Chapter 14
Bunny
“Oooooo!!!!” Posie squeals from where she’s sitting beside me at her shop counter prior to angling the magazine in my direction. “What about this dress?!”
I immediately glance over to examine what’s got her giddily squeaking versus gagging.
Which are the only two sounds she seems capable of making while thumbing through wedding magazines.
Magazines that she picked up.
Stacked in front of us.
Demanded we begin immediately browsing despite my meek objection.
The truth is I don’t know that we are having a wedding.
Or that they want a wedding.
Or that I do.
Honestly, a wedding – a real wedding – isn’t something that’s ever crossed my mind as being an actual possibility.
A lot like willingly getting engaged.
And having a healthy relationship rather than being held hostage.
And having a baby .
A baby that Val and I are both spitefully hoping is a girl simply to watch my fiancés freak out about it.
“It screamsssssss fairytale,” Posie dreamily gushes over the fluffy nightmare.
“It screams can’t pee ,” I playfully poke. “And as a pregnant woman – that will most likely still be pregnant when or if we do this whole pony show – I’m definitely gonna need to pee.”
“But it’s so pretttyyyy ,” pouts the female beside me, face flopping into the open palm connected to the arm resting on the countertop.
“Then you wear it.”
“I’m not the one engaged.”
“ Yet. ” Returning my attention to my laptop where I’m rescheduling my doctor’s visit courtesy of the crummy weather casually occurs.
“Pretty sure Paolo wouldn’t have brought you home to meet his parents for the holidays or added you to their vacation planning with Pleasure Tales – who I would kill to do the books for – if it wasn’t already in the plans. ”
She girlishly screeches once more. “You think so?!”
I click the calendar button to find a new opening for January. “I would bet a pink slip on it.”
Light snickers are woven into her asking, “You let Kipp pick the movie again, huh?”
“It was either that or listening to him lecture me on proper vehicle preparations for winter storms.” Post clicking, I meet her mirth filled gaze. “I think I chose wisely.”
“ Def. ”
“And I hope to do the same when picking a dress… if I pick a dress.”
“What do you mean if ?” Her brow scrunches together. “That’s twice you’ve said if.”
I click a few more options to officially submit the appointment change. “It’s not exactly something we’ve talked about.”
“You wearin’ a dress?”
“Us having any kind of ceremony where I would need a dress.”
“Pretty sure they’re gonna do whatever you wanna do, sweetie.” My focus cuts back to her. “So, the question is what do you wanna do?”
It’s impossible not to shift in my seat over the investigation into my own wants.
Desires.
Dreams.
Things I never fully envisioned due to never believing they really mattered.
That’s what being hunted does to you.
You develop a mental system in which the only future you concern yourself with consists of the hours directly in front of you.
How many miles you need to go before gas or sleep?
How many hours of sleep can you actually survive without.
Can you wait to pee or eat until you’ve crossed county lines where you can get lost in a crowd instead of being the lone customer remembered when someone comes asking because you know without a doubt that they will come asking.
Being able to have wants…and wanting my men was so foreign.
So unexpected.
So unbelievable that even now…sometimes…I don’t believe it’s real…
That we’re real.
Engaging in anything and everything I desire whether that’s being spanked or double fucked or sticking my tongue in someone’s ass while they’re bent over the hood of a car, they should be working on is equally inconceivable most days.
But dreaming?
Actually dreaming ?
Actually dreaming of a wedding and family and future where there’s no reason to ever look over my shoulder again?
That’s still something I – truthfully – struggle to keep in the do column.
Even with Brad dead.
Maybe because I can’t ignore this gut twisting feeling that everything’s not over.
Maybe because that feeling grows exponentially stronger each passing day that we don’t hear a fucking word about his monster of a mother.
God, the woman would give Freddie Krueger night terrors.
“This is a lot of silence.” Posie points her index digit at me and rolls it in a circle. “And it’s making me sad.”
I do my best to brush off the discomfort that’s dropped onto my shoulders with a crooked grin. “It’s my wedding. I can be sad if I want to.”
“I don’t think weddings are supposed to be sad.”
“Technically, they’re a party, and I can be sad or even cry if I want to.” Grabbing the pen off the counter is mindlessly done. “Lesley said so.”
An undeniably clueless expression crosses her face. “Who’s Lesley?”
“Lesley Gore.” One push allows the writing utensil to be put to use. “The singer of that song.”
“What song?”
Not twitching a glare is impossible. “I think you and Kid have some sort of daily bet about making me feel old.”
“You’re not old.” She turns the page in the magazine. “And you’re definitely not too old to be a princess at your own wedding.” Posie tapping her latest discovery receives my stare regardless of the pen scribbling across my inner forearm. “ Look. At. This. Tiaraaaa! ”
Unsure of what I find more unappealing – the gaudy hair piece or the lacy covered eighty-foot train draped along the stairs the model is posing on – leads me to good-naturedly goading, “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I am working,” sassily corrects the person I have no doubt I could ask to be in my wedding party if we have one.
Will ask?
Should ask?
Yup.
I absolutely need to discuss it with my two loves who are also working at the moment.
“I am working on helping you get in the wedding spirit and avoiding the depressing snooze of a sales day due to the winter storm that’s theoretically gonna hit tonight.”
“You don’t think it will?”
“I think this one has pockets and that’s so fun!” This time she holds the magazine up to her chest. “ Plus, it’s a two piece, so you can pee whenever!”
Snickering is attached to a small headshake.
“Did you never dream about this shit when you were a kid?” She plops the object back onto the counter. “Play dress up?” Her bare feet get pulled into her seat. “Pretend you were a Disney Princess, put a bowtie on the dog to be your prince, and then get married in your backyard?”
“Isn’t that bestiality?”
“I didn’t say bang the dog, Bunny!” A gentle push of my knee is delivered by a set of her toes. “I said marry!”
“First comes love…then comes marriage…then comes-”
“ Ohmygod! ” croaks Posie again on a second shove. “ Shut up! ”
Laughs echoing around the empty shop easily precede me inquiring, “You gonna close up early today too?” Scribbling the lyrics brought up earlier effortlessly persists. “I know that’s what everyone else in town is planning.”
“Likely.” She turns a page. Another. “I mean I’ve only had two people besides you come into the shop today and one was Paolo.”
“Just to say hi?”
“And to bring me a treat from the grocery store. He’s staying at my place for a few nights, and I don’t have like shit to eat, so he said he’d grab us a few things.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Right?!” More girlish blushing occurs. “Such a keeper.”
After a short lull, I curiously prod, “So, who was the other?”
“Some Hollywood housewife reject that complained about the ‘smell in here’ so loudly that I had to crack the back door open to get her to shut the fuck up.”
A displeased grunt is given. “Did she at least buy something?”
“An old shag rug, couple of tacky throw pillows, and a set of orange sheets.” The sound of her flipping to the next section of the magazine is slipped between statements. “None of which matched each other, by the way.”
“Maybe she’s redecorating different rooms?”
“Dono. Dontcare.” She barely pauses. “Now, let’s say you do decide to have a wedding…”
Amusement over the return to what’s obviously her preferred subject isn’t hidden.
“And let’s say you do decide to have a bridal party…”
Digging the pen into my skin a little harder is attached to a snigger.
“And let’s say that you wanted me to be in the bridal party – for the sake of pretend-”
“For the sake of pretend, of course,” I teasingly concur.
“Would you be thinking something like this ,” the thick booklet is once more slid towards my computer, prompting me to view what’s being displayed, “where all the bridesmaids wear the same shit despite our vastly different body types and color pallets or…” she points to the other page, “would you be thinking something like this where it’s one godawful color but at least we can choose the cut? ”
Humor remains in my glare as it meets hers. “You always pretended to be the bride never the bridesmaid, didn’t you?”
“Gotta go big or go home, sweetie.”
“No, I gotta pee.” Giggles escape us both during my rise to my feet. “Be right back.”
To no surprise, I’m not even six feet away when she calls out, “What kinda cake do you want?!”
A fond memory convinces me to spin on my heels to answer alongside my retreating. “Blue.”
“Like the color blue or the flavor blue?”
“Seriously?! Blue is not a flavor!”
“Sure, it is!”
Warm laughs propel me to shake my head and face forward to finish my trek to the back.
While peeing more often is not something I enjoy – whatsoever – doing it in a clean bathroom – that I didn’t have to help clean – is absolutely appreciated.
Between me and Kipp everything stays pretty tidy.
Towels put away.
Toothpaste rinsed out of the sink.
Empty shampoo bottles removed.
But Mutt?
Mutt’s the problem.
Man cannot aim for shit when he’s too tired or its too dark.
And no matter how much he swears the drops of piss that end up near the bowl but not in it aren’t his, we all know that they are.
I think it adds to the reason why my ass is hoping for a girl rather than a boy.
He can’t be trusted to teach the little guy how to fucking aim.
Peeing, washing my hands, and drying them take almost no time; however, the moment alone to debate over the day’s discussion subject is welcomed.
I think I do want a wedding.
Nothing huge because I don’t know that many people and Mutt doesn’t like that many people.
Something outdoors would be nice.
Maybe somewhere with lots of flowers.
Lots of bright and blooming flowers.
Perhaps we BBQ and do beers instead of champagne – not that I get to drink either.
Drive away in a rented old car The Kid loves and has been dying to get behind the wheel of with cans attached to the bumper.
Colors and flavors and other tiny details aren’t something I care about so much as that we’re all together.
That we all say our vows.
Have vows to say.
Are celebrated.
Celebrate one another.
I think having some sort of actual event is what I want, and despite Posie’s insistence that they’ll just go along with whatever I decide, I’m gonna ask them.
Maybe spreadsheet the shit out.
Toy with a modest budget.
Get a better view of what a wedding might look like between us considering our tastes are all over the place.
Ooooo, this’ll give me something fun to do while being trapped inside if it actually does storm!
Opening the door to the bathroom swiftly occurs but having a damp rag smashed over my mouth and nose occurs faster.
Don’t breath!
Don’t breathe it in, Bunny!
The instinct to fight while holding my breath is instant.
I aggressively swing my flailing arms around, determined to hit the unknown male assailant somewhere.
His chest.
Torso.
Balls.
Unluckily for me, he manages to capture one of my arms, limiting my reach during our struggling retreat into the small space, prompting me to recalibrate my escape efforts.
Unwilling to go quietly but knowing better than to deeply inhale – like I would if I were going to scream – I decide to bang around everything and anything I can reach.
Paper towels tumbling to the ground make no noticeable noise.
And neither does the soap bottle falling into the sink.
Bumping into the object itself barely rattles the loose handles, however successfully kicking the mini garbage can into the wall momentarily distracts him enough for me to forcefully jerk my head forward into the bridge of his nose.
“ Fuckkkk! ” is grimly murmured in tandem with him relinquishing his hold on the rag.
Thankful to be free from the oxygen blocking contraption, I immediately drop my jaw to suck in a large breath only to have the object sloppily covering it again. This time, unfortunately, the hand that was previously holding mine at bay curls around my neck instead.
The squeeze that’s instantaneously executed is far from gentle.
Calloused fingers crush my airway tighter and tighter and tighter until I’m left with no choice but to choke down every bit of the unusual stench.
There isn’t time or opportunity to attempt another distraction.
Not even a moment to contemplate if what I’m ingesting could kill me or my baby.
One second my eyes are watering in desperation for fresh air and the next my entire frame is collapsing into nothing more than a lifeless lump.