Holy Frigging Matrimony(7)

Not to go all Popeye on you? But that’s all I can stand and…well…you know the fucking rest.

I pull back and punch him right in the jaw. Iron Mike’s got nothing on me right now, and it feels great. I should’ve done this months ago.

He staggers back. I expect him to come back swinging and I’m ready for the block. What I don’t expect is for him to tackle me low in the waist with the skill of a NY Giants linebacker.

We fall back in a heap, taking out the pasta station behind us with a crowd-drawing crash. Marinara sauce flies everywhere, raining down on unsuspecting heads and spattering people’s clothes. Kind of looks like the pigs blood scene in Carrie, doesn’t it?

Now, contrary to popular belief, these kinds of things don’t go down like they do in the movies. Those fights are planned out. Choreographed. Real-life guy fights involve more rolling around on the ground, cursing and grunting, while getting in the occasional punch or kick between the verbal jabs.

Watch.





We roll over till we’re side by side. I straight arm him, holding on to the front of his shirt. I get in a nice right hook to his chin, drawing first blood. With a growl he flips over so he’s on top, straddling my waist. He nails me in the eye from the left.

I shake it off and grind out, “My sister hits harder than that. Pussy.”

He grits his teeth, holding me down at the chest. “Suck my dick.”

I bring my leg up and knee him in the back. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Oh, no, that’s right—you wouldn’t. Kate sucks fantastic cock, by the way. You don’t know what you were missing all those years, you fucking idiot.”

Yeah—I know.

I can’t believe I just said that, either. In front of a room full of people. In front of Kate’s mother.

And if the horrified gasp that sounds suspiciously like my girlfriend’s voice is any indication? There’s an excellent chance I’ll go the rest of my life without ever getting head again.

Still, it was a great comeback, wasn’t it?

Without warning, the scent of coffee fills the air. And a second later my legs are burning. It’s scorching, like the boiling oil castle guards used to pour down on the invaders in Medieval times.

“Ahh! Christ!”

Instantly, Warren and I forget about knocking each other’s teeth out. We’re too busy trying to get away from the sizzling liquid that’s being poured on us.

I look up into the diabolical eyes of Amelia Warren, who’s proudly holding two stainless steel carafes that used to be filled with coffee. And now aren’t.

She reaches down and grabs my ear with one hand and Warren’s with the other. And we’re immobilized. Immediately. Amelia Warren—pain in the ass by day, ninja warrior by night.

She drags us out of the room by our respective ears, not unlike Sister Beatrice would have in the good old days. But we don’t go quietly.

“Ow…fuck…oooowwww!”

“Aunt Amelia, let go! I’m a musician, I need my ear!”

“Stop your whining! Beethoven was deaf and he did just fine.”





We’re dragged towards an adjoining room. Out of the corner of my eye I see Kate tagging along. Arms folded, back stiff—not a good sign for me. She opens the door and the four of us walk in.

And we all stop dead in our tracks.

Because there, on an empty table, is none other than Kate’s mother, Carol, and Steven’s father—good old quiet, number-crunching George Reinhart—going at it hot and heavy like two teenagers in the backseat at a drive-in movie theater.

I shit you not.

Kate’s mouth opens wide, disbelief clear in her exclamation. “Mom?”

I raise my brows. “Wow. Go, George.”

Have I mentioned that Kate’s mom is smokin’ hot? She is. Very.

She’s in her fifties, with wavy russet hair, familiar dark eyes with the barest of wrinkles, and a warm smile. Her body’s softly rounded with age, but still petite. The best way to tell how a woman’s going to look in her later years is to look at her mother. If I didn’t know I was a lucky son of a bitch before? The moment I laid eyes on Carol Brooks, I was sure of it.

Carol and George bust apart like they’re on fire, sputtering embarrassed apologies as they readjust their clothing. Carol’s face reminds me of that pink dog on Blues Clues. Guess that’s where Kate gets the blushing thing from. George straightens his tie, trying his best to look dignified—like he wasn’t just caught with his hands on Carol’s fun bags.

He nods in our direction. “Boys. Kate.”

I wave.

Then Kate sputters, “Mom, the photographer needs you.” Carol seems relieved to have an exit strategy and they scurry out the door. Amelia-san releases her kung fu grip on my lobe and turns on her heels like a drill sergeant.