Scorched
Chapter One
Devil
Holding his preferred expensive Cuban cigar clenched between his shiny, white incisors, Devil Delancy glared through the picturesque French window located at the front of his sprawling home. The sheer window treatment offered him an unobstructed view of the occupants residing inside the dwelling, and needless to say, he was less than happy with what he was seeing.
Inhaling deeply, he tried to allow the aromatic smoke to soothe his frayed nerves while he watched, undetected and hidden by the shrubbery dotting the landscape. His jaw clenched as he watched his love, his Molly, heft yet another china plate toward her face, her eyebrows furrowing as she studied the etched pattern adorning the rim with discerning, albeit tired, eyes.
Christ on a cracker, he thought to himself, this wedding madness was going to be the death of them both… and it wasn’t even their ceremony!
Nope, he’d been happily married for over two mostly glorious years to the amazing woman currently kneeling on the floor next to a stack of china inside the house. Their wedding woes should have been nothing but dim memories, but noooooo…. Somehow, he and Molly (oh, hell, let’s be real… it was mostly Molly) were now playing wedding planners and party hosts to the commitment ceremony of his dependable executive assistant, Armando Savage, and his Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions, Nick Santino.
How, you ask, did this happen? Go ahead, ASK!
Well, that’s simple.
His own blushing bride had a death wish. That’s right! Molly had willingly allowed herself to be submerged in this storm of matrimonial madness that had descended from the heavens. His own completely crazy, but inarguably beautiful wife had volunteered to organize and host the freaking festivities. And she’d signed up for this duty while she’d been NINE months pregnant, knowing full well that he’d never be able to deny her anything that close to delivering their child. Never mind the fact that Devil had known that she would be a brand new mother, running on minute amounts of sleep and aided by copious doses of caffeine. None of that had mattered a single iota. On the contrary, Molly had forged ahead, determined to give her gay bestie the perfect day despite being in the middle of giving birth to a brand spanking new tiny human.
Yeah, it was entirely possible that his wife had gone certifiably insane. In fact, he would have been willing to bet money on it. He’d have been thrilled to have blamed it on pregnancy hormones, but even after his own little Devylynn had made her appearance a mere eight weeks ago, Molly had continued to insist on spearheading Operation: Get the Guys Hitched.
And when was this anticipated ceremony set to commence, you ask?
VALENTINE’S DAY!
That’s right. Their good friends, Gay and Gayer, had chosen the most stereotypical holiday of all time to tether the ol’ ball to the chain.
Idiots.
Devil sighed heavily and shook his head as he watched Molly yawn widely and set aside the china plate while she made some kind of note in her ever-present oversized wedding bible. Oh, how he wanted to burn that book. He’d thought his wedding had been a challenge, but he was quickly realizing that his own special day had been a walk in the park compared to Mannie and Nick’s Big V-Day Wedding Extravaganza. And, yeah, Big Day should appear in capital letters here because Molly had insisted to him time and again that nothing less than their very best would do. (He’d learned months ago that it was really just better (and safer, too!) for him to turn over his credit card, close his eyes, and let the chips fall where they may. He was nothing if not a self-preservationist.)
Bitterly, he recognized that it was now official. His ass was currently (and for the foreseeable future) residing in what could only be called a holiday hell of the Cupid variety (and as a special side note - if he ever got his shot, that arrow that the little imp carried around with him was going directly up that diapered fool’s ass). And as God as his witness, he was gonna dance across that sappy cherub freak’s fuckin’ coffin if something didn’t give soon. St. Valentine could kiss his hairy ass… he wanted his wife back, dammit. Hell, he was a decent enough guy, wasn’t he? He didn’t mind loaning Molly out for her wacky friend’s wedding planning, but this craziness had gotten so far out of hand that it could be spotted from the space station.
Lifting his hand, Devil rubbed his jaw, the short hairs of his five o’clock shadow abrading his palm as he stared at his weary wife with a resigned eye. Surrounded by china plates and paper saucers full of half-eaten wedding cake samples, she was still a vision of loveliness. He was honest with himself and knew that she was the light shining at the end of his very long tunnel, beckoning him toward her. Well, at least she would beckon if she could devote her attention to him. Unfortunately, his current enemies were making that difficult. Moving his gaze to the interlopers that sat on either side of his wife, he tried not to feel envious of the trio of cockblockers. He tried, but he knew it was an effort doomed to fail.
Devil
Holding his preferred expensive Cuban cigar clenched between his shiny, white incisors, Devil Delancy glared through the picturesque French window located at the front of his sprawling home. The sheer window treatment offered him an unobstructed view of the occupants residing inside the dwelling, and needless to say, he was less than happy with what he was seeing.
Inhaling deeply, he tried to allow the aromatic smoke to soothe his frayed nerves while he watched, undetected and hidden by the shrubbery dotting the landscape. His jaw clenched as he watched his love, his Molly, heft yet another china plate toward her face, her eyebrows furrowing as she studied the etched pattern adorning the rim with discerning, albeit tired, eyes.
Christ on a cracker, he thought to himself, this wedding madness was going to be the death of them both… and it wasn’t even their ceremony!
Nope, he’d been happily married for over two mostly glorious years to the amazing woman currently kneeling on the floor next to a stack of china inside the house. Their wedding woes should have been nothing but dim memories, but noooooo…. Somehow, he and Molly (oh, hell, let’s be real… it was mostly Molly) were now playing wedding planners and party hosts to the commitment ceremony of his dependable executive assistant, Armando Savage, and his Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions, Nick Santino.
How, you ask, did this happen? Go ahead, ASK!
Well, that’s simple.
His own blushing bride had a death wish. That’s right! Molly had willingly allowed herself to be submerged in this storm of matrimonial madness that had descended from the heavens. His own completely crazy, but inarguably beautiful wife had volunteered to organize and host the freaking festivities. And she’d signed up for this duty while she’d been NINE months pregnant, knowing full well that he’d never be able to deny her anything that close to delivering their child. Never mind the fact that Devil had known that she would be a brand new mother, running on minute amounts of sleep and aided by copious doses of caffeine. None of that had mattered a single iota. On the contrary, Molly had forged ahead, determined to give her gay bestie the perfect day despite being in the middle of giving birth to a brand spanking new tiny human.
Yeah, it was entirely possible that his wife had gone certifiably insane. In fact, he would have been willing to bet money on it. He’d have been thrilled to have blamed it on pregnancy hormones, but even after his own little Devylynn had made her appearance a mere eight weeks ago, Molly had continued to insist on spearheading Operation: Get the Guys Hitched.
And when was this anticipated ceremony set to commence, you ask?
VALENTINE’S DAY!
That’s right. Their good friends, Gay and Gayer, had chosen the most stereotypical holiday of all time to tether the ol’ ball to the chain.
Idiots.
Devil sighed heavily and shook his head as he watched Molly yawn widely and set aside the china plate while she made some kind of note in her ever-present oversized wedding bible. Oh, how he wanted to burn that book. He’d thought his wedding had been a challenge, but he was quickly realizing that his own special day had been a walk in the park compared to Mannie and Nick’s Big V-Day Wedding Extravaganza. And, yeah, Big Day should appear in capital letters here because Molly had insisted to him time and again that nothing less than their very best would do. (He’d learned months ago that it was really just better (and safer, too!) for him to turn over his credit card, close his eyes, and let the chips fall where they may. He was nothing if not a self-preservationist.)
Bitterly, he recognized that it was now official. His ass was currently (and for the foreseeable future) residing in what could only be called a holiday hell of the Cupid variety (and as a special side note - if he ever got his shot, that arrow that the little imp carried around with him was going directly up that diapered fool’s ass). And as God as his witness, he was gonna dance across that sappy cherub freak’s fuckin’ coffin if something didn’t give soon. St. Valentine could kiss his hairy ass… he wanted his wife back, dammit. Hell, he was a decent enough guy, wasn’t he? He didn’t mind loaning Molly out for her wacky friend’s wedding planning, but this craziness had gotten so far out of hand that it could be spotted from the space station.
Lifting his hand, Devil rubbed his jaw, the short hairs of his five o’clock shadow abrading his palm as he stared at his weary wife with a resigned eye. Surrounded by china plates and paper saucers full of half-eaten wedding cake samples, she was still a vision of loveliness. He was honest with himself and knew that she was the light shining at the end of his very long tunnel, beckoning him toward her. Well, at least she would beckon if she could devote her attention to him. Unfortunately, his current enemies were making that difficult. Moving his gaze to the interlopers that sat on either side of his wife, he tried not to feel envious of the trio of cockblockers. He tried, but he knew it was an effort doomed to fail.