Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I say.
“Are those your parents?” Whatshisface asks in his big, lumbery, dumb voice.
I don’t nod or answer, but Julia does, her little laugh making my skin crawl because it’s directed at the wrong fucking guy—aka not me. “Yes. They are two of the wildest people you’ll ever meet, which honestly explains their youngest son. It’s the full power of their DNA combined. I think—”
As she keeps talking, turning to look into his eyes while he plays with the ends of her hair like he has any fucking right, I walk away. Toward the flogging. Toward the yelling. Toward hell.
Honestly, at this point, even a bloody beating from my parents seems like a better option than staying here and watching them reenact an episode of Love Island.
My dad spots me pretty easily as I head for them—we’re the two tallest people in the crowd—and waves me over with a crook of his fingers. I gulp and comply, heading toward him and my mom in the back hallway that leads to the movie theater.
Did I mention that my billionaire investment and accounting firm father also moonlights as a tattoo artist in his free time? Or that his and my mother’s favorite pastime is playing pranks on each other?
And I’m not talking sitting on a whoopee cushion pranks. I’m talking hiring a mariachi band to follow their best friends around on their Valentine’s getaway trip. I’m talking, when they were first dating, my mom bought my dad a mini pig that ended up being a real-sized pig and got him certified as an emotional support animal for my father’s nonexistent depression and anxiety just to screw with him.
Not to mention, the first day of my freshman year at Dickson, my dad showed up to my first class with a fucking backpack and school supplies, saying he’d enrolled himself in all my classes and was going to experience college again with me.
I don’t know for sure what my punishment will be, but I know it won’t be good, and it won’t be swift. I’ll probably be paying for this for the rest of my natural-born life.
“What the ever-loving fluff is going on here?” my dad asks, moving me into a scary place against the wall. His hand doesn’t press on my throat, but it lives on my shoulder, perfectly in pouncing position. “Kline texted. Said there was some big fucking blowout going on at our place.”
“Without us!” my mom adds, as though the primary complaint is that there is a big party happening without her.
My dad tsks. “Like always, Kline and his big dick are right.”
“Yeah, well, you know Gunnar,” I lie. “He’s unhinged. He… I tried to stop him, but he…he’s not right. One minute, it was just the two of us, and the next, half the city was here.”
“Is that Dr. Bunnfield?” my mom asks, watching with interest as our dentist keg stands in the kitchen.
Something smacks me in the back of the head, and when I notice Gunnar standing in the vicinity of the origin of the projectile, a wave of panic washes over me. His eyes say I owe him, and owing Gunnar is absolutely terrifying in every imaginable way. Plus, I owe him for the actual party and the lie about him being the reason for the party too. So, I owe him twice. And if you include my parents in the payback-punishment scenario, it’s safe to say I am fucked.
I’ll probably have a tattoo of a unicorn on my ass by Tuesday. Or a septum piercing. Or be running drugs for the Colombians through Newark airport.
“Where is Gunnar?” my dad asks, his voice stern.
I look back to where he just was, but he’s a phantom. If I know my brother, he’s halfway out of the city by now on one of those rickshaw carts, headed for a Devils game or something. He doesn’t give a fuck. And when he doesn’t give a fuck, it’s as if he has magic powers. “I don’t know,” I answer candidly. “I really don’t know.”
Thatcher sighs, and I take a deep breath. Sighs are better than rage. Sighs are a sign of defeat.
“Well, shit. I guess we might as well get a beer, hun.”
My mom nods. “I’ve been reaming out the Bahamian police’s asses for a day straight. I need a drink. Did your brother get Heineken?”
I swear, my life is an early 2000s comedy starring Stifler’s mom.
“Uh. Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “Pretty sure the keg in the kitchen is.”
“Perfect. Come on, T-bag. You can hold my legs when I keg stand.”
I watch as my parents head for the party in the kitchen and take turns handstanding on the big silver drum while chaos reigns supreme around us. Philmore oinks and scurries around them, and whatshisface holds my dad’s legs when he takes a second turn.