasons. Pencils down. I’ll give you the answer. You need me. It’s as simple as that. I’m about as deep as a clogged toilet. I can’t stand being all sentimental and shit, even in death.

  I’m not writing to you just to ramble. When I have something to say, I’ll say it. When I don’t, piss off. Figure it out yourself.

  The point of today’s writing is that I know your secret.

  Get over her, little brother.

  You fucking have to, Greg.

  Have a wonderful day.

  E

  Dear Eden,

  Get fucking bent. You think you know me, but you don’t. Nobody really does. And secrets? There are a couple I’ve never told a soul that would curl your hair. I’m not going to start by telling a fucking ghost.

  I know you left this diary for me to find but hiding it in your damn underwear drawer is repulsive, even for you. Are you satisfied that you’re still ruffling my feathers after you bit the dust? How fair is that shit? I don’t sit at your grave, spouting ridiculous theories about your life. No. Instead, I’m sitting here writing to a dead chick who didn’t have the courtesy to say goodbye before she croaked.

  Hey, you also had a little secret. I know you had the hots for your physical therapist. Wasn’t his name Ernie, as in the Keebler Elf? Aside from his porn ‘stache, his toothpick arms and crooked legs didn’t inspire confidence in me that he was qualified to help your lazy ass. Maybe he did, just in ways that make me want to claw at my brain.

  So, fucking thanks for making incorrect assumptions about me. I guess it’s all the same since everyone else does it. I don’t need you or your daily affirmations from beyond the grave to give me insight into my life. I just don’t. I got it all under control, sweet cheeks. Go back to your harp playing or pitchfork sharpening.

  You have a blessed evening.

  Greg

  P.S. Don’t haunt me. I have enough problems.

  P.P.S. Okay. Disregard most of that shit.

  P.P.P.S. You can still get bent, though. Wherever you are.

  P.P.P.P.S. Like Gloria Gaynor said, “I will survive, motherfuckers.” Or some shit like that.

  CHAPTER 2

  Do Jewish vampires avoid the Star of David?

  Does killing time damage eternity?

  Do you need a silencer if you shoot a mime?

  Can a hearse carrying a corpse drive in the carpool lane?

  If a person dies and then rises from the dead, do they get a refund for the coffin?

  “Did you fall in?”

  Widening my eyes at the piss-colored wall tile, I restlessly sigh, dramatizing my annoyance. Can I not get a moment of fucking peace around here? It’s the only place I’m able to ponder life.

  “Just taking a piss break, Amos.”

  “Could you at least give a courtesy flush?” The fucker laughs, and it echoes midstream while I throw him a middle finger from behind the door. Without seeing him, I know he’s checking out his bald reflection in the mirror, blinding the room.

  “I’ll get right on top of that,” I reply like a dial tone as I near the finish line, imagining I’m pissing on his face. He’d probably like that shit, though.
r />   “You know, there are urinals in here.” His pompous voice reverbs, giving me a double dose of his assholery.

  “Oh. I thought they were snooty sinks.” I yawn as my actions also echo within the stall. Jackwad.

  “Don’t be playing around in there. I need a face-to-face after lunch, so make sure I don’t see more than your face and zip your pants.” He just wants to think of me holding my dick. Perv.

  On the third shake, I qualify for playing with myself as I check my watch at the same time. I don’t want to see him when I leave this stall. I guess it’s time for the big guns, so to speak.

  Rolling my eyes, I moan—not my greatest moment—and noisily suck air between my teeth, praying to God nobody else walks in right now. With a loud, stuttered sigh, I give the fourth shake, grinning to myself. I hear his jaw, and his disbelief hit the sink. Don’t fuck with me, comrade. You’re no match for me.

  Amos mutters, “Okay. Okay. Just stop. I was only kidding. I’m leaving. My office in 30.”

  “Yes, Obi-None.”

  Because Amos Vaughn is so transparent, I know he’s squinting his eyes at me from the other side of the door, unsure of how to respond. Lacking comeback skills, he heaves his brawny body into the door, at the mercy of my patience. “It’s 29 minutes now, Rod.”

  Rod. Yeah. That’s me. I used to be just Greg Rodwell. A nickname given to me by a former coworker troll has transcended even her tenure here. Now, most of my coworkers and my godforsaken boss call me it. Though, that’s the tamest version of names the bitchtress used to call me, giving that my middle name is Richard. Draw your own conclusions. Sometimes I’m still Greg at work, but not often and only by a select few. I’ll never escape Rod while working here. I’ve accepted it. I just hate the source.

  I’ve also accepted that I’m the office clown, making everyone laugh. In reality, I should be a goddamn marvel for the services I provide since most of my coworkers are garbage humans. I’ve crafted my distance, deflecting with my carefully sculpted wit, aged to perfection in oak barrels for nearly 29 years—an undiluted, rye wit, you could say. That’s my superpower. Fuck me. I need a job at a distillery.

  Tucking myself and my shirt back into my pants, I kick at the handle. Emerging from the stall as I buckle my belt, the sound of the flushing toilet swirls the Amos-free room just as Crick Scanlon enters. I instantly grin. With his Caesar haircut, circa George Clooney 1996, this particular coworker is a favorite of mine. Maybe it’s because he’s the Arctic opposite and doesn’t outwit, allowing me to polish my skills. To those who don’t know him, he has a wallpaper-paste personality. That’s their loss. Because of his eerie quietness and formalness, his rare laughter is a goldmine. He takes anything I lob at him. Crick is the coloring book to my bucket of crayons. I aim to shock the hell out of him, making him laugh or gape in horror, which, coincidentally, is how my mother often looks at me on any given day. “Hey, Crock. Get fucked last night?”

  His face reddens faster than a novice ass at a BDSM club. He looks at the wall with an expression like I just kicked him in the liver. “Uh, no. Um...you?”

  My grin doesn’t falter even as I go for a depressing lie. “You know it. All night. Every night.” He’s a decent-looking guy. He could probably find a date if he tried. I’m pretty sure he’s gay like Amos, not that they’re dating each other. That would be fucking disturbing. Crick deserves way better. Not Amos Vaughn. He’s a sick fuck.

  Crick makes an effort to not look at me. I dig his awkwardness, so I grab a bigger shovel. “If you’re like me, I bet you’re a beast in the sack.” When he looks at my hands working my buckle, I tease, “I’m not doing no replay of last night for you.” He swallows loud, gaping at me. Bingo. “Just yanking your chain, Crack. Calm down.” I laugh when he looks at the ceiling, still quiet. “Maybe I can help you find a date. What’s your type?”

  “I’m not really into dating right now.”

  Finished with my belt, I go for the sink. While washing my hands, I watch Crick scratching his arm through an unnecessary sweater for the early October weather. “Come on now. I know a sex fiend is hiding beneath that submissive exterior.” Images of him being collared at one of those clubs make me flinch at my own reflection.

  He shrugs as I catch a surprising quirk of his lip in the mirror. “I’m boring, Greg. I don’t have much luck as you do, especially with a certain coworker.” Goddamn it. Don’t say her name.

  The sudsy water swirling in the sink temporarily enthralls me, so I don’t have to see either of our expressions. “Uh... She’s... We’re—”

  “Shasta?”

  Looking up at the mirror, I glare at both of us. Shit. Joke’s on me.

  Shasta. Enough said.

  Actually, no. I have plenty I want to say about that meat sock. I wish I could blame Shasta for what we did, but I was the one who went to her. It was a last-ditch effort to forget my life for the night. And shit did I do things with Shasta I’m not proud of, not that I wouldn’t do them again. Just not with her. And thanks to a busted condom, I’m glued to her. Enjoy that mental image.

  Grabbing a paper towel, my smile shrinks faster than my dick earlier, feigning jerking off for Amos. “Never.”

  “Well, Greg, I mean, you do have a daughter with her.”

  Shooting my wad—not that kind—into the trash, I try to laugh, but I’m still caught off guard by his unusual commentary. “No. Yeah. I meant, never again, not even if hell froze over, melted, caught fire, and then froze again. Damn, Crick. You know how to destroy a guy’s day.”

  He clears his throat as he inches toward a urinal. “I didn’t intend to. I’m sorry. I thought since you were joking around, I needed to engage.”

  “Jesus Christ. What a day for you to grow a vagina.”

  I return to the mirror, adjusting the Windsor knot of my Storm Trooper tie while he says, “Um, right. Well...” Through the mirror I see him staring at the urinal, and I’m half expecting him to start singing In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. I never said he wasn’t peculiar.

  I snort. “You need a bathroom pass or an engraved invitation?”

  He slightly smiles. I’ll take that as a win. “No. I was just...”

  “I’m just busting your balls.” Crick looks away from me, and I feel super awkward now for saying that. “Uh, right. Anyway, enjoy. Not too much. There’re some sick bastards working here.” Why can’t I just shut the fuck up? As I leave, I hear his quiet laugh. There’s that, at least.

  When I reach the hallway, I’m ticked for now thinking of Shasta. I guess talking to Crick does have its drawbacks.

  Taking a left, I steer clear of my office since it’s attached to Amos’. I’m not ready for that follicle-challenged psycho again yet.

  Approaching the open door, I hear a familiar voice. Stopping in the doorway and leaning against the frame, I straighten my tie and cross my arms.

  She looks my way with a bright smile as she talks. I don’t know how she does it, but I grin back at her. It’s a requirement.

  Hadley.

  My favorite person.

  Well, I guess next to my infant daughter and my older sister, Eden, but to be fair, my daughter is new in town, and my sister is dead.

  I watch Hadley move as she talks. I’m always watching her.

  Hadley and I have been BFFs since I started working as a paralegal at the law offices of Rhodes, Dryden, Charleton & Associates over three years ago. Only that long? It feels like I’ve been rotting here for a century and a half.

  Hadley turns her attention back to her computer screen as she nods. Her honey-brown ponytail dances along while I stare, and I can’t help but do that, even though I have no right. When she laughs, my gaze drops to her bouncing tits, larger than they used to be only months ago. Her left hand goes to her chest, and her sapphire and diamond rings catch the overhead light, blinding me while reminding me. I didn’t give her those rings, but I may as well have with the lengths I went to get them on her finger.

  Forget Crick. I’m the masochi
stic submissive.

  Hanging up her desk phone, she turns her full attention to me with bright green eyes and a bigger smile, making me roll my eyes as I lose control of my fucking grin.

  “Hey. You going for coffee?” Hadley’s voice momentarily shakes me from my daily beatdown. I instantly look away from her not-all-that-innocent face and shift to the window overlooking the cemetery across the street. I appreciate cemeteries, not because they harbor the dead, but for how their stories end—happy, sad, cliffhangers or mysteries. All that shit’s there. On a less tragic note, they’re an excellent place to eat lunch and escape your coworkers. Almost. It doesn’t help when I invite a certain one with me all the damn time.

  I realize she’s still waiting for an answer, so I forget the cemetery, but again, I’m caught up in her smile. “Yeah. You all done milking yourself?”

  “Rod!” She giggles and my attention again falls to her chest as she laughs. Before she notices me foaming at the mouth, I look at the gray carpeting. How have I made it through years on end here? “I already pumped this morning. I just need to finish this one thing.”

  “Whatever. I’m in no hurry.” Amos can take a flying leap off the James Monroe Building downtown, boss or not. He’d be lost without me. I’m never on time for that schmuck’s meetings, and we practically share the same office.

  As I wait, I look to her desk. Next to Hadley’s computer are pictures that choke me, never letting me live down my stupid life choices. Every damn time I step into her office. The picture on the left is a cruel joke rattling through my tin-can soul. Her wedding picture. Though her husband owes me for what I did for him, his triumphant grin mocks me, day and night.

  Averting from his victory, I look at the other picture. It makes me smile back, just like her mother does. Hadley’s baby daughter is the same age as mine—about two months. Cute little shit. I can’t help but stare at that picture the most, for a reason I can’t even admit out loud.

  “Earth to Rod.” Hadley smiles, catching my attention. Smirking to cover my mental hiatus, I veer away from the torture, automatically moving to the hallway. Still, when she joins me, I notice how perfect her neck is and how her tits swell under her black blouse—Liz Claiborne. She always shops at JC Penney, so an easy guess. Before her curves were new and improved, I touched some of them. I still can’t forget how she felt. Or how I did.