All Jacked Up_Romantic Comedy

by Mysti Parker

  She nods, sniffing back more tears. “Okay.” Her red-rimmed eyes – a sight all too common when we were kids – are almost more than I can take. “I don’t blame you for hating me. I hate me, too. And I don’t blame Jesse either. Or your grandpa. Maybe it’s too late to be a family again, but I’d like to try if you’ll let me.”

  “Fourteen years.” I tear my gaze from hers and stand, turning away from her as I rub my forehead and wish this were one of the many bad dreams I’ve had about my old life. But it’s not. She’s here, and I have to deal with her. “Fourteen years, and no phone call, no letter, no text, no nothing! I think you understand if I’m more than a tad bit skeptical about your intentions.”

  “Jack…sweetie, I know I haven’t been the mama you and Jesse wanted. But it’s not like I didn’t try.”

  “Try? How exactly did you try? Dad knocked you up, so you married him, and here we are. You didn’t want us in the first place. And every time he screwed around, every time he hit you or us, every time he came home drunk, you always took him back. Then you started drinking and drugging up right along with him. We never knew where our next meal was coming from. Sometimes the school lunch was all we got. So don’t sit there and act like you tried. If you did, it wasn’t good enough. If you had actually tried, things would be a lot different now.”

  She rises from the couch and approaches me, hesitating before she grasps my hand. Hers are bony, cold, clammy—totally foreign to me. “Just give me another chance. That’s all I ask.”

  I don’t have a solid memory of how my mother’s hands once felt, but maybe that’s a good thing. It makes it easier to shake her off me so I can put more distance between us.

  “I’ll have Mrs. Gonsalves get a guest room ready for you.” Slowly, I turn to face her again, not mincing words. “So help me, if I find anything missing, any medication or alcohol gone…anything…I’ll make sure you’re locked up for good this time. Understand?”

  She nods, fresh tears tracing the wrinkles on her face. “I hope you will forgive me in time.”

  “I forgave you a long time ago. It’s the forgetting part that’s impossible.”

  Once I have her settled in a room, I instruct Mrs. Gonsalves to lock up every bottle of alcohol and every pill down to the last aspirin. But I can’t settle down yet. I have to get out of here for a little while to calm down enough to think about what to do next.

  And I know just where to go.

  Chapter Twelve

  Avery

  The day and night before a wedding are usually a blur of activity, interrupted with a panic attack or two from the bride over some detail forgotten or messed up. We certainly have the activity, but Leigh’s as calm as a convent. Not to worry, though. I’ve taken on the role of panicked wedding planner slash maid of honor. The bridesmaids’ dresses just arrived this morning. Apparently they had made a pit stop somewhere in Albuquerque where they were found in the shipper’s warehouse behind a suit of armor in a big crate.

  Just our luck. I mean, really, who buys suits of armor anymore?

  And now the florist has screwed up and given us the flimsiest-looking bouquets I’ve ever seen, as though baby’s breath and carnations are on the endangered species list.

  “There is not enough baby’s breath in this bouquet!” I shake said object around in my frustration. A few white blooms and leaves flutter to the floor.

  Leigh takes hold of my wrist and gently rescues the bouquet. “It’s not going to have any if you keep shaking it like that.”

  “I’m sorry, Leigh. Everything’s going wrong.” My phone buzzes. I read the incoming text, and my heart sinks into my sneakers. “And now we have no violinist. He’s come down with shingles.”

  “He can’t help that, Ave. Don’t worry about it.” She sets the bouquet aside and rubs my back. “Seriously, you’re stressing out too much.”

  “You’re forgetting that your mom’s ankle-length dress is way too short. Glen apparently got her measurements confused with a Smurf’s. Right below the knees makes her legs look about five inches long.”

  “Sorry, Ave!” Glen calls from the counter. “But it’s summer. We’ll hem it up above her knees. It’ll be fine.”

  “I wouldn’t be in such a panic if the dressmaker had gotten them here sooner.”

  Leigh’s mom, Jo, replies from the dressing room, “Avery, love, it’s fine. Don’t get your knickers in a wad over a dress!” She emerges from the dressing room, having exchanged the too-short dress for her scrubs. Jo is a beautiful black British woman, a foot taller than me, fit and trim with long braids down to her waist. Leigh has her bright smile and turned-up nose.

  “If I can’t get my best friend’s wedding perfect, what kind of a wedding planner am I?” Sinking into the armchair nearby, I realize I forgot to eat lunch. My stomach growls.

  “The best one I know,” Leigh says while digging a Snickers out from her purse. She hands it to me. “Here, you’re just hangry.”

  “Yeah, and how many wedding planners do you know?” Ripping the package open, I take a big bite of chocolatey, peanuty, nougaty goodness. Once I’ve chewed it beyond a choking hazard, I push it chipmunk style into my cheek. “Thanks.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Leigh says, half sitting on the arm of the chair, “my dress is absolutely perfect.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  Leigh’s dad, Roscoe, emerges from the other dressing room. “It’s beautiful! Leigh’s dress, I mean.” He hangs his suit from the hook on the dressing room door. Roscoe is as southern as Jo is British. He’s about a head shorter than his wife, and is a white, pudgy car salesman. Talk about opposites attract. But he’s got a heart of gold, just like Jo and Leigh, and I love them all like my own family.

  Probably more, to be honest.

  I can’t help feeling a pang of guilt over my ulterior motives. The bouquets, the bridesmaid dresses, suits, and pretty much everything but Leigh’s dress, I’ve planned to recycle for my wedding. And it needs to be as perfect as possible if I have a chance of winning the contest.

  Fake wedding, my conscience whispers. Damn it. Another layer of guilt settles over me. Had I known adulting would be a series of frustrations, guilt trips, and self-loathing, I’d have never signed up for it.

  Then I remember the friends, including Leigh, who still live with their parents. Ugh, no thanks. I can’t think of a worse punishment. At least I can take solace in Leigh’s dress – a Justin Alexander sleeveless, with a scoop-necked lace bodice and a tulle slit skirt. She looks even better than I expected in it, not that I ever thought she’d look bad. No way would I let her look less than gorgeous. It fits her perfectly and complements her long legs and hourglass figure.

  For myself, I ordered a dress to match Jo’s, a gorgeous eggplant satin with a tulle skirt and a satin top with just enough sequins to catch the light from the lanterns and light strings hung around Jesse’s gazebo by his pond. I had meant it to be an ankle-length skirt like Jo’s was supposed to be, but since we’d have to hem her skirt to above the knees, I’d have to do the same for mine.

  After the Meriwethers leave, Glen and I set to work on hemming the dresses. Both of us can practically do it in our sleep. He works on Leigh’s while I step into the dressing room and put mine on. I’m usually good at zipping up my own dresses, thanks to being a petite girl with flexible arms and long fingers. But I can’t get it zipped past my lower back. I’m about to curse the zipper when I notice how tight the bodice looks in the mirror.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I scream, stomping my foot like a bratty teenager.

  “What now?” Glen yells back, his frustration evident in a drawn-out whine.

  “I can’t get my dress zipped up.”

  “Too many carbs, I’m telling you.”

  “I’m not eating too many carbs, damn it. I’ve been on your stupid keto diet for weeks.”

  “You just had a Snickers.”

  “That’s the first thing I’ve had since br
eakfast – that green smoothie recipe you gave me. God, it was nasty. I don’t know how my sister Allison can eat stuff like that all the freaking time.”

  I emerge from the dressing room to find him already standing there, hands on his hips. I turn around, and he tries to zip it, but it doesn’t budge.

  “Suck it in, Ave.”

  “Fine.” I suck in my stomach. After a short struggle, Glen is able to zip up my dress. I look in the mirrors outside the dressing room, and the bodice looks like it might bust open at the seams. “Okay, so either you’re sending them the wrong measurements or we have to find a new dressmaker.”

  “We’ll take it in. Just watch the carbs for the next twenty-four hours. No more Snickers.” He gets the pin cushion and lowers himself to his knees, putting one of the pins between his lips before raising the hem to the right length.

  “I haven’t had any processed foods, potatoes, and all that other stuff on your list for a month. Give me a break.”

  His voice is muffled as he speaks around the pin. “Okay, settle down and stand still so I don’t poke you.”

  He starts pinning, and all is quiet for a minute, but I can feel his question hanging in the air before he asks it. “You’re using protection, right?”

  “Of course. Don’t tell me you think I’m…”

  “Are you?”

  “No! I’m on the pill, and I have whacked-out hormones. Very unlikely to ever happen.”

  “You still have all the parts, Ave, unless I’m mistaken?”

  “Yes…”

  “Then there’s always a possibility of getting knocked up if you’re having regular sex. Unless you’re gay. Great benefit, if you ask me.”

  “I’m not pregnant, so hush.”

  I try to remember when my last period was, but that was an unreliable symptom for me. I’ve been irregular for years thanks to the stupid head injury that nearly cost me my life. And I’m on continuous birth control, so I basically have no periods. It’s gotta be the Snickers making me bloated—my body’s way of saying hell to the no for those two-hundred and something calories.

  Has to be.

  ∞∞∞

  It’s already dark by the time I finish up some last minute prep for the wedding which includes finding a DJ to play some of the songs the violinist would have performed. It’s not ideal, but they want a small wedding, no big frills. I’ll have to quash my perfectionism for once. Leigh would be happy with far less, because the wedding isn’t what’s important to her. It’s Jesse and the chance to spend the rest of her life with him.

  Makes perfect sense, of course, but how can I feel so happy for my best friend and so envious at the same time? Something inside me wants what she has so badly, there’s a tightness in my chest that’s almost painful. My own fake wedding plans seem so shallow and superficial now. It had seemed like such a simple plan, just a harmless white lie and a fun romp with a rich, sexy guy.

  No more Sex in the City on Netflix for me. Lies, all lies!

  Someone raps on the shop door. Glen’s only been gone for a few minutes. Did he forget something? He got my dress hemmed, which also had enough fabric in the seam to let out the bodice so I didn’t look like a stuffed sausage.

  And I’m still wearing it. Oh well.

  Whoever it is knocks again, more urgently this time.

  The shop’s closed, door locked, but the lights in the back are still on so I can see what I’m doing. Sometimes it’s a bridezilla demanding after-hours alterations. But what if it’s not? What if someone’s trying to break in, just knocking so they can make sure no one’s here before they break in?

  Shitty, shit, shit, I don’t have time for this. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. If this dickhead makes me stain this dress, I’ll cut off his balls and stuff them up his ass.

  I grab a pair of scissors and creep toward the storefront, easily hidden behind the dress racks since I’m so short. Peeking around the front-most rack, my heart flutters then beats faster.

  It’s Jack on the other side of the glass.

  He rubs the back of his neck, leans up against the door, hand over his eyes, searching. Shoulders slumped, he turns and starts walking away.

  I snap back into reality. If he’s here, something must be up. He would have called me if it were a simple booty call.

  I rush to the door, tiptoe to unlock it, and jerk it open. “Jack!”

  He spins around, startled, and then smiles. In the warm glow of the streetlamps, relief shines in his eyes. He hurries over, comes to an abrupt stop, and stands there with one hand on the door frame. His hair is disheveled as though he’s been running a hand through it. The sleeves of his blue button-up shirt are rolled up, the top couple buttons undone. My body tingles as though his closeness is enough to ignite the nerves in just the right places.

  “Are you alone?” he asks, his voice quiet, uncertain.

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  “I’d feel better if you put down those scissors.”

  “Oh!” I’m still holding them Norman Bates style, ready to stab an intruder. But I like Jack’s balls way too much to cut them off. I hold the blades down to avoid that. “Sorry, want to come in?”

  He cuts his gaze to the store interior, so I open the door wide and let him inside. I tiptoe to lock it again, but he reaches up and easily turns the lock. Must be nice to be tall.

  Jack takes my hand and wordlessly leads me through the store. I lay the scissors on the counter as I pass.

  I’m turned on as hell, but he’s also freaking me out a bit. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  He doesn’t answer, but opens one of the dressing rooms and pulls me inside.

  As soon as the door shuts behind me, he pulls me against him and takes my face in his hands. It’s dim in here, but there’s just enough light reflecting in the mirrors to see his eyes searching mine. There’s a tangle of emotions in them that I can’t unravel. But there’s one thing I pick up on, and it surprises me the most. He’s vulnerable.

  His lips crash into mine, and he kisses me desperately, with a hunger I haven’t felt before. It’s not forceful, but his need is overwhelming. I just let him lead; I don’t push back. His lips leave mine for only a moment while he hikes up my dress and yanks my panties down. I’m wearing heels, so I carefully and quickly step out of them.

  He flings them to the side and kisses me again, pushing me up against the mirror. Fisting his shirt in my hands, I hold on to steady him as he undoes his belt and his jeans with lightning speed.

  Next thing I know, I’m suspended in the air. My back smacks into the mirror. His body wedges me against it, and then he’s inside me, fucking me at a frantic, hard rhythm. The only thing I can do is ride out his thrusts, my body bouncing, my head spinning like I’m riding an out-of-control carousel.

  His lips rove along my neck and collarbone. Hot breaths steam across my skin, turning to growls of exertion. I grip his shoulders, feeling his muscles bunch and strain. He feels so good, so hot and hard and strong and just…perfect. I can feel the energy building in my core, growing, ready to explode.

  I don’t want this to end. Ever.

  I want a man who wants me this desperately. And it’s those emotions, the power and friction, the way he fills me that sends me over the edge.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack,” I chant his name on his final thrusts.

  His rhythm falters, he stiffens, then comes inside me. He groans long and hard against my neck, the final notes fading into an exhausted sigh.

  Jack holds my hips and lets me slide gently down until I’m back on my feet. He stands there, breathing hard, pressed against me, his chin resting on the top of my head. Then he kisses my forehead and backs away, refastening his pants.

  I hope we didn’t stain or rip my dress, but I can’t say it wasn’t worth it.

  Minutes later, we migrate to the break room.

  “Want something to drink?” I ask, going for the fridge.

  “Have a seat. Let me,” he says. Under the flickering fluore
scent light, sweat glistens on his forehead. He’s flushed and still breathing a little harder than usual. Quite the sight.

  I do as he says and sink into a chair at the table. These heels have to go, so I unbuckle them and kick them off. I’m still coming down from the high of that incredible first time in a dressing room. As long as I’ve been in the fashion business, you’d think dressing-room sex would have already been checked off my bucket list. Then I realize how pathetic my bucket list is. I’ve only been to three different states. I’ve never seen the beach, never even flown on an airplane. And here I am, fuck buddies with a man who can afford his own private jet if he wants one. When this is over, it will be back to the same old daily grind. I don’t hate my life, but it would be nice to expand my horizons. With the money I could win in this contest (and win it, I will), that’s what I’ll do. Bigger shop, bigger life.

  But it comes with a cost. No more Jack. And now tears burn the corners of my eyes. Suck it up, Avery. You got yourself into this. You’ll have to let him go and shake off the dust.

  Jack opens the fridge. “What would you like?”

  His voice snaps me back into reality. “Oh. Water would be great.”

  He takes two bottles out and brings them over. As he hands one to me, he leans in and kisses my cheek. “I worked up quite the thirst.” He sits and wrenches off the bottle top then gulps down the water like a man lost in the desert.

  I take a drink, and for a moment, we just look at each other. His eyes are intense, and a slight frown pulls at their corners as he swallows hard. I knew something was up. Is he planning on dropping out of our plan?

  Smiling past my anxiety, I pick at my cuticles and force the start of this conversation. “What’s bothering you, Jack?”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, focusing on his water bottle. “My mother is back.”

  My eyes widen. I sure didn’t expect to hear that. “Wait, isn’t she, um, dead?”

  “No,” he says, looking up at me with a tired, sad smile. “Presumed dead.”