by Score, Lucy
She handed me the plastic bag full of shitty clothes as if it were my job to dispose of them.
“They all laughed at me,” Amie Jo said flatly.
“Well, you did do the backstroke in a half ton of donkey shit,” I pointed out. “Imagine if it would have been me. You would have laughed.”
She looked at me, eyes narrowing. “But you didn’t laugh. Everyone else did.”
“I know what it’s like to be laughed at.” It was as simple as that.
“Oh,” she said.
“Travis is getting you your driving Uggs,” I said, pointing at the mismatched shoes on her feet.
“Why? I want to go home!”
“Look, Amie Jo. Take it from me. If you go home in shame, this will follow you. However, if you march out there in your driving Uggs and your borrowed clothes and collect donations and at least pretend to laugh it off, it’ll slide right off of you, and you’ll be back to your reign of terror in no time.”
There was a knock on the locker room door. “Amie Jo? Honey? I’ve got your Uggs and your emergency perfume,” Travis called.
Nostrils flaring, Amie Jo straightened her shoulders and marched around me to the door.
58
Jake
“Everything go okay in there, or do you need a mop for the bloodshed?” I asked Marley when she came back out of the locker room.
She took her donkey’s bridle and scratched his nose with a small smile. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans, her hair in a messy knot, she looked edible to me.
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
“That was really nice of you, by the way,” I told her. “You didn’t have to help her after all the shit—ha—she’s pulled with you.” Something about the fact that this woman just went out of her way to show kindness to a mortal enemy made her even more attractive to me. What the hell was happening to me? I fall in love and instantly turn into a teddy bear of mush? Love made men pathetic, I decided.
She tried to shrug off the compliment, but I pulled her into me and wrapped her in a one-armed hug. I used my other arm to elbow Bertha away from Marley’s already mangled hood.
“I’m serious, pretty girl. You’re a good person.”
“I’m probably going to laugh really hard about it later tonight,” she confessed.
“You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. It was fucking hilarious. Now, are you prepared to have your ass—man, I’m hilarious tonight—handed to you?”
She laughed appreciatively. Another point in her favor. The woman had the good taste to find me amusing. I loved her. Completely and without question, and I had no fucking clue what to do about it.
“On a scale of one to Peeing Your Pants in School, how humiliating is this going to be?” she asked, wincing as the crowd in the gymnasium broke into enthusiastic applause.
“Baby, you didn’t just fall ass-first into donkey shit. You’ll be just fine. Have fun with it.”
“Where’s your helmet?” she asked, eyeing my bare head.
I grinned and picked up my motorcycle helmet from the floor.
She rolled her eyes. “Always a rebel.”
I gave her a quick kiss for luck on the cheek and went off to huddle with my team. The rules were simple. There were five to a team. Four players from each team took to the court at a time. You could run alongside your donkey leading him or her down the court, but in order to shoot the ball, you had to be astride.
Our donkeys were fat, happy pets from several local farms that rented out their specially trained herds for one fundraiser a year and nativity plays at Christmas. They arrived in a train of Cadillac-like trailers and received pets, hugs, and treats from VIP donors prior to the game. Bertha here lived in an actual house. Ezekiel, the short brownish donkey, was a certified therapy animal allowed to visit the senior citizens at the nursing home.
Riders were given a crash course in donkey handling which boiled down to, “Don’t make your donkey do anything he or she doesn’t want to do.” That added to the hilarity of the event. Last year, I’d been saddled—ha—with a donkey that felt like walking off the court and into the hallway every five minutes.
I hoped Marley ended up with a lazy ass. I mean, I loved the girl and all, but I was competitive. I wanted to win. Besides, learning to laugh at herself would be good for her.
We took to the court, awkwardly leading our four-legged partners to the center where the Media Club announced the riders and steeds. I waved like a star athlete when it was my turn and scanned the stands. My uncles were in attendance somewhere. I spotted the Ciceros holding a calligraphy Marley Cicero is Our Daughter sign in the front row looking excited. They waved to me, and I waved back. For in-laws, a guy could do a lot worse.
Holy fucking shit. Where the hell had that come from?
“Yo, Weston,” Haruko called. “Let’s huddle up.”
I would freak out later, I decided.
“Okay, Team Ass-tonishing All-Stars,” the official donkey handler said. “Remember, our primary goal is gentle donkey management. Don’t pull. Don’t push. Don’t kick. The donkeys are the stars, and you are their personal assistants. If poop happens, there are buckets and shovels at the end of each court. You are responsible for your donkey’s poop.”
Heh, Bertha had already unleashed her bowels, so I was covered for the duration of the game.
“We’ll be breaking for water, treats, and rest halfway through.”
The game lasted thirty minutes, which was about as long as the crowd could laugh without pissing their pants. And it kept the donkeys within their allotted cardio conditioning for the day.
We stood for the National Anthem, and then it was game time. I gave Marley a sassy wink.
* * *
Marley was a surprisingly good donkey rider. Or her damn donkey had a crush on her. While Bill Beerman proceeded to fall off for the third time—the guy had zero balance—and Floyd chased after his escaped donkey, Marley trotted down the court clutching the ball. She missed the basket. But Principal Eccles rebounded it and swished it for two points. The two women high-fived from the backs of their respective donkeys as the crowd cheered.
Bertha was a heat-seeking missile on course to return to half-court when she got distracted by something. The entire girls soccer team. They were lined up on the first bleacher unbagging apple slices and carrot sticks.
I heard Marley’s laugh and flipped up the visor of my helmet to give her a stern glare. Of course she’d cheat. I was mad I hadn’t thought of it myself.
Three of my team’s four donkeys trotted over to graze happily out of the girls’ hands while Haruko faced the Ass-tute Achievers alone. The crowd was eating it up. I waved the ref over and demanded he call a foul. Marley rode over, and we went toe-to-hoof in a good-natured shouting match.
“She’s cheating, ref!”
“He’s just jealous he didn’t think of it first!”
The crowd was on its feet, and there was nothing even happening on the court. I could see the can collectors accepting fistfuls of cash and winked at Marley.
She grinned and then covered it with a fierce glare.
Bertha lunged at Marley’s hood and got another good bite.
“Aaah! Control your noble steed, you jackass,” Marley screeched at me as Bertha accidentally choked her with her death bite on the hood.
“Yellow card for trying to asphyxiate a member of the opposing team,” the ref said, shoving a yellow card in my face.
“Now you’re just making shit up,” I complained, wrestling Marley’s hood away from my hungry donkey. “Bertha, you’re making me look bad.” I swear to God she winked at me.
Marley skipped off with Donkey Ote and gave her team the thumbs-up. Karma was swift and judicious. When Marley tried to climb onto her donkey’s back, he turned in a tight circle, and she slid right over his back onto the gym floor. Her soccer team was hysterical. I jogged over and sidestepped Donkey Ote.
“Are you okay?”
She rolled over, tears stream
ing down her face.
“Oh, shit. Are you hurt?”
Marley shook her head and sucked in a breath. Her bun was crooked under her helmet, her cheeks were flushed, and her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.
“I. Can’t. Breathe,” she squeaked out, wiping away the tears. “I fell off a donkey.” She covered her mouth with her hand, brown eyes twinkling, and I realized I’d never seen anyone more beautiful in my entire life. I was going to marry this woman. And I was going to mention this exact moment in our vows.
Donkey Ote got tired of not eating snacks and nudged me in the back hard enough to shove me into Marley. It started her laughing all over again. We were a tangle of limbs and donkey leads, and neither one of us could stop laughing long enough to help the other one up. Around us, the game continued in fits and spurts. But I was too busy falling deeper in love to do anything about it.
We sat up and did our best to untie the donkey halters.
“Yo, Cicero!” Floyd called from down the court just as we got untangled.
He heaved a Hail Mary in our direction. In slow motion, I watched as Marley shoved me back onto the floor and caught the ball to her chest. She stuck her tongue out at me and slid onto Donkey Ote’s back. I lay there slack-jawed as her ass jogged down the court and Marley executed the perfect donkey-assisted layup.
It was pure pandemonium in the gym.
59
Marley
“We won. Get over it,” I told Jake smugly as we walked up the driveway.
“You cheated,” he argued.
“Listen, I don’t know how my team all ended up with cans of silly string. I’m completely innocent,” I lied. My team had squeaked by with a victory after we’d unleashed a silly string assault on the other team’s riders with a minute left in the game.
“You’re a Cicero. I should have known you’d take winning too seriously,” he teased. “I think my wrist is still sprained from Dutch Blitz.”
“It’s your own fault for assuming my family is normal. And you should see Zinnia play chess. She’s got a victory dance for a checkmate that is not safe for work.”
We stepped up onto the front porch, and I glanced around at the columns. Even the front of Amie Jo’s house was decked out for the party. There were balloons in Culpepper blue and white, hurricane vases with candles, and what looked like several large Barn Owl piñatas hanging from the rafters.
Living next door had given me a front-row seat to witness Amie Jo’s party preparations. The swan had been corralled in a white picket pen in the front yard where it squawked at the steady line of caterers and party planners and other strangers in uniform carrying mysterious boxes and bins. Vans and trucks drove onto the grounds in a steady stream starting at 10 a.m.
I couldn’t wait to see what was behind the large double front doors. On the other hand, I also couldn’t wait to go the hell back to Jake’s house. I was willingly going to a social event in Culpepper. At my sworn enemy’s house. Sure, I was interested in what was behind door number one, but I’d rather be getting naked with my boyfriend.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked, tugging at his sports coat.
“Amie Jo hasn’t reported me to Principal Eccles in a few days,” I told him. It was a Culpepper miracle. Seemingly, her slide through warm donkey shit had, at least temporarily, dulled the woman’s hatred of me. I’d expected another conference with the principal when Floyd and I worked out a deal with a local barre studio to borrow their free-standing barres. We were in the midst of two weeks of clunky ballet moves and quivering thighs as we all held unnatural positions. The kids freaking loved it.
“Maybe she’s finally decided to grow up,” Jake said optimistically. He reached around me and pressed the doorbell I’d been working up the nerve to poke. “Relax, Mars. You look great, and I guarantee you’re going to have a damn good time.”
“I’m walking into the lion’s den, and you act like we’re going to an ice cream social,” I complained.
“Trust me. There ain’t nothing ice cream social about this party,” he promised cryptically.
The front door opened, and I could only blink at the camouflage tuxedo-ed man before us. “Welcome to the Hostetter Estate,” he said in a British accent. “May I please have your names?”
“Jake Weston and Marley Cicero,” Jake said with a straight face when I appeared to be incapable of speech. Where did one even find a camo tux?
Jeeves looked down his nose at the clipboard in his gloved hands. “Yes, of course. Welcome, Mr. Weston, Ms. Cicero.”
Jake pushed me inside, and my heels clicked on the marble floors. We were in a two-story foyer-like room. Jeeves was pointing out the coat check closet, an actual walk-in closet just off the front door with an actual attendant standing behind an actual Dutch door. I turned to roll my eyes at Jake and gasped when I realized the entire wall above the front door was decked out with dead animals. I’d forgotten Travis was a hunter. I wondered if there were any animals left in the Pennsylvania forests.
A server in a camo vest and black pants paused to offer us wine from his tray. “Boone’s Farm. There’s a fountain in the conservatory.”
I took a plastic glass and stared at Jake. “Did he just say there’s a Boone’s Farm fountain in the conservatory?”
“Yes. Yes, he did. But Mars, you’re missing the best part.”
He took me by the shoulders and turned me around.
Looming above us, was the largest family portrait I’d ever seen. Amie Jo, Travis, and the boys—all dressed in white, Amie Jo wearing a tiara—were immortalized in oil paints and accented by the largest gilt frame in the world. It had to be at least twelve feet high.
“Holy shit,” I murmured.
He clunked his plastic glass to mine. “Oh, baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
We checked our coats with the perky attendant, and I let Jake lead me further into the house, past the gold leaf, curved staircase. There was a formal living room with white leather furniture and more gold leaf. The walls were painted a fishy salmon. The art was a collection of pink and blue abstracts. There were more floating Greek columns and thick draperies over the windows. It was like 1980s wealthy Miami had thrown up in here.
There were a handful of guests here dressed to the nines, laughing and drinking.
“Just think. This could have been your life,” Jake teased.
I shuddered. Sure, money would be nice. But I couldn’t imagine myself relaxing on the weekends in a place like this. Not with that many dead animals on the wall. The formal dining room was across the hall. It was crowded with party guests who were vying for the wedding reception-worthy spread on the glossy table long enough to seat at least twenty-guests. There was a large stuffed boar in the corner poised to charge.
Mrs. Gurgevich, looking fancy in a black sequined kimono, was loading her plate with deviled eggs and sushi. Floyd was behind her, juggling two plates overflowing with food and a beer. “Yo! Cicero! Weston!”
I held up my wine in a toast to him.
Floyd bobbled a meatball, and it rolled off the plate onto the thick white rug under the table.
“Oooooh!” the crowd crowed. Out of nowhere a very tiny thing with perky ears and perfectly trimmed white facial fur bounded into the room.
“What the hell is that?” I asked.
“That’s Burberry,” Jake said.
Burberry pounced on the meatball.
“He’s a designer dog,” Lois, the school secretary, said. “I heard Amie Jo bought him from a breeder for $7,000.”
“He doesn’t bark,” Belinda Carlisle added. “It’s bred out of him.”
Burberry licked his neatly trimmed chops with a tiny pink tongue before happily trotting out of the room.
“That was a dog? I’ve seen dust bunnies bigger than that,” I commented.
Jake squeezed my shoulder.
I liked how he delivered casual physical contact reliably. He didn’t make a show of keeping his sexy hands to himself. And bein
g “handled” by him made me feel like he was constantly reminding me that he was here.
“Let’s get in line for the food, then we’ll find the bar and the DJ.”
“There’s a DJ?” I asked.
He held up a finger, and I listened. Over the buzz of excited party people, I could hear the steady thump of music.
We loaded up plates with pasta, cheese, sushi, and delectable skewers of meat that the server promised no one we knew had killed and went in search of the bar. If I was going to spend an evening in the Hostetter estate, I required liquor. And lots of it.
Jake led the way down into the hallway and past the massive kitchen teeming with catering staff.
We found the bar in a room that had a baby grand piano and a wall of bookcases. Amie Jo never struck me as a reader, and I got the feeling that the books—all spines facing in—were just decoration.
Unfortunately, we also found our hosts.
Amie Jo was dressed in a gold cocktail dress with a neckline that showed her belly button. There was no way those gravity-defying boobs were real. No friggin’ way.
She had a gold star stuck to the skin at the corner of her eye, and her extensions were waist-length now. Travis was dutifully handsome in slacks and a button-down. I felt like I was staring at Small-Town Party Barbie and Ken. They were blindingly attractive together. It looked as though Amie Jo had survived her slide through shit and come out smelling like a rich rose.
“You ready to greet our hosts?” Jake asked.
“Would it be rude if I waited until I had more than Boone’s Farm swimming through my system first?”
His eyes lit up with a devilish light that I’d come to recognize as a promise of trouble.
“Then I’ll just have to take you over into this dark corner and kiss you until they’re gone,” he said wickedly.
I put a hand on his chest when he started to move in like a shark. “Wait. You’re not just doing this to put on a show for Amie Jo, are you?”
