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Topper’s loud voice rings through my ears. A singer is something he’ll never be because he sounds bloody awful. For the last half-hour, he has been singing every Christmas song known to man. And it wouldn’t be Topper if he didn’t completely change the lyrics. Jingle Balls instead of Jingle Bells does change the meaning of the song completely. He ended up making it extremely sexual, and by the end of the new, improved version of the overhyped song, I was belting the lyrics alongside him.
In my opinion, it does sound like a hit song, but what do I know of great songs?
My judgement might be a bit impaired by the amount of alcohol in my system that won’t allow me to walk straight, resulting in me stumbling onto a certain pole, making me topple over it and ending up with my face in a pile of leaf litter.
I’m spending the last few hours of my final night of freedom with my best friend. If it means walking through a park at six in the morning, belting out Christmas songs in July, then so be it. I’ll soak up every minute of it, even though I’ll be recovering for about a week or so.
Topper will be back at work at eight. He has no off button and has a high tolerance to partying, alcohol and smashing through long days of work after a night out. Me? Not so much. I’ll be hugging the toilet until eight before crashing until noon the next day.
I don’t regret my night. I’ll take it into my dreams and remember how I kissed freedom goodbye. It truly has been perfect.
Even though Chester crashed our party for a few minutes, I still want to repeat this night over and over again. It was bloody brilliant. I’ll take the painful, blister-covered feet over my wedding day every single time.
“What do you think of an article about the best BDSM outfits for a Halloween office party?” Topper asks, jumping from one park bench to the other.
“That’s absolutely disgusting, Tops,” I respond, attempting to kick a stone on the ground, but instead, it makes me lose my balance and I grab a tree before I, once again, have a rendezvous with the cold, wet pavement.
“Disgusting? It’s freaking hot,” he says quite seriously before skipping from the bench and hugging me tightly as he spins us around. I try to focus on Topper, so I don’t get nauseous, but to no avail, my stomach starts turning. If he doesn’t stop soon, it’ll end terribly.
“Leather, whips and nipple clamps, that’s fucking hot.” He yells the last part. I quickly scan the park, hoping no one heard Topper’s less than appropriate announcement. But for the last thirty minutes, we’ve seen only a handful of joggers and people walking their dogs.
He abruptly comes to a stop, but my head still believes I’m spinning around until Topper’s face becomes one again.
“You should try it.”
“BDSM outfits? For what? As my wedding dress.”
“Now that’s an idea.” Topper’s eyes start to sparkle before he grabs my hand and starts to walk towards a trail that will lead us to the exit of Hyde Park.
“Frederic will have a heart attack if I walk out in a leather outfit and a whip in each hand.”
“Frederic having a heart attack sounds amazing though,” Topper mentions, and I snort, but my feet abruptly come to a stop.
“Oh god,” I whisper when I realise how bad this situation is. Topper’s hands connect to my cheeks and he frowns out of concern as he inspects me from head to toe.
“What’s wrong? Is it alcohol poisoning?” I raise my eyebrows, wondering how that thought popped into his head.
“No.” I smile and pat him on the shoulder softly to let him know I’m okay. “It’s my brother.” Topper groans loudly, throwing his head back, before continuing to exit the park.
“Alcohol poisoning sounded better,” he whispers, and another laugh slips from my lips.
“Frederic doesn’t know that I went out.” The second the words are out of my mouth; the horror covers me like a sheet of ice.
“Oh, shit.” Topper echoes my thoughts, and I nod my head. My skin starts itching before I quickly scratch my arm over the mesh.
“I’m going to die,” I whisper dramatically.
“Does that mean I can have your one-of-a-kind Jimmy Choos, then?” my best friend jokes, but I sense a degree of truth to his words.
“God, no. I’m wearing those when my brother buries me in the garden.”
“Bummer.” Topper shrugs his shoulders, twisting his lips to the side before grabbing my hand and swinging it back and forth.
Silence falls over us, my mind focused on my brother and how he’ll react. I don’t want him to ruin my night, but he will. He’ll push until I regret going out. Until I feel bad. A wicked person like him is capable of anything.
I try to swallow, even though my mouth is as dry as sand now, and my stomach screams at how awful it feels.
I try to shake off those toxic thoughts, attempting to enjoy the last few minutes of freedom before Frederic makes me feel like shit. Clearly, Topper can read my mind.
