“But what about Slate? We should tell him. He used his C4 to blow up the truck.”
“We will, but not tonight. I’ve had all the excitement I can handle for one day. We probably should pack up the gang and head home.”
As the credits roll on the Netflix movie, Kimmy stands, and her little cousin stirs where he fell asleep on the rug. Soon, we’re climbing the stairs to our attic apartment. My niece is staying overnight because Mr. Silvia hired a prostitute and Joey has pictures to take.
With Chloe free to wander, Catrina hisses but after a staring contest, they agree to a truce and curl up together on the couch. Everyone bedded down, I check our security cams. Shit, because of all the commotion, I forgot to tell Sam about the gun-toting gangbanger and when I arrive back in the bedroom, she’s sound asleep.
My news will have to keep. Curling up behind her, I place my arm around her waist, and count my blessings.God, I don’t know what I did to deserve a beautiful wife and son, but I thank you, kindly. And, if you wouldn’t mind, I sure would be obliged if you’d give me and her some alone time.
On account of almost getting killed, it takes a minute to settle down. Then, like any healthy male sleeping next to a gorgeous woman, I wake with morning wood.
“Da-deeeeeeee.” Mikey cries out as Kimmy’s bare feet pad down the hall toward our room.
“Dammit.” My nuts have officially turned purple.
Later, after feeding the children and the furry fiends, I step out to the top landing of our private entrance and call my Aussie pal, Lucky. A father of four, he has one in the oven. If anyone can help, it’s him.
“Suds, mate. How’s it going?”
“How do you do it?” Groaning, I glance in the window where our four-legged friends have jumped on the table to fight over a cereal bowl.
He snickers. “Pretty broad question. Mind narrowing it down a mite?”
“Have sex.” I open the door, shoo the felines into the other room, and dump the few leftover Oaty-O’s into the garbage.
Another disaster avoided, I sneak to the bathroom and run water while Lucky laughs his ass off on the other side of the airwaves.
“You’re askin’ me how to root your bloody wife? You must understand the basics.”
“Dude, it’s not funny, if I don’t have marital relations soon, I may forget how.”
“So, what’s stopping you?”
“You name it. Work, kids, cats, a hitman, family members dropping by unannounced, did I mention-”
“Fuck’n ’ell, boy. You got BCS.”
“Excuse me?” To hear better, I turn the faucet off.
“Busy Couple Syndrome. You need to nip this thing in the bud. It could get worse, might even be fatal.” He sounds like he’s telling the truth but who knows?
“So, what am I supposed to do?”
“Okay. First, you need to take your pretty sheila on a vacay, preferably someplace warm. Find a sitt-ah, lock up the office for a weekend, and jet away.” His accent breaks me up. He’s been in the states for years and still sounds like Crocodile Dundee.
Chuckling, I crack open the bathroom door to make sure no little ears are listening. “I wish it was that easy. You recall the container truck of Muppets we blew up?”
“Sure, I do. Fun times.”
“Well, the damn insurance company is looking for someone to sue.”
“Great country, America. I’m guessing they don’t realize their little dollies were used to traffic opiates?”
“Probably not.”
“Oi, I’d appreciate you keeping my name out of this.”
“Hell, I’m trying to. I don’t want to have to explain why we didn’t turn the shipment over to the authorities.”
