“Hey, Xena?”
She stops swinging her sword around and turns to look at me. “Yeah?”
“You said your brother’s a cop, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Just checking.”
She laughs. “We have nothing to worry about. He hardly ever arrests me. Plus, for this kind of revenge, I have just the thing. My best friend’s husband is a petty revenge specialist.”
I snort a laugh. “Oh? I need to know, what do you mean by ‘hardly ever’? And what the hell is a petty revenge specialist? I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“He’s only arrested me twice. And our parents gave him so much shit for it, that he’s scared to do it again for anything short of murder. And a petty revenge specialist is someone who exacts revenge in non-permanent, mostly irritating ways.” She ticks off on her fingers. “Think dick glitter, biodegradable vandalism, and gigantic penis sculptures. Trust me, if we secure his help, there’s no way that label won’t gain an intimate understanding of what dickheads they’ve been.” Xena cackles a laugh and swings her sword in a sweeping arc one last time before placing it back under the counter. “Now. Who wants a doughnut? I tried a new recipe that I think might end up being my best seller. Peanut Butter S’more.” She runs back to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
“You’ll feel better when you give the label a taste of its own medicine,” Charlie says, sitting next to me again. “They were wrong to fire you for being pregnant.”
I know she’s right, but with everything else I’ve got going on, taking on the label seems like more trouble than it’s worth.
The petty revenge idea sounds like something I could get behind, though. I might have to look into that.
Chapter 6
Santa's Toy Shop
Archer
Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…
Theunwelcomesoundofmy alarm shocks me from a dead sleep, setting my head to throbbing. I throw out an arm, fumbling around on my nightstand for my phone to shut the damn thing off, knocking over the lamp and throwing my wallet onto the floor before I manage to find it. Finally, my fingers land on the smooth face of the phone, but I can’t get the alarm to turn off without dragging it over to me and cracking an eye to look at the screen. It flashes with a reminder:
Talk to your mother about Annabelle.
I groan and squeeze my eyes shut against the bright light of my room. Probably should have closed the curtains before I passed out last night.
I have to get up and go talk to my mother. I set my alarm for eight before I fell into bed last night, thinking I’d have plenty of time to get ready and head out to see her, but that task seems impossible now that a marching band has taken up residence in my head. I’m pretty sure it’s a marching band made up of only drums. Huge booming bass drums keeping time that has no real rhythm. That’s the only logical explanation for the pounding currently forcing my brain to scrape against the inside of my skull.
Of course, the marching band doesn’t explain why the sun seems bright enough to burn a hole through my eyelids. Or why I can smell the old banana peel in the trash from yesterday’s breakfast over the smell of the alcohol seeping from my pores. No, the only thing that can explain these things is a raging hangover from what must have been the excessive amount of alcohol I drank last night.
So much for nostalgia. I do not have what it takes to drink substantial amounts of tequila, I guess. Lesson learned.
I roll to the side of my bed, throw my legs over the edge, and fall to my knees, needing to rest my head on the mattress for a moment longer before attempting to stand upright to walk to the bathroom. I need to get moving if I’m going to meet my mother before she heads out for the day. She doesn’t work, but she keeps to a strict schedule of shopping, lunching, and gossiping. If I’m not there before ten o’clock, I’ll have to track her down when she’s with her friends, where she’s unlikely to talk to me at all.
After what Annabelle told me yesterday, I think my mother owes me an explanation. And the sooner I get it, the better.
With a deep breath, I heave myself up to my feet, trying to hold my head parallel to the floor in a feeble attempt at keeping the pounding to a minimum. It doesn’t work, but somehow I drag my ass into the shower and wash away the stink of last night’s tequila, anyway.
The cool water helps, but not much. I still feel like I got hit by a flaming garbage truck. A garbage truck driven by the, at my last count, six shots of tequila and two margaritas I stupidly drank.
While I wash, my mind wanders. Was my bride this hungover last year when she snuck out of my hotel room? Somehow, I doubt it. She doesn’t seem like the type to be taken down by something as minor as a hangover. No, she’s the type to steal Santa’s jacket and then sneak away without a trace.
I chuckle a little, imagining her holding up her wedding dress under the red velvet coat, creeping around the hotel, trying not to be seen. I’m sure her makeup and elaborate hairstyle were a little worse for wear by then, too, if the number of hairpins she’d discarded on the nightstand was any indication. She had so much metal in her hair that she’d have been at risk of being struck by lightning if she were out in a storm. I can only imagine she was quite the sight when she left my room.
Not unlike the way I look now, I’m sure. Finished with my shower and standing in front of my mirror, I wipe the fog away to take in my pasty skin and bloodshot eyes. The throbbing in my head has lessened, but it’s not gone entirely. I take it back. There’s no way she could have looked anything like this. Even hungover, she would have been beautiful.
Yeah. No more tequila for me.
I lurch back to my room to finish getting ready before heading out to confront my mother. She’s going to complain about the jeans and button-down I’m wearing like she always does, but I can’t find it in me to care. The woman is likely going behind my back to arrange my wedding to a woman I dumped a year ago, so sue me if her opinion of my clothes is not high on my list of concerns today.
