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She’s not in our social class, and it’s not allowed. He’d be in for one hell of an uphill battle. Also, marriage is for the insane. Still, I’d support him and fight with him because that’s what friends do.
“NO! My parents kidnapped her and locked her up. If I don’t marry that crazy bitch Ainslee next week, she’ll disappear forever. This is bullshit on top of bullshit,” he rants. I don’t like it, but I can understand why him falling in love with someone out of his station would spur his family into action. But I was minding my own fucking business. “Why would they think I’d want to be married to that child!?”
I understand our situations are fucked up, especially his with his missing love and having to marry his nemesis, but a laugh jumps out before I can stop it.
“Jagger, you’re thirty-six and you are only seven years older than her. She’s a grown ass woman.”
“She’s a whole child,” he maintains. “That psycho sent me a basket of peanut butter and strawberry cookies with a note that read: Just for you, future husband. She knows I’m allergic to both. We will kill each other.”
“I hope you two don’t fuck like you fight.”
“Fuck? Don’t make me ill. Who are you saddled with?”
“No one. Once I get rid of the LeClaire chick. I’ll be single again.”
“At least the LeClaire sisters are hot. I’d still be mad if I had to marry one, but I’d plan to do dirty shit to her sexy body. Which one?”
“The oldest according to her.”
“Oh. Karessa.”
“That’s her name?”
“Yes, and I like her ass the best. I’d bite the hell out of it. She always has on something that shows it off like she knows she has a fuck hot body that make men’s dicks hard.”
My hands grip the steering wheel; it surprises me that his words bother me. I feel capable of punching him and it makes no fucking sense.
“Aren’t you super in love with Layla? How did you have time to come to these conclusions?”
“In love doesn’t mean I’m dead. You know me, if you flaunt it, I’m looking. Karessa has given me plenty to look at, too. God bless her birthday parties.”
“Shut the fuck up about my fiancee.”
“You just said you were getting rid of her,” Jagger points out.
“I am,” I grit out, equally confused. “Don’t mean you have to sing odes to her fucking body like a teenager either, asshole.”
“Anyway. If I have you suffer, you’re suffering with me. Congratulations, you’re the best man at my funeral. We have tux fittings tomorrow.”
I huff to release a breath as I pull into a storage facility near my home. “This shit all seems so surreal. We’re too old for this. Aren’t marriages usually arranged earlier, like just out of college? We’re pushing forty.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m nowhere near forty,” Jagger murmurs. “Good luck with your sexy ass betrothed. I’m being forced to have an engagement dinner with the demon and her family. If I die you know who to suspect.”
With a snort, I hang up and dismount from my vehicle. The rental office is small and dank, like my future. My burden follows me inside, looking confused. The balding guy with a beer belly and a worn shirt greets us.
“Hi. We need a big storage,” I inform him to my trophy’s surprise.
“Wait. What?” She looks at me for answers.
“You’re crazy if you thought I was putting all your shit in my house. Grab your essentials and store the rest.” I demand as I give the guy my card. “Do the paperwork and hurry the fuck up.”
Stepping outside, I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. If I smoked anything at all, now would be the time I’d pull it out. The setting sun purples the sky and I’ve never felt so connected to this natural occurrence. My life is becoming bleary and will soon be dark as the night if my fate will be like Jagger’s. The cars pass on the streets as I examine my life to pinpoint what my dad would try to do to get his way. I’m not in love, so there’s no one to threaten or kidnap. I have accounts in banks Mr. LeClaire can’t control; I own my home outright so I can’t be evicted. I can’t figure it out, but I know he has to have something on me.
She reappears, hips still swaying from those stupid heels. Jagger was right. Those tight pants and the cut of her blouse shows off her curves. Curves I would’ve never seen if our parents weren’t assholes.
The silver from her key and lock shimmer under the overhead light once she draws near.
“He says I’m slot eight,” she tells me like I care.
