Page 32 of His Bride

Considering I woke half dressed, trousers not really done up, one shoe on, and my shirt ruined, hair of anything might be a bad idea.

I rub a hand over my face.

Parts of the evening slide in and out of my head, but I’m currently too hungover to figure out if last night was just be a fuckup or a mighty fuckup of epic proportions.

I went to see Giana because, well, I missed her. The feel of her. The banter. The sex. I missed everything about her. Still do. Andthen I got mad, stole the scotch, and went to fucking town on the bottle. After that, things get lost in a haze.

The slide of her mouth. The nip of her teeth. The crack of her snark. Like a whip.

There are moments of clarity. Kissing her, the taste, the sweet and slow slide of her tongue. All that hot softness wet and waiting. Mouth and cunt.

But then it morphs into abstract art as a blur of emotions and words and acts of passion and stupidity collide head on.

Jesus, what did I say to her? Oh, I know. I said shit I shouldn’t have—which is nothing new for me, yet this time it feels different. Like when you punch someone in the face, and you end up with a broken fist.

I stare at the coffee before me. The cup is embossed, gold on black ceramic.

Italians do it better and longer.

Where the fuck did that come from?

But the cheesy sexual meaning to it resounds in me.

Oh, fuck, I got really mad because I wanted her, and it made me furious because I couldn’t control it.

Even now, with the horrible hangover and parts of last night slipping in and out of view, it burns in my veins. The fact I couldn’t keep away. The fact I went to her not once, but twice.

So I got angry at her, even though I know that’s unfair. Me losing my shit because she undoes something in me isn’t her fault. It’s mine.

My cigarettes sit in front of me, and I really fucking want one. But there’s something a little too cliché about me mooning out over my goddamn wife while drinking coffee and smoking. It feels way too French for my tastes.

I close my eyes and rub them.

“You know, coffee isn’t magic, asswipe. It’s not going to levitate into your mouth. You have to pick it up.”

I glare at Isaia, who’s appeared in the dining room. He helps himself to a freshly baked chocolate croissant. “Shut it, small dick,” I say.

He laughs. “Do I detect a little cock envy this morning?”

“Shut it. You drive a fucking Tweety Bird yellow car as a sign on wheels about your dick problems.”

He scoffs. “My car, douche, is a work of fucking art. And you’re the one walking around snarling because his wife won’t bone him.”

If I had my gun, I’d shoot him. Probably somewhere not fatal, but you never know. Because,Jesus, what the fuck?

I look at him. “If I didn’t have such a debilitating illness this morning, I’d kill you. Flail you alive and feed you your own liver.”

“Very Hannibal Lector of you,” he deadpans, taking another bite of his croissant.

“You took the last one, selfish prick.”

He glances at the French pastry in his hand, then back to me. “What? Your smoking hot wife by arrangement doesn’t want your pathetic ass, and you revert to a child.” His eyes glint as heoffers me a shit eating grin. “Drink your coffee and maybe ease up on the sauce.”

Okay. That last part’s fair. I forgot about just how drunk scotch can get a man, and I was about ten sheets blowing about in the wind. So maybe?—

“Then,” he continues, “you might be able to get it up and please her. She’s a real woman who needs a real man. I can teach you if you want. You know, how to fuck.”

I don’t think. I lunge over the table, and, in an excellent and athletic move, I grab the back of his neck and introduce his forehead to the table.

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