by Kellie Hart
“It is something to behold,” I manage. “And speaking of be-holding, may I be a-holding it?”
***
DELETED SCENE No. 10
-Original opening for Chapter One-
With a firm hand, I stuff a bedazzled bra and thong into a locker at Genevieve’s Cupcakes and Shit. It’s as if my professional undergarments are bread crumbs and this cheap-ass cabinet is a fucking Thanksgiving turkey.
Or should it be vajazzled bra? I ask myself like it matters.
Vajazzled? Perhaps, that term is more appropriate for Christmas ornamentation on the lady shrub?
Christmas?! What’re you talking about? It’s July. We need fireworks and BBQ sauce to adorn ye old vajayjay!
The founding fathers are rolling in their graves right now, Carolina.
Don’t be such a pussy. You know they’d think it’s finger-lickin’ good!
“There you are, Carey Berry!” someone squeals behind me, like she’s finally tried the official Hickory-Smoked Snatch Sauce of Summer 2017.
***
DELETED SCENE No. 11
-The Carry-On Cock, a Reformed Sex Addict, and Chad, the Baby-daddy-
“Damn straight,” I laugh. “I’m five-feet of fucking fierciosity! But, seriously, you’ve got no reason to worry. Nothing happened at Hot Rod other than this guy who got a little handsy at the end of my set.”
Jacque’s mouth falls open into a gaping O before she plants her hands on her hips. “Did he—did he grab you?”
It’s not hard to laugh at her shock. “Of course not! Handsy, in my world, can mean two things. One: he grabs me without permission. Two: he grabs himself.”
It takes a second for that to sink in, but when it does, Jacque’s blue eyes grow as wide as my grandmammy’s dessert saucers. “So, you mean, he was… uh… he was… enjoying a visit from Right Hand Roger?”
“Yup. Right Hand Roger whipped Little Dicky Doo out like nobody’s business, and he just started yanking on it. Up, down, left, right, slippin’ and slidin’ like he was flying an invisible plane with that fucking stick.” I lean in and whisper the best part. “It made slurping noises.”
A hand rises to Jacque’s grin in surprise. “...Slurping noises?”
“Apparently, the guy came prepared with his own lube, too, and he took the directions—Apply liberally—to heart,” I explain with a smirk.
“No way!”
“Yes way! I was in the middle of a brass monkey on the pole, and I heard the schlipp, schlipp, schlipp of his vigorous hand-love from at least ten feet away. When I hit the floor, I was blessed to preview the full monty before the bouncer dragged his creepy ass out the door.”
“Okay, two questions,” Jacque giggles. “First, was he a local? Secondly, was his diddle dumpling something worth being shown off in public?”
My head flies back as I guffaw, and it smacks the locker. I rub the sore spot as I tell her the rest of the tale. “Fuck no! Bob McGobster, in fact, is an eyelash extension salesman from Toledo. And another round of no, no, no. GOD NO for question number two. The tip didn’t even pass the palm of his hand.”
“Maybe he left his big gun in a suitcase somewhere,” Jacque muses.
“Or… maybe his dick is just travel-size!” I offer.
“Convenient and portable!” Jacque quips. “I like the sound of that!”
Feeling inspired by our banter, I decide to let loose in my best But Wait, There’s More! voice. “Ladies and gentleman, it slices, it dices, it punches, and it munches… It’s the CARRY-ON COCK! Discrete and petite, the Carry-On Cock’s full four inches easily install into the male erogenous zone to ensure masturbatory magic! If you call now, we’ll even quadruple your order. That’s right! That means a cock for you, a cock for your grandma, and two cocks for your cat! Everybody gets a cock!”
Just for good measure, I grab a couple of limp piping bags off a supply table, because they eerily resemble condoms for fucking Big Foot, and toss them at Jacque. We double over in a fit of hysterics, and too soon, our tomfoolery is interrupted by a familiar cackle.
“I thought I heard you two old pussies hissing when I rounded the corner,” Charlotte Kensington, my other BFF, laughs before swamping Jacque and me both in a giant bear hug. We can hardly hold her back due to the about-to-burst baby belly she’s sporting. “And, for the record, Carolina Rose Grant, I hold the patent on your aforementioned Carry-On Cock.”
Cocking an eyebrow, I take a step back from Char and hook a thumb under my suspenders. “Oh, really now? Who declared you Doctor Cockenstein?”
Char brushes chestnut curls over a shoulder and sticks out her proud pregger-impowered chest. “I am nothing if not a cocktual connoisseur, thereby making me the default mastermind behind anything cock-related.”
Jacque coughs. “You mean reformed cocktual connoisseur, as you’re engaged to my brother.”
“Reformed-schformed. Once a dick addict, always a dick addict. Or should it be that I’m an addickt?” Char asks before gesturing wildly to herself in some form of alien sign language—hell if I know—and staring seriously into the middle distance.
As Jacque chuckle to herself, I roll my eyes, grab Char’s cheek, and bring her attention back to me. “Remember, dear, we can’t see your words. Only you can. In your head.”
Char slaps her forehead and laughs awkwardly. “That’s right! I keep forgetting.”
As Jacque mouths Why did you ruin her dream again, Carey?, Chadwick Charles, Char’s sinfully sexy baby daddy, saunters into the backroom of the bakery where we’ve been way too long.
“Here’s my girl,” Chad says before planting a kiss on Char’s cheek. He dips his blonde, curly head to her tummy and pecks it as well. “And here’s my other girl.”
When Chad returns to his full height, Char weaves her fingers into his hair and brings his mouth back to hers, and they proceed to make out as if no one else is in the room. And I swear to God, if Char wasn’t already pregnant, she would be in about thirty more seconds considering where this is headed.
This must be what it’s like to watch badgers in heat. Oddly enough, the way Char’s going after Chad’s face resembles how she devours a chicken leg.
LORDY, Y’ALL, HOT ROD HAS NEEDED A WHOLE FUCKING VILLAGE TO RAISE IT!
I originally wrote Hot Rod in June 2017, but something about it never really sat well with me. I loved my characters, but I had the toughest time saying I was proud of it. Bombshell and Knockout were easy peasy for me. I knew Jacque and Char from line one of their stories, but Carey was an entirely different person. In my head, she was one thing, and when I put that to the paper, it didn’t work. She didn’t sing like Jacque and Char, so I gave up on her, quite literally, and sent Hot Rod off to the great Pam Gonzales, Allison Irwin, and Tamara Harrington, desperate for their unique ability to call me out on my shit. These three ladies loved Carey instantly, but I think they were onto my struggle to write her correctly.
After much back and forth, I decided to scrap Carey and Atticus’s original story, and beginning Thanksgiving 2017, I rewrote Hot Rod. Yes, you’re reading that correctly. I rewrote all 40,000 words of this fucking novella in a matter of three or four days so it could get edited in time for publication, so here she is today.
To be honest, I can’t be more proud of this little story, but the credit alone isn’t mine to take. I have to give major props to Tamara Harrington who was my first beta reader for the project. She boosted my ego and made it clear Carey was worth saving because her story is one that needs to be told. Secondly, I have to give a fucking shout-out to my book bestie, the beautiful Allison Irwin. She first told me I was nuts when I decided to start over, and she literally read a different draft a day for the last two weeks to help me get to the one in your hands. I couldn’t ask for more from a friend or a book sister. Finally, I have to say thank you to Pam Gonzales. On Thanksgiving, I messaged Pam, and I told her I needed her to tell me I wasn’t crazy for wanting to scrap the book; she told me I wasn’t. She even mentioned tha
t maybe I’d let my heart get in the way and that I wasn’t writing Carey as she was but as I wanted her to be. Y’all, I shit you not when I say I’ve never heard truer words. With Pam’s advice, I shut up my own fucking brain and just went for it, and Carey came to life, potty mouth and all.
I also have to say thanks to Laura Hull for naming Trixie, Millie’s best friend, in my Christmas short story, “Full Monty,” which features the Up-Close & Personal gang as well as my new handsome rogue, Montague Cotton. If you haven’t read it yet, “Full Monty” is available exclusively in Christmas Kisses: A Holiday Collection of Short Stories, which is now available on Amazon!
As always, much gratitude is given to my husband and my momma. Without my husband, I wouldn’t have time to write; without my momma, I wouldn’t be a writer.
And thank you, dear reader, too! Your messages of love and encouragement make me come back to the keyboard time after time. I can’t thank you enough for keeping me in my happy place.
I NEVER HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT TO SAY HERE.
And then I ramble on for pages. I’m not kidding about that. My last “About the Author” section was two pages long. I’ll try to keep this one short and sweet.
My name is Kellie Hart. I like coffee, cats, and comfy socks. I do not like pie, porcupines, or pants. I speak fluent sarcasm, but despite where I live, I am terrible at French. I am in my early thirties, but I feel like I am perpetually a teenager. I hate happy endings, but I write them anyway because everyone deserves a chance to ride off into the sunset. My lucky number is 7; I don’t gamble. I am naturally a blonde; I dye my hair red. I like my husband, but I have a severe fear of hugs.
I know these things about myself with one-hundred percent certainty, but it hasn’t always been this way. Carey brings to life a side of myself that I still battle: self-doubt. Mike is based on a real-life boyfriend of mine, and his words left me forever scarred. To do this day, I hear his voice. To this day, I remind myself it’s okay that I fight to ignore him. So today, I choose to be me—the porcupine hatin’, coffee drinkin’, fake redhead that I am. Without her, Jacque, Char, and now Carey, wouldn’t exist, so, I’m pretty damn special, if I do say so myself. And I do.
-Kellie H<3rt
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