Chapter 25 The Friday Night Music Extravaganza
THE FRIDAY NIGHT MUSIC EXTRAVAGANZA
BECKY
Iblink up at the ceiling fan spinning idly above my bed.
Everything is off kilter. My mind, my body, it’s all moving out of sync—my body heavy and uncoordinated—my mind floating and unfocused.
It’s like living in a strange, vibrant dream sequence; everything feels surreal.
My head is cushioned between my bed pillows while I lounge, unable to sleep, continuing to stare up at the ceiling fan spinning, spinning, spinning—always in motion.
I stare, I breathe, and I try to think, but my mind keeps playing one of three images over and over again in a loop.
The meeting, the confrontation with Paul, the punch.
“Gahhhhhh,” I squeal into my pillow and kick my legs into the air.
I am being immature and ridiculous, but the thrill of it all.
Paul called me a bitch, so Carter punched Paul.
I groan this time, still into the pillow.
I didn’t think I had a thing for violence, but seeing the gentle, goofy man I spent years with, standing up for me like that was–well, it was nice. Real nice.
The way he stepped up without hesitation and reacted the moment Paul called me a name.
It was delicious. I squirm visualizing how angry he was—how beautiful he was in his anger.
Then his hands holding me so gently. At that moment, I wanted to forget everything from the past few months and kiss him.
I wanted to throw myself at him and let him take care of this ache that he created within me.
“Eeeeeeh!” I sit up and shake my head. “Okay, oh my gosh, stoppit Becky. You are nearly thirty years old!”
But I sat, draped over his lap, for no less than an hour.
As the minutes passed, his hands began to drift from soothing to something more—I don’t believe it was meant to be sexual, but I was already on edge, so every brush of his hand.
.. I lie back down and stare again, but this time I don’t see the fan, I just feel Carter—his calloused palms drifting down my arms and across my back and my neck.
He palmed my waist, then my hips—his strong hands squeezing with the softest pressure, whispering how much he missed me and how sorry he was while he continued to map out every part of my body he could reach.
I trail my own touch, chasing the echo his left behind until I’m needy—flushed with the desire for more.
I have to ease the ache myself. I get as far as to slip my fingers past the waistband of my sleepshorts, but reality comes screaming in the beeping of my alarm, and with it the ice cold memories wash away any libido I had built.
With another groan, this time pure agitation, I roll out of bed, slip on my fuzzy socks–my alternative to slippers—and drag ass to the kitchen, running my hands through my tangled hair.
I need to fill my body with some sustenance, preferably coffee and a muffin.
My fingers barely brush the bag of coffee grounds when a soft knock on the door draws my attention.
At first, I’m only confused. It is first thing Friday morning.
Then, I remember. It’s Friday! I abandon my coffee in my rush to the door, flinging it open to find today’s newspaper sitting neatly folded on my front porch.
“Yes.” I squat down and pinch the corner, lifting it from the floor, and shake it out.
Here it is—the final piece of the puzzle.
Now that the paper is out, Taylor will soon be receiving her own care package.
Tay winky-fucking-face’s little delulu world is about to fall apart around her.
I’m only a little disappointed I don’t get to see her face the moment she realizes it.
?????
I tug on the sleeves of the red top. It looks hot—hits my curves perfectly.
Hmm. I angle my body left and right, then grab my water, taking a sip from the hilariously oversized cup that I still bring to work everyday without fail.
A drop of water falls from the recently washed cup to my shirt, leaving an obvious dark spot where it lands.
Well, that does it. “Nope, my pit sweat is absolutely going to show in this.” I put my cup back down on my dresser, rip my current no off and toss it to the top of the growing pile of clothes on my bed.
With a scowl at all of the no’s, I disappear back into the closet to find my yes.
I thumb through a few more options for the tenth time before stopping on a white, flowy top.
It’s more feminine than I usually pick, which is why I’ve passed over it a few times, but her voice penetrates my thoughts. He needed someone soft and feminine.
“Bitch. I’m feminine as shit.” I mumble it, dragging the shirt out on its hanger, but instead of instantly getting dressed and flouncing out the door, I take the time to refold and hang up my discarded clothes.
I’m meticulous in the process, keeping my hands busy so my mind can focus on the small moves of straightening and tugging rather than drift to everything else that’s about to happen—and that’s already happened.
When my clothes are all put away, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare out my back window to our yard.
Normally, this event wouldn’t be a huge deal to me.
I’ve been doing this stuff for two years.
However, all of the drama since the last Friday Night Music Extravaganza is going to play out at this very public location.
I could dwell, but I won’t. I have everything done that I can to prepare, so I choose to refocus my energy elsewhere.
?????
My house is sparkling clean. At one point, I was down on the floor with a rag and a special cleaning solution cleaning my baseboards.
My house is never cleaner than when I am stressed or have someone coming over.
I went HAM at cleaning this morning and early afternoon before I hopped into the shower and dressed in my selected white flowy top and a pair of longer, teacher appropriate, shorts.
I paired the look with some cute leather sandals, a necklace I’m not going to dwell on, and my usual smart watch.
My hair is down, flowing in its natural half-curly, half-wavy state.
The humidity of the day would ruin anything else I tried to do with it, so I choose to embrace the chaos.
The alarm on my phone is my final warning that it is time to go meet the boys. We have a few things that we need to sort through at the garage to make sure everything is in order for the raffle. One last look in the mirror and I shake my head at myself. Silly.
The drive through downtown was more crowded than usual, but tonight being the final FNME of the year is likely the culprit.
I pull up to the shop in time to see Carter and Billy standing close together just outside the garage doors.
Carter waves his arms semi-erratically, pointing to something out of sight.
Billy stands still, arms crossed and legs spread, shaking his head.
That seems to set Carter off even more—more flailing and pointing.
I parked in the front lot, but somehow they missed me while continuing their bickering about something.
Curious, I try to be sneaky getting out of my car.
I shut the door as quietly as possible. As I get closer I hear snippets, then whole sentences.
“The placement of…”
“That one is prettier”
“...clearer handwriting.”
They still haven’t noticed me, but the entire picture is clear to me now. They’re working together with posters and tape, covering the entire truck and trailer with middle school raffle ads. They’ve barely left space to see out the front and side windows. Everything else is covered. It’s adorable.
“Hey, boys, is everything ready to go?” Two faces turn to me—one slightly sheepish, and the other, larger one, looks almost relieved to see me. Big baby.
“Hey, Becky.” Carter’s voice drops to something low and intimate as his eyes rake over me, head to toe, pausing on my legs, hips, chest, and lips, making heat rise in my cheeks.
“Hi, Carter.” I clear my throat, clasping my hands in front of myself. “So, um, who’s driving the truck to the venue?” I ask, apparently ignorantly, because they both look at me like I’ve lost the plot.
“Oh, sweet summer child,” Carter says in a fake deep southern accent.
“What?” I walk closer to them and look over at the vibrant mess of posters from their sides.
“One does not simply drive the truck to the venue.” He says this with a teasing grin. Unfortunately, he makes no sense.
“Okay, enlighten me, then. What does one do?” I hold Carter’s eyes, but my eyes cut to Billy when he answers my question.
“We’re pulling it with the decorated rig.
” Billy says it simply then walks away to the, yes, also plastered with posters, wrecker.
Warmth blooms in my chest at what these men have done.
I look back to Carter to ask if they need any help and can’t stop a laugh from spilling out at his put-out face.
At my giggle, his eyes crease and his lips tug up at the sides.
“He’s a party pooper, Becky. Now come help us decorate a few empty spaces Billy missed.” A scoff from deeper in the garage echoes, and the warmth in my chest digs a little deeper.
Ten minutes later, we’re getting ready to get into the vehicle to leave—Billy in the driver seat and me squished in the middle.
I tilt a little toward Carter, getting a whiff of his oil and sandalwood smell.
“What were you going to say? Earlier, when you looked like Billy kicked your puppy?” Billy snorts from behind the wheel, but puts his arm around the back of the seat to back up the wrecker.
Carter swats it down before he answers my question, leaning in like it’s a secret.
“One arrives in style, and then I was going to gesture to all the work we just did in a duh sort of gesture.” I laugh again as I see Billy roll his eyes in response.