Page 2 of Under the Influence

“I want someone to love me.”

“No, you want someonegoodto love you. Lots of losers would have married you. I saw Gavin Overbite at the store last week. He could have been yours, but he was rude to your pa and wore a nasty cologne. Just findinganyoneisn’t enough. You need your Bullet Train.”

Tuesday is married to a much older hitman with an absurd name. On paper, he seems awful. Yet, Bullet Train is sexy and fun. He loves Tuesday like crazy, and he’s a good father to his fifteen-year-old daughter.

“I think I wasted too much time blowing off iffy men and missed out on their potential.”

“No, dummy. That’s not it.”

Frowning at her, I don’t react when she wipes my tears from my cheeks. “Then what is it?”

“You haven’t met your dream guy. I felt something incredible when I met Bullet Train. West went wild for Alexis when he first saw her. Even Val seems to have been crazy for this slut he’s marrying.”

“Thanks for rubbing your good fortune in my face. That certainly helped.”

“You’re welcome, you dried-up prune cunt.”

“Go frick yourself, swamp whore.”

Tuesday kisses my cheek. “If you’d met your guy, you’d know it. There’d be no question of missing signals. If Gavin Overbite was the guy, you’d have felt it to your core. He wouldn’t have been brainless enough to insult your pa. The gross cologne could be changed later because everything else would be perfect.”

Though Tuesday’s words offer me hope, I can’t shake my lowkey depression lately. “What if my guy doesn’t exist?”

“No, you’re a member of the Earlham clan, and we always find our dream person. Your guy is out there. And I bet he’s one of those dumb bikers in Basin Rock. Any of them would find you sexy as hell. I heard a few talking about your ass. But you haven’t actually met any of them. With Val getting married, you’ll have a chance to talk to those guys, one-on-one, and see if magic strikes.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Go hang out with Rie in Arcadia,” she says, mentioning our cousin who moved south with her dream guy. “I have no doubt you could find a sexy rich guy there.”

Inhaling sharply, I consider the beach town where Rie, her daughters, a hippie biker, and his people now call home. Arcadia is filled with professional men. There’s also another town nearby with more blue-collar types. Is that my problem?Have I been fishing for Mister Right in the wrong pond?

Reinvigorated by this thought, I wipe my wet eyes and breathe easier. I have a plan now. I’ll meet these bikers and go through the motions of finding a local guy. That way, when my parents hear I’m moving to Arcadia, they’ll understand why I need to leave my home and family.

DUKE MCGRAW, AKA NOT IN THE MARKET FOR MISS RIGHT

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My family is cursed.So says my mom, anyway.Her proof is how she never found love despite marrying three times. My brother fell for a woman’s great tits while she loved his stuffed wallet. Love wasn’t in the equation.

My own marriage was arranged with the daughter of a wealthy man. I was eighteen and looking to finance my motorcycle club. Kerrie wanted to please her father so he’d leave her a decent inheritance.

Our marriage was pleasant. We were friends who made two daughters together. I’ll always care for Kerrie. Yet, when she found someone else and our marriage ended, I only shrugged.

I’ve chosen to pretend I don’t believe in the McGraw family curse.How can I tell my daughters they’ll never experience a great love?My mom has never had any problem voicing the truth, though.

“Because my great-grandmother was a slut, you will never fall in love,” Erin told my girls when they were young and impressionable.

“Why can’t you just let them dream?” I asked my mom later.

“Because unattainable dreams ruin people. Why do you think your brother has fallen so hard for a woman he doesn’t even like? He never accepted how love wasn’t real for our family. Now, he’s made himself into a fool.”

My brother Dallas and his troublemaking wife live in Florida now. They send photos often, always revealing their deep tans and humidity-drenched hair.

“Never let that happen to me,” Lola insists every time we get a new photo of my brother on his boat or at a swamp party. “I can’t be that stupid. I couldn’t live with the shame.”

My oldest daughter would have made a great club president. The Blood-Red Suns were a dream I turned into a reality. Though I’ve loved my life as club president, I’ve lately been hit with the cold reality that I have no one to take over when I’m dead or too old to lead.

My club is filled with rowdy young men. None of them have any sense for business or strategy. My daughters are smarter on their worst days than the eight members of my club on their best. There used to be more local Suns, but ten went south with Dallas. My brother nursed dreams of living in paradise. Somehow, that translated to Florida.

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