“I would like to reiterate that I think this is a horrible idea. Awful. What the hell were we thinking?” Karen let out a long-suffering sigh and glared at her husband.
John attempted to toss his empty beer bottle into the recycling bin. He missed. It rolled across the warped kitchen floor and stopped a couple of inches from the door.
“You’re overreacting. It’s not that big a deal. Your mom can handle my dad for a few days. We’ll be there Thursday. How bad could it be?”
Karen leaned over to collect the errant bottle. She whipped it side arm across the kitchen. It sailed right under the counter and banked off the back of the bin. John was impressed. But then again, she often impressed him. The woman could cook like a pro, throw a perfect spiral football, and blow him till his eyes crossed. She was a great wife. But she worried about her mom. And although he wouldn’t admit it, she might have a good reason to at the moment.
“Your dad is a son-of-a-bitch. He has no social skills, hates visitors, and is down-right combative when anyone tries to tell him what to do.” She planted a hand on her denim-covered hip and took a deep breath. Her breasts, plump and ripe, rose and fell under John’s watchful eyes. “My mom is polite to a fault, wants to please everyone, and gives advice like Dear Freakin’ Abby. Those two are going to kill each other after spending three days together. I should have booked a room for my mom at the South Hardin Inn.”
John pushed himself off the island and sauntered over to Karen. He planted his arms on either side of her lush hips and smiled. “Honey. We tried to get her a room. It was booked because of the holiday. There’s nothing we can do. Your mom and my dad will manage to survive three days alone together, and everything will be fine.” Secretly, he was thinking Mrs. Anderson might end up sleeping in her car after twenty-four hours. Maybe twelve. His dad was tough. John shrugged and lowered his face to his wife’s cleavage. “Nice view.”
Karen giggled. “Don’t try to distract me, you horn dog.”
He rubbed his face back and forth and then howled mournfully.
Karen grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked up his head.
“Ow! Take it easy, hon.” Well, hell. She had that goofy look in her eye. They could probably squeeze in a quick BJ before the game started.
“I can’t believe we got a burst pipe this week. Thank God Joey can repair it tomorrow. Hopefully my mom will make the best of it.” She kissed his forehead. It was sappy, but he loved it when she did that. “I guess my mom will stay busy cooking Thanksgiving dinner. We’ll probably have a seventy-two course meal by the time we get there.”
He laughed. “Yeah. With my dad’s head on a platter.”
Karen laughed, too. “With an apple stuffed in his mouth.”
“And a cigarette hanging out the side.”
“My mom makes really good apple stuffing.” Karen bit her lip. She was still nervous, he could tell. He slid down to the floor and kissed the front of her jeans.
“How ’bout I stuff you, sweet thing?”
Karen shook her head. “You have a way with words, John.”
He missed half of the first quarter.
----
The Old Coot
“Frank Bucknell is a fucking retard.” Tom took a long, lingering drag on his cigarette and squinted at the checkout girl. “There is no way in hell that grill is worth more than three hundred. Seven hundred for a grill? Bullshit.”
The checkout girl sent him a glazed look. “Whatevs. We don’t allow smoking in here, Mr. Jenkins. And the grill is six hundred and ninety nine dollars. Plus tax. Do you want one?”
He ashed on the floor. “Not for seven hundred goddamned dollars I don’t. I’ll head over to Evanston and see if I can get a better deal there.”
The girl shrugged.
“What the fuck does ‘whatevs’ mean? Is that some sort of code for ‘I’m too fucking lazy to speak English?’”
“Yeah. That’s it.” Little Miss Attitude rolled her eyes
Similar Books
