Table Of Contentflatsce FALL APART
S.E. CULPEPPER
Copyright 2013 by S.E. Culpepper
Smashwords Edition
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for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Sammy. In the midst of it all, you are with me. I’m so glad
we are sisters and I’m grateful that you’re also my best friend. A
world without Sammy is a dreary place. As Sandol Stoddard
Warburg wrote:
“Even if it was the nine hundred and ninety-ninth of July Even if it was August
Even if it was way down at the bottom of November Even if it was no place
particular in January I would go on choosing you And you would go on
choosing me Over and over again
That’s how it would happen every time I don’t know why
I guess I don’t know why I like you really Why do I like you
I guess I just like you I guess I just like you Because I like you”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dale, as always, you come through for me, reading and re-reading to help me
out, even answering emergency texts when I need your opinion, “Right now,
please!!” You have become such a dear friend and I don’t know what I’d do
without your encouragement during this process.
Also, thanks must go to my mom, my sister, Krissy, and my long-time friend,
Elaine, for reading the first draft and offering their input, which makes editing so
much nicer to deal with. Thank you, darlings!
Thank you, Chris, for the input throughout. Your opinion is priceless.
CHAPTER ONE
Damon’s neck and shoulders were screaming and it didn’t matter how badly
he wanted to change positions, he couldn’t. Not when his body had been so
meticulously arranged by his nephew to serve as the Hall of Doom for a league
of super heroes about to save the world. One arm, draped upward over his head,
served as a parking garage for hero vehicles. Any time the heroes decided not to
fly to their destination, metal matchbox cars would rumble over his armpit to the
mountain’s exit near his lower ribs, causing tremors to shudder through the
foundations.
“Don’t move,” Davey whispered in his most serious tone. “The Green
Lantern will get crushed.”
Damon tightened up and swallowed a groan. This was the most miserable
game ever. He wished he hadn’t thought of it, but it was either lie down and
become a mountain, or watch the show with the monkeys for the hundredth time.
“How’s Batman? What’s he up to?” Damon whispered.
“He’s taking the Bat Mobile to the city to help.”
Shit.
The car rumbled from “the garage” and down over his ribs and it took all of
Damon’s concentration not to writhe. He was so fucking ticklish.
“The City” was actually Damon’s lower leg—a metropolis sprawling from
high ground at “Knee Point” and sweeping off into the sea at “Toe Inlet.” It was
built on rolling hills and plains of denim with a seawall made of cotton sock.
Iron Man was out there, busy fighting off a stuffed bear, and his situation wasn’t
looking good.
When would Damon’s relief arrive? His mom and sister were supposed to be
done with sunrise yoga and taking over “Davey Watch” by now. His rescue
would only come with a child’s order of French toast sticks and chocolate milk.
Let them hurry.
It looked like the super heroes wanted to save the world, but none of them
wanted to do it by cutting down on their usage of greenhouse gas-emitting
machines. All of them were roaring out of armpit garage in their rocket-
propelled cars, forcing Damon to clench his teeth so he wouldn’t give his
weakness away with twitches and girlish squeaks.
Only when David had wedged two heroes between Damon’s toes “to show
that they’re flying,” did Damon get his reprieve.
“Guess who’s here and she brought food!” His sister, Jess, called out from the
hallway.
The Hall of Doom came down with a very loud grunt and a crack of
vertebrae, but Davey raised no objections because he was already running for the
front door.
“Did you bring French toast sticks?” the boy hollered, his throat still rough
from a cold he’d caught at day care.
Damon lay on the living room floor until he felt his bones slowly shifting
back into proper alignment. His armpit was raw and there were six, maybe
seven, matchbox cars under his left butt cheek. He was simply too tired to care.
The rehearsal dinner for his best buddy’s wedding had carried on late into the
night and now here Damon was, semi-hungover and expected at Luke’s wedding
brunch in an hour and a half. He hadn’t forgotten about babysitting Davey, but
five tequila shots into the party last night, an early wakeup didn’t seem like a big
deal.
Davey had no concept of the toll taken by his mother and grandmother when
they dropped him off like this every Saturday morning so they could become one
with their chi. They were twisting themselves into impossible poses on the beach
while Damon stared with bleary eyes at a game of Battleship, guzzled coffee,
and manfully endured tickling as the super hero Hall of Doom.
If Damon took five now, he’d be better rested for what was certain to be
another great party at the reception, but he’d end up sleeping too long and show
up late. That would piss Mandy off, which would piss Luke off, and on and on…
Shower and shave he must. Plus, he had an almost forty-five minute drive from
his house to the restaurant in Santa Barbara.
What had happened to youth and vigor, to those days when only a couple
hours of sleep could get him through some crazy shit? Was thirty-three supposed
to feel like this? All Damon knew was that it felt centuries older than, say,
twenty-five.
“That was a good year, twenty-five,” he mumbled to himself.
“Hey, you going to join us?” his mom asked from the doorway. “I brought
pancakes.”
“Davey’s actually eating?”
“Two French toast sticks down and counting.”
Damon sighed in relief. He never would’ve thought that the family mood
would swing on a hinge pin of whether or not someone else ate a ration of
French toast sticks. But it did. Jess was a frazzled bunch of nerves when Davey
decided he didn’t want to eat anything but CrackerJacks for a week straight.
“Are you aware you have a couple super heroes stuck between your toes?”
Sitting up, Damon plucked the plastic men away and tugged his socks out
from where they were jammed between his toes. When he stood up all the way,
cars and toys fell from him like the detritus of a hurricane, and he stepped on the
bat mobile on his way out of the room.
“Don’t let Davey forget his stuff, okay?” Damon grumbled, cursing over the
sting in his foot. “I can’t stay because I’ve got the wedding brunch.”
His mom murmured a response as she looked him up and down, then she
jumped into an enthusiastic conversation with Davey as she rounded the corner
to the dining room. Somehow Molly Wright, his fifty-six-year-old mother, had
energy that rivaled a four-year-old’s. The two had some sort of special language.
Davey was also the only person Molly chattered with at all. Mostly, she was
watchful and quiet. People teased that his dad was the strong, silent type and his
mom was stronger and silenter.
Davey smiled up at Damon as he came into the dining room. Syrup was all
over his face and Damon playfully ran a hand over the little boy’s hair as his
sister held a French toast stick out to him.
“One for the road?”
Damon shoved the whole thing in his mouth and Davey’s eyes bulged.
“Mommy, he took a big bite!”
“Yes, he did,” Jess agreed and glared at Damon. “Nice example, Day.”
Damon grinned around his mouthful and ruffled her hair too. “I do my best.”
Davey laughed. He loved it when someone, aside from himself, challenged
his mom. “Uncle Day’s goin’ to Luke’s,” he informed Jess and grandma before
promptly sneezing over his breakfast.
“If you ask nicely, maybe he’ll bring you some cake from the wedding
reception,” Jess winked.
Davey’s eyes widened like this was a stroke of genius and turned on Damon
with a hopeful expression.
Guhhhh. Irresistible.
“Yeah. Alright, kid.” He dropped a kiss on Davey’s brow, gave his mom a
peck on the cheek, and left to shower and change into a suit. The tux was
hanging beside it and he reminded himself not to forget it. He couldn’t afford an
emergency trip home.
Damon was pleased to see that he didn’t look as rough as he felt when he
glanced in the mirror. The shower washed away the yuck from the night before
and stepping out, he was a new man. The reddish highlights from the summer
sun were fading from his hair—thank God—and he was once again in that happy
medium between brown and auburn. There was nothing that could be done about
the sparse smattering of freckles on his nose. He knew they weren’t that
noticeable, but he thought they made him seem too young. They gave him the
look of a surfer without any cares in the world and he was a man full of cares.
Damon couldn’t embrace freckles.
He ran some sort of styling cream through his hair that came in a container so
colorful it could induce seizures, and then shaved. His suit fit like a sexy glove;
the only allowance to be made was that his wallet had to go in the jacket because
there was no way his pants would contain it. Folks would be able to read his
credit card number through the fabric if he forced it. It was the only suit he
owned and it was brand new. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but he loved
the way it made him feel. Like he wasn’t the same run of the mill guy he was
every other day.
Davey was singing a song in the dining room about lizards in trees, an
original composition, as Damon took everything he’d need that day to the truck,
including his tux and gift for the bride and groom. He’d considered bringing his
nephew along to the festivities, but with the cold that wouldn’t go away, and the
attention span of an excited fruit bat, the kiddo would have more fun with his
mom and grandma. Grandpa was manning the shop alone today and probably
enjoying the solitude. His dad didn’t appreciate his family hovering.
Back in the dining room, Damon opened his jacket like a runway model and
spun once in a circle. “How do I look you guys? Do I pass inspection?”
Davey paused his lizard song and gave him a long look. His sister and mom
waited for the verdict.
“Come here,” Davey ordered.
Jess tsked at him. “Say, ‘please.’”
“Please?” Davey’s ls still sounded like ws.
Damon crossed the room and crouched down in front of his nephew’s chair,
smiling.
“You smell like a million bucks,” the little boy whispered, mimicking the
words his grandma said whenever she hugged her husband and son.
Damon laughed and held out his arms. “Hug,” he ordered, and then turned his
cheek for a kiss. “Kiss.” Davey awarded him with a smack of syrupy goodness
on his right cheek and his mom offered him a wet paper towel to wipe it off.
“Stay out of trouble and be good, got it?” Damon gave his nephew a severe
look.
“Got it.”
“No alcohol or loose women.” Damon smiled and his mom shoved him out of
the room the moment Jessica started to whine. “I’ve got my phone, so if you
need anything, just text or call.”
“Give our best to the bride and groom,” Molly said. “Tell Luke again that
we’re sorry we can’t make it.” She acted as if she wanted to say something
more, decided against it, and then asked anyway. “Is Andrew going to be there?”
Ah, there it was. “He is Luke’s cousin, ma. Works for Luke’s dad, too. I think
he kinda has to be there.”
“Watch the tone with me, Day,” his mom warned. “Don’t let him charm you.”
Molly allowed another kiss to her cheek before Damon hit the path to the
driveway. “Don’t worry about it! And tell Jess to lock up when she leaves this
time!” he called over his shoulder.
As Damon pulled from the driveway, Davey appeared between the curtains in
the front room and waved. He honked the horn for him and laughed when the
little guy jumped up and down.
Molly didn’t often let Damon and Jess know when she was worried about
something, so asking about Andrew was a big deal. She had the charm thing all
wrong, however. Andrew wasn’t charming. He was provocative and agitating.
There was no such thing as sweet allure with him; he was all about tactics. He
had a maddening way of making statements that made it almost impossible to
ignore him, even if Damon was furious with him.
That was the point. Andrew didn’t care if someone was angry with him.
Yelling and drama didn’t bother him. His purpose in seeking someone out was
never to apologize or make amends. He sucked people in with a comment they
couldn’t resist arguing, and it was when they rebutted that Andrew made his
move, sucking them in deeper.
In that guy’s world, anger was simply two doors down from passion, and
passion just a skip away from sex. The sex always led to a time of estrangement
and then the process began again when he approached the next time. It could
even begin with a simple text saying, You mad? or You ignoring me?
Much more difficult to brush off than it seemed. Especially when loneliness
came knocking.
Damon secretly hated Andrew and he hated himself more because he’d fallen
into that trap three times. He didn’t want to see Andrew again. He didn’t want to
be used. The onus was on him, though. When Andrew came his way, which he
most certainly would, Damon had to keep his mouth shut and escape.
The restaurant lot was packed and it took him several minutes to find a spot
he could squeeze into. His truck looked out of place amongst the luxury sedans
stretching out in silver and black lines in every direction, but it’s not like he
could haul gear and camping equipment over mountain roads in a Benz.
Damon was still a good distance from the entrance when he spotted his only
friends in the wedding party waiting outside. Franco was smoking and Todd was
on the bench behind him, somehow giving off the impression of extreme
boredom even across the parking lot. When Damon was closer he waved and
Franco stubbed out his cigarette to jog forward and meet him, his brown, styled
hair gleaming in the sunlight.
“You should see the groom,” he laughed and shook Damon’s hand, slapping
him on the back as they turned toward Todd. “He’s pissin’ his pants.”
Todd nodded and raised his eyebrows simultaneously by way of a greeting.
“How many mimosas do you think I can safely drink at this thing without being
completely inebriated for the service?”
“Four,” Damon and Franco answered together after a shared look of
deliberation.
Todd gave a very put-upon sigh and turned to go inside. “I hate weddings.”
Damon stepped up beside him and grabbed his shoulder with a staying hand.
“I saw you leave with Valerie last night. Something tells me you don’t hate this
that much.”
Franco gaped in disbelief. “Valerie? The Maid of Honor? The glacier with
facial expressions?”
Todd held his hands out like What? and took a few more steps forward before
pausing and looking back over his shoulder with a smirk. “I said I hate
weddings, but I happen to enjoy the occasional bridesmaid.”
“Valerie?” Franco hissed as Todd abandoned them in the lobby. “Really?”
“That’s our Todd: Disenchanted Lady Killer, The Melancholy One. His saga
continues.”
Never was a man more blasé—even about getting laid—than Todd. He gave
the illusion of a Ghandi-esque calm when it came to companionship, but Damon
suspected he was just sorta tired. Years ago, his friend stopped putting energy
into anything remotely romantic. If a woman was around and she was interested,
okay…fine. Todd wanted sex, but he wasn’t going to break a sweat chasing it.
Cynical was his shtick and it was really working for him. The world-weariness
was somehow attractive to women and few understood that it all stemmed from
a thoroughly crushed heart, courtesy of his college sweetheart, Ella.
“Damn,” Franco frowned, almost certainly picturing the Maid of Honor in her
ice queen mode. “Sandra hates Val, you know.”
“Everyone knows.”
Franco’s wife, Sandra, didn’t believe in wishy-washy emotions. Extreme
reaction, one way or the other, was a medium she could really work with. She
was tough as nails and the scariest woman Damon knew. She ran her home like a
1920s prison warden might and even Franco was terrified of her. In a loving
way.
“Does she know you were out smoking?”
“Hell no,” he answered with a shiver. “She thinks I quit.” As if the question
