Page 43 of Queen of Ruin

The deceiving blue sky causes me to step onto the deck where I smell the burned notes of a fire from a nearby chimney, along with pine needles and everything that says fall is coming to an end and winter is closing in fast – along with my balls shriveling up and trying to climb back inside my body to get away from the cold.

“Shit!”

It’s like participating in the polar plunge where people skinny dip in the middle of winter for reasons I can’t fathom. I shiver and curse, trying to think of why I was so stupid to come out here in the first place, when the front door bangs open. I turn around to see Alistair standing in the doorway where he drops his luggage, and his eyes drop to my flaccid cock.

“Well,” he heckles, pointing at me. “It doesn’t look like you’re happy to see me.”

“Jesus fuck, Alistair,” I move into the kitchen and grab a dish towel to cover myself. “I was just outside and it’s fucking cold.”

“Why are you here so early anyway? I said to come the day before Thanksgiving.”

“Have you been so busy fucking Evangeline – poor thing – to know what day it is?” He makes a tsk noise while trying to peer over the counter as I wave him away angrily. It dawns on me, today is the day before Thanksgiving. I palm my face, nearly dropping the towel.

Evangeline appears from the hallway with sleepy eyes, dressed in the long underwear that we picked up in town.

“Did I interrupt something?” she muses, looking at the dishtowel I’m holding in front of me and back at Alistair.

“No. Jesus,” I grumble.

From behind Alistair, Cleo appears, her leopard print bag hanging at her side. “Darren, now I know you didn’t invite me here for an orgy.” Her other hand is at her waist. “That costs extra,” she snickers with a wink.

“Oh my God!” Evangeline runs towards her. “What are you doing here?”

The timing may not be optimal, but the look on Evangeline’s face is worth standing here with a flaccid cock that may or may not have frostbite.

17

WHERE’S THE TURKEY?

EVANGELINE

“What do you mean we’re not having Thanksgiving dinner?” Alistair bellows in outrage. “Where’s the turkey? The sweet potatoes?”

Darren forgot to put in the order, and in this small town, no restaurants are open.

He holds up a silencing finger with the phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t think you understand. I can pay you anything,” Darren insists to the person on the other end. “Yes, I realize you’re not a magician and can’t make a turkey appear out of thin air.” He looks over at me rolling his eyes, but I can’t help finding the humor in the situation. “Can you call other grocers and find a turkey?” Darren demands, changing focus. He drops his head and pinches his forehead. “No, I don’t think you’re a turkey concierge.”

“Is there such a thing as a turkey concierge?” he whispers to me, and I shake my head.

Cleo’s shoulders shake with laughter, and I can’t help but join her.

“Why didn’t you just cook a turkey?” Alistair directs his question at me.

Cleo puts a hand on her hip, pressing her lips together and fighting to keep her words in.

“Does having ovaries automatically make me a Michelin chef?” I question, offended.

Alistair, seeing the error of his ways, shuts his mouth while Darren laughs, shoving his phone in his back pocket with a defeated huff.

“Trust me, even eggs and bacon are a stretch.” I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me by saying, “And before you get offended, I can barely use the espresso machine, so neither of us are in a position to cook a full-on turkey dinner, even if I were to go out in the woods and shoot one,” Darren consoles.

Alistair begins to laugh; first a chortle, and then a full-on attack. He barely gets the words out when he says, “Are you fucking Davy Crockett?”

“No, Alistair. I am not!” Darren curls his fingers into his palm, and I can see the situation escalating so I step in.

“I might have a solution.”

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