by T Gephart
Instead of slowly emerging as a pair, maybe changing his relationship status on Facebook or waiting until Christmas and posing for a joint Christmas card, we—the collective of him and I—were going out tonight with his band.
As a couple.
Together.
Around other people.
I had to fight the urge not to throw up.
Not only did I have maybe twelve or so hours to get used to the fact I was no longer single, but we were going to have to broadcast it publicly.
“Oh, God. I’m going to throw up.”
Because I didn’t want to share my wonderful spew-tastic moment with Renee, I ran my not-so-single ass to the bathroom and slammed the door. My body just making it to the toilet bowl in time for my undignified heave. Gross. This was not a good thing.
“Hey, you used protection right? Five-times-lover boy didn’t knock you up already did he?” My beautiful yet not so wise bestie called through the door.
“Yes, we were careful and no one gets morning sickness that fast,” I hollered back as I tried to win a war with the impending nausea. Please don’t throw up again, please don’t throw up again. And . . . too late, my body once again doubled over as what little had been in my stomach came back up for a revisit.
Ugh. This was not good.
“Why are you puking? Please don’t tell me you are allergic to good sex. You’ll break my heart.” Renee’s face greeted me when I finally opened the door.
“It’s not the sex I’m worried about, it’s his friends.” The enormity of what I was about to do hitting me. “I was dating someone in secret for two whole years, I don’t know how to do this in public. Plus, you’ve seen him. I’m going to be around all that where people can see. Judging me with their judging.” I waved my hands in front of me for effect.
I could see them now wondering what the hell a guy like him was doing with a girl like me. Talk about punching above my weight, I was going to be slaughtered.
“What are you talking about?” Renee slapped me across the shoulder. “You’re gorgeous and if he didn’t want to be seen with you he wouldn’t have asked you out. He isn’t anything like the loser you used to date who wanted you only as his dirty little secret. As for his friends, if they are judging you, it’s because they are narrow-minded bastards who know nothing. Their opinion should mean nothing.”
Easy for her to say, she wasn’t the one who was going into the lion’s den. God, that asshole really messed with my head. Thanks a lot, Rob—my mental fist shook in the air. I hope his new wife-to-be was a terrible lay.
“I can do this,” I said out loud, under no delusions that I was the only one I was trying to convince. “I can totally do this.”
“Of course you can. You are going to be brilliant.” Renee pulled me into a hug. “Just don’t puke on him; that would be bad.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Continuing to talk about it wasn’t the solution. Nope. All it had done was give me a panic attack and made me lose breakfast. I needed action. Yes, that’s what I needed to do. Push myself out of my comfort zone. Be strong. Be brave. Be . . . insert another motivating adjective.
So with my mind firmly set that I wasn’t going to look like a loser, I pushed Renee out the door with a promise to give her a full report. I stopped short of photos because we both knew I sucked at selfies. The angle, trying to look sexy and not constipated, holding the camera with one hand and pressing the button—it was just beyond me. She would have to take my word for it.
First things first, I needed to decide what I was going to wear. I could already feel the panic starting to build again as I walked back into my room and started to rummage through my closet. It was seriously lacking in the rock and roll department with the main concentration of my wardrobe being corporate attire. Awesome, if we were going to take a deposition I’d be rocking it, but hanging with his friends—not so much.
Okay, Okay. Let’s not panic. I have jeans. Cute tops. I have stuff to wear, I just needed to coordinate it all together. Oh and makeup too. And hair. Fuck. I was going to need a paper bag to blow into. Or a shot of Valium. Maybe both.
It was while searching for the paper bag—I was almost positive that looking for Valium would be a fruitless exercise—that I found something else which might be helpful. Something to calm my nerves.
No, not alcohol, I’d already established I wasn’t a great drinker. But in the top-right hand kitchen cabinet housed in an old-school cookie container I found a very small bag of what I knew to be weed.
Ah, the flashbacks. Fond memories of my mother stashing her baggies in my Barbie’s dream house, me wondering why Barbie needed dried oregano. It was such a joyous time.
In any case, I was going to get high. Not get so wasted that all I wanted to do was sit around in my underwear eating cold pizza, just enough of a buzz that the anxiety I was feeling wouldn’t be an issue. What could possibly go wrong?
Trying to find rolling papers was another story. No amount of drawer rummaging turned up anything remotely useful. So rather than turn the whole house upside down in search of a smoking device, I decided to embrace my domestic goddess and have an afternoon date with my good old friend Betty Crocker.
Excellent. I was going to get high and eat brownies; just an average afternoon.
After I’d carefully measured out the ingredients, and added a liberal dose of herb, I put the pan in to bake. I was feeling relaxed already. This was the best idea I’d had all day. There was a little rock star in all of us and mine was just dying to come out.
And while my pockets of goodness were getting baked—the irony that I soon would be, wasn’t lost on me—I returned to my closet with a new perspective and fresh pair of eyes.
I had plenty to wear. Heaps even. I have no idea why I was even worried in the first place. Totally unnecessary. I was going to look awesome.
The buzzer from the oven sounded as I’d finally decided on a pair of skinny jeans and a corset. The corset being from a leftover Halloween costume when I had insisted on going as Scarlett O’Hara. My frankly-my-dear-I don’t-give-a-damn not getting anywhere near the acclaim it deserved and I was thankful I hadn’t tossed the beautifully made undergarments away with the hideously hooped skirt.
See, everything had a purpose, and finally I was being rewarded. Rusty wasn’t going to believe his eyes when he saw me; I was going to look sensational.
All I needed now was to get high, get showered, get dressed and get sexy—and I couldn’t wait. This was going to be the best night ever.
“Rus, I’m in way over my head.”
Max wasn’t the type of guy to deal out the drama. He was your classic, laid back dude. More reliable than Joey but nowhere near as high strung as Angie, he was an easy fit in the caravan of crazy that was Black Addiction. So his current mood was completely out of character when he was pacing, wearing a hole in the floor and acting like the Po-Po just took his last dime bag. I had to wonder what the fuck was going on.
“Dude, whatever it is, we’ll work it out.” It couldn’t be that bad, maybe Angie’s pregnancy hormones were just getting to everyone.
“Yeah, it’s that fucking bad.” He pushed his ass into the seat beside me.
“So lay it on me, what’s going down?”
There wasn’t a lot that could have killed my mood. After finally getting Alison into my bed and having more sex in the last twenty-four hours than I’d had since she moved in, I was happily in bliss-town.
While the first time we’d had sex had been pretty damn awesome, it wasn’t even close to what the rest of the night ended up producing. The douchebag she’d been with before hadn’t made her come properly in the two years which meant she had turned into the perfect lady-in-the-streets-and-a-freak-in-the sheets combo, willing to try almost anything. She was an enigma and there wasn’t a chance in hell I was letting anyone else get a taste.
Fuck. That.
I was locking it down, happily doing the couple thing. It was
an easy choice.
Unfortunately, while I was fantasizing about my hot new girlfriend, Max was spilling his guts about his fucktard of a brother. The piece of shit douchebag who had been mooching off Joey and Max, had also been up to some shady behavior. Max overheard some cryptic late-night phone calls, Phil also being evasive on his whereabouts when leaving the house. His long-suffering wife was completely done with his stoner ways and wanted to make the split permanent.
“Some serious shit is going down. Nicole, Phil’s wife, didn’t just kick him out. She’s divorcing him. I went to her house to see if I could patch things up between the two of them, smooth some shit over. And instead I came face to face with a dude who is almost as wide as he is tall wearing Phil’s fucking robe.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “She said he’d been hiding something their whole marriage. Like epic shit that even she couldn’t believe. She told me she was done with him; that she couldn’t believe he’d buried the secret for all these years.”
“What the hell could Phil have done? Another woman? It’s not like he’s smart enough to do much else?” Phil putting his dick where it didn’t belong was plausible, but other than that I came up empty. Last time I checked the US government had stopped using monkeys so CIA operative wasn’t even in contention.
“Dude, she wouldn’t tell me, just kept going on and on about the emails she found. Years of correspondence that confirmed he had some kind of double life. Something bad apparently happened before they even met and he’s kept it hidden all these years. Thank fuck they never had kids.”
“Surely she’s exaggerating? Double life? Unless he’s been going to Thailand and entertaining lady boys, it has to be an affair. Do you have any idea what she could be talking about? He isn’t rocking some deep desire to suck dick is he?” I bucked out a laugh wondering how that asshole shared the same DNA as the standup guy in front of me. Maybe he’d been switched at birth. That could qualify as the deep, dark secret and surely a fantasy we’d all hoped for.
“It’s not funny.” He huffed out a breath before continuing. “Problem is that Phil knows I went over there. He thinks me talking to Nicole was going to work shit out for him. And there lies the dilemma. I have no idea what I’m dealing with, what if he’s dying or something? And how to tell him that not only is there no hope but there’s some other guy in his house taking care of his old lady.”
I was trying to be sympathetic. Really, I was, but the fact Phil contributed nothing to society other than trouble for his brother made it really freaking hard for me to dig deep and give a fuck.
“Ah fuck, Max. That sucks but you’re just going to have to tell him, no point in prolonging that shit. Like a Band-aid—boom, your Mrs. is shacked-up with someone else and by the way, she found out about your fetish for lady’s lingerie.” No shit, I gave zero fucks.
“Are you kidding me?” Max clocked me with a stare, my lack of fucks multiplied by a million by him. “He’s already talking the I’ve-got-nothing-to-live-for shit, I don’t want him to off himself while I’m gone.”
“He doesn’t mean that stuff, he’s just being dramatic. You’re going to find out this BS secret is going to be lame and all this worry was over nothing. Trust me, he is a grown ass man, he’ll deal.” Phil was slowly climbing to the top of my shit list. Right after the limp-dick who’d messed with my girl.
“And what if he doesn’t deal? That’s the kind of guilt I don’t want to be carrying for the rest of my life.”
Max had a point. While I might not have lost any sleep over the oxygen thief’s demise, his kid brother would have life-longed that burden. Max was one of the few dudes I’d take a bullet for so the problem that hadn’t been mine was suddenly moving into my mental space. Like it or not, this shit wasn’t going away.
“So what’s the alternative? Let him believe he has a chance? It will just be worse for him in the long run. Get him drunk and get him laid and hopefully he’ll come clean or if nothing else, find someone else to be his new personal Jesus. There are plenty of dumbasses that will still find your loser brother attractive. Why, is still a mystery, but you give him two weeks and he will be all wrapped up in some other set of pretty legs. It’s Phil, if the man didn’t think with his dick, he wouldn’t think at all.”
We just needed to keep him drunk enough and whatever shit he’d been hiding would find its way to the surface. Then Max and the rest of us could move on with our lives. It would also serve to distract him from the fact his wife had moved on to greener pastures, tired of his BS and was ready to sign paperwork to make it legal. Perhaps she’d just been sober enough for the first time and realized what a dickwad she’d actually married, hate to break it to her but that wasn’t much of a secret.
“You think that would work? We take him out, get him talking and set him up with someone?” Max was slowly coming around to my way of thinking.
“Well it’s an option, less chance of you finding him in your bathroom with slit wrists if his dick’s getting sucked.” Problem fucking solved. Honestly, I could totally moonlight as a hostage negotiator. Now, if everyone was off the ledge maybe we could wrap this up so I could go home to my girl.
“You know what? I think that might work.” Max relaxed for the first time since we’d started the conversation. “We get him out, meeting girls and convince him he doesn’t want to be married. Show him what he’s been missing. He’ll come clean about whatever it is and be begging for the divorce.”
“That’s the spirit. All good things. Glad we had this talk.” I gave him a tap on the shoulder as I grabbed my keys and phone. Now we could move on to more important things, like me getting home.
“Wait, where are you going?” Max grabbed my arm stopping me from walking out the door.
“Um, home. You know that place that I live, pay the bills for. Figured that was a good place to go.” Did I really have to explain this? Last thing I needed was to be late when I promised to take Alison out. She’d been unsure it actually counted as a first date but whatever it was, I didn’t need Alison already pissed at me before it began.
“No, you can’t leave me with this.” Max shook his head while his body blocked the door. Me, leaving any time soon, not happening. “This is a team effort, you need to come with us. Besides no one gets the kind of girls you can.”
“Dude, I’m seeing Alison now.” I didn’t think the elaboration was needed but threw it in for good measure. “So in the spirit of dating, I’m not fucking anyone else. I know it’s old fashioned of me but I’m kicking it retro for a bit and seeing how it feels.”
Whatever the plan was, I wanted no part of it. A month ago, there would have been no problem. We could have all gone out, gotten hammered and gotten laid. As far as good times went, I knew exactly where to get them. But no fucking way was I going out on the town looking for pussy after I just told a girl we were going to be doing the couple thing. Max had a better chance of me sucking his brother’s dick than me letting some girl suck mine. Not happening.
“So don’t fuck them.” He stepped in front of me again as I tried to pull a dodge and make for the door. “I’m sure you’ve spoken to girls you didn’t fuck.”
“Well, yeah . . .” I wasn’t an animal; there were plenty of girls I spoke to who I didn’t end up in. Difference was, the types of girls we were going to need to lock up this deal weren’t the kind that wanted conversation. Unless by conversation you meant talking to their pussy, then they were all about it.
“So that’s easy, just don’t tell them you’re not going to fuck them.” He shrugged impassively like it was no big deal.
Max had to be desperate. Seriously these were words of a man doing that final death walk and hoping like hell his last Hail Mary was going to stick. No crystal ball was needed to know this was going to end badly.
“Oh, no. This is where I go out with you, and then Alison sees or hears about me with a girl and thinks I’m cheating. Then Phil’s drama becomes my fucking drama. I’m not interested in the misunderstanding fal
l out. Seriously, you tell me how this all plays out in your head where I don’t end being screwed over.”
It was a sure thing. A bonafide cluster fuck waiting to happen, where all the good intentions in the world wouldn’t count for jack.
“I will talk to Alison, I will tell her the whole thing,” Max offered, not willing to let it go.
“How about you don’t talk to her and do what you need to do and leave me out of it.”
I was all ready to leave, to tell Max good luck with his quest for pussy and go home to my girl, but the utter defeat in his face stopped me walking out the door.
“Rus, please. I know I’m asking a lot but I need your help. Not for Phil, for me. Don’t fucking hang me out to dry, okay? I know you don’t give a shit because your life is so fucking perfect right now but not all of us are riding that wave. He does something stupid or gets into trouble and I’ll be the one wearing that. He’s my family, same as the band is. I would never turn my back on any of you but if shit goes south I won’t be able to leave him either. Please don’t make me fucking choose.”
Well. Fuck.
Every reason I had not to help him was negated by those four fucking words—I need your help. If Joey or Angie came to me, it would be the same thing, no questions asked. Just tell me what you need and it would be done, so whether or not it was going to mean a lot of heat for me, there was no longer a choice to make.
“You had to go there and throw in that Nicholas Sparks shit?” My hand smacked him across the back.
“If that’s what I need to do to get you in on this, then yes.”
“Fine, but I’m the one who tells Alison.” I was already regretting my decision. “Let me be clear, there will be no fucking on my part. Nor any shit that is going to impact what I am trying to get going with my girl.”
No, really. If this ended up the way that had me losing my girl, Max wasn’t going to have to worry about his brother killing himself, I’d take care of that for him.