Sundays are for Hangovers Page 2

  I’ve been on the phone for the past ten minutes, standing outside the radio station listening to her whine and moan that Daddy Dearest doesn’t approve of my choices. But he never has. Not since the day I took off a year ago, landing in Morristown, New Jersey. I was your typical A-lister. Top of my class dressed in pristine Valentino bubblegum pink dresses. I was exactly what my parents wanted me to be.

  Perfect.

  Sadly, I wanted to be the opposite.

  There was no way I saw my life going down the path my parents did. They had every detail planned, but I had dreams to travel, make my own choices, and just be me. When I approached my father, I pleaded with him to give me time. Allow me the opportunity to be on my own. Spread my wings. Blossom into the woman I was meant to become. The answer the first million times was no, despite me being a grown-ass woman. It varied into different versions, but the overall outcome all meant the same. I have a feeling it took some pushing from my mother for him to finally agree. As stoked as I was that he was finally agreeing to let me go, it wasn’t without stipulations. The important one being, I had one year. One year to get the nonsense out of my system. I knew that wouldn’t be enough. But at the time, I agreed. I took what I could get and thought I’d figure it all out when the time came. The problem is, that year is officially up.

  I take a peek at my watch, knowing I’m cutting it real close. The door to the studio opens and Daryl, or his radio jockey nickname, Big D, sticks his head out, signaling I have two minutes before I go on. Since we’ve been working together for the past year, I give him my universal, ‘on the phone with my mother, shoot me, gag me, okay, I’ll be right in’ stare. And, yes, he got all that.

  “Mother, really, I have to go. I’m on air in two minutes. Tell Daddy to go hire someone else. I love you and we’ll talk next week.” As in tomorrow since that’s when she’ll call me back to have this exact conversation all over again. I’m about to hang up, but I can still hear her yapping away.

  “Lilith, dear, wait. Are you coming to brunch next Sunday? The Petersons will be attending. Lance will be there!”

  Well, then you have that answer.

  Nope with a nope on top.

  When I escaped my parents’ fancy chains and the social society, elite bullshit, I also escaped the nerdy googly eyes of Lance Peterson. When you’re born and raised in my lineage, which is power, prestige, money, and more money, your parents believe they know best on how your life’s going to pan out. Mine knew exactly what I was going to do in life, that being, to work at my father’s ridiculously successful worldwide investment company, Hamilton Investments. I was to fall in love with their best friends’ son and have tons of regal babies and live the remainder of my days as the lady of the house, probably on my parents’ estate so they would never have to fully get their claws out of me. I’m sure the only reason Daddy wants me to take the job is to be closer to Lance, so he can propose on my first day, then insist I don’t dirty my pretty little hands and stay home.

  Gag.

  Still gagging!

  I tell her, we’ll see, and hang up just as I throw the studio door open. I land my ass in my chair and pull on my headphones with attached mic.

  “Goood morning, Morristown! Coming to you as fresh as your morning coffee, it’s the Lil and Big D show. If you’re alive and made it past Monday, then congrats to you. We’re gonna reward you with Tacobout it Tuesday. Now we all know Tuesdays were invented merely as an excuse to eat tacos. That’s why Manny’s on Jefferson offers half-off tacos between five and midnight! Make sure to tell ’em Lil and Big D sent ya. Now, let’s talk some Tuesday traffic, but first, here’s some Nirvana’s ‘Lithium’ for your morning commute.”

  I click off the Live on Air button and pull my headphones off my ears.

  “Your momma handin’ you the ultimatums again?” Daryl asks, setting his headset next to him, scratching at his wiry beard.

  “When is she not?” I ask with a huff. “It’s like she wants me to never come home, mentioning fancy dinner dates and the L-word.”

  Daryl laughs, his giant belly jiggling with the movement. He knows what the L-word stands for. Lance. Dorky Lance and his horrible comb-over and ritzy lawyer job and all his boring, snooze-fest attributes. I cringe just at the thought of having to sit through a boring brunch, with not only my uptight parents, but their uptight friends, and their uptight son. I’d rather get doused in taco sauce and set myself on fire than sit at one of those.

  Ouch. That kinda sounds painful—

  “What’s the sour look for?”

  “Uh, nothing. So, we still on for tacos at Manny’s after work? I really want to try and beat my tequila and taco record. Feel like tonight’s gonna be the night.” Since we promote Manny’s taco and salsa bar, Manny, the owner, hooks us up. Not that we can’t afford half-off tacos, but since Daryl can take down enough to feed a small colony, the discount helps. Have I mentioned we’re also on a jockey salary?

  “Girl, that place owns my heart.”

  I laugh. Because if there is one thing Big D loves more than razzing people on the radio, it’s eating. Which I second, because what goes best with tacos?

  Tequila.

  Daryl and I walk into Manny’s, and no surprise, it’s packed.

  “This town sure does love them some discounted tacos,” Daryl points out, wincing as he walks, his bad knee giving him problems. He isn’t lying either. The place is packed. It’s also because Manny, when opening the joint, attached a salsa dance club to it. So not only do you get your tacos, you get to dance them off too. Well, not Daryl and his bad knee. He just watches from the sidelines.

  We head to our normal spot, a nice reserved sign on a bar table waiting for us. We’d probably have to be dead or close to it to miss out on Taco Tuesday. While getting comfortable, we spot Manny and wave. It’s our universal sign for ‘we’ve arrived, bring us the goods.’ In no time, we’ll have a full table of double trouble. Tacos and tequila.

  “So, have you thought about what we talked about?” Daryl starts in.

  “What? The Tinder app? No. I really don’t want to get murdered just because I’m desperate and need my weigela played with.”

  “Your what?”

  “Oh, sorry, my weigela. A word my nerdy neighbor made up for my vagina. Well, not my vagina, my plant, but that weirdo probably wished it were my vagina.” Not that I also didn’t wish, since minus the glasses and pole stuck so far up his tight ass, he’s super-hot. Not that I pay attention.

  “Neighbor, huh? Thought you despised that dude?”

  A waitress comes over to our table and sets down a tray of chips, salsa, and four shots of tequila. We’re already downing the first one before she’s even away from our table.

  “I do. The guy’s so anal, he sometimes cuts his lawn with a pair of scissors if the mower missed a spot. Always nagging. I tell ya, he might need a sexual release more than I do.” And that is no lie. Ever since the moment I moved in, the guy next door has been a pain in my ass. I’ve attempted to be nice. I’ve invited him over for drinks, music, sun tanning. You name it. I’ve even asked if he wanted to hand cut my lawn, which by the way, I thought was being kind since he looked so damn into it.

  We grab for the second shots of tequila, clink, and down ’em.

  “You should just fuck your neighbor.”

  That causes me to choke, almost wasting a good shot. I choke it down, my eyes wide as saucers. “Ew, no! He’d probably complain the entire time we were doing it. Trash day really needs to be twice a week. Speaking of, stop putting your trash in my bin. Oh yeah, a little more to the right. Oh yes… do me, do me…”

  We both start laughing. It’s not that I haven’t accidently imagined myself doing my neighbor. I can’t deny he’s smokin’ hot. He’s an avid runner, so he’s super in shape. A little psycho about it, though, since he sometimes runs twice a day. It’s just his damn mouth. I also won’t deny it either that in my fantasy I’m riding him nasty style with a piece of duct tape over his mouth.


  “Why not? He’s good-looking. Maybe a set of contacts wouldn’t hurt.” Daryl laughs at his poke.

  I shove a chip in my mouth. “I don’t know. The glasses don’t really bother me. It’s his stupid mouth that does. If he would just shut up and stop complaining for once, I’d totally be into him. I mean, it’s like he wasn’t held enough as a child or something. Never satisfied. Plus, he hates me. Which is fine, ‘cause I’m no fan of his either.”

  Will Grant, aka the nerdy neighbor, is just not on my radar. He’s exactly the type of guy I’m running far away from. The uptight, bowtie wearing, snooty kinda guy who’s probably so boring that when he beats off, his poor dick falls asleep.

  Not sure why I’m even thinking about his dick. I bet it’s big, though. I’ve seen that bad boy jammed into his running shorts bouncing. Ahh, the things I could teach that guy.

  “So fine, no neighbor. You going to download the app or what? Boo, you need to get laid. And if it’s not gonna be by your hot uptight neighbor, then go swipe right to some random.”

  Both sound unappealing. Daryl is convinced I need to get laid. I’m also convinced, but I’m not really a one-night stand kinda girl. Not that there haven’t been any. Just none I’ll admit to or discuss.

  I’d just rather find a guy I like. Go on a date. Maybe flirt a little bit before I show him my thong collection and moan his name in pure delight till the early morning. But in this day and age, that seems impossible. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll just try and find someone the old-fashioned way. Maybe Manny has a brother he can hook me up with.”

  We both laugh as a gentleman approaches us.

  “Hi, you two,” says Jack Stone, otherwise known as our town fire chief.

  “Hey, Fireman Jack. What’s up?” I raise my hand and force him to high five me. He’s resistant at first but follows through. Win for me.

  Jack frowns at me, a bit uncomfortable. “Nothing much, but, Lilith, I wanted to let you know we received another anonymous call about your house not being up to code with fire detectors.”

  Daryl laughs as my mouth falls open.

  “Dude, seriously? You guys were just out last month checking because of the first call.”

  “I know. But if we receive a call, we have to come check.”

  Last month the fire department got a call from an anonymous caller, stating they were concerned over the outdated fire detectors in my home and insisted someone come check them before I set the neighborhood on fire. Of course, the detectors were up to code, because despite my parents who think I live in the ghetto compared to their pristine home, I do live in a nice house. I wished them a good day and spent the rest of the afternoon making a list of who had it out for me enough to make that call. Until it clicked.

  Will Grant.

  “Clearly this is bullshit. And we all know who called.”

  Jack’s sympathetic eyes tell me he also knows. “Sorry, Lil, but it’s our job. I just thought I’d warn you. Someone from the firehouse will be by sometime this week or next for a run-through.”

  He shakes Daryl’s hand, complimenting today’s show, and then he’s gone.

  “That fucking weasel!”

  “Maybe he only wants to make sure you’re safe.” Daryl won’t stop laughing.

  “More like he keeps trying to find ways to get rid of me.” I’m fuming. To think I even considered playing nice with him and his junk. Fuck that. Four more shots are brought to our table and I slam two, the alcohol an accelerant on my anger.

  Who does he think he is trying to mess with me like that?

  If he wants to play, then fine.

  Two can play this game.

  “Girl, you are too drunk. Maybe wait until tomorrow to steal ’em.” Daryl is pulling into my driveway. We spent the entire night conjuring up ideas for revenge and I figured out the perfect one. It’s simple. When I get home, which it’s currently rolling on two in the morning, I’m going to walk over with a handful of tacos, salsa, and some fancy drink Manny sent me home with and offer a truce. I’m going to ask to come in and use the bathroom. And after he thanks me profusely for all the tacos, I’m going to go inside and steal his fire detector. Then, while he lies in bed thinking about how wonderful I am and how delish Manny’s tacos were, I’ll make a simple call to the firehouse claiming to be a concerned neighbor. Even Steven.

  “No way. I’m good. Who will say no to taaaacoooos?” I start laughing. Tacccoooos. I should tell him I have a special pink taco back at my place if he’s interested. I start to laugh even harder at myself.

  “Yeah. You need to go to bed, girl.” He grabs for me when I start to get out.

  “No!” I throw the door open and wobble out, trying to juggle the mound of food and drink in my hand. “This is happening.” I turn, using my buns of steel to push the door shut, and I make my way next door.

  I start singing as I dance across his pristine lawn. “If you like piña coladas…” I start shaking my butt. “Or getting lost in the—”

  Mid line, something from the ground pops up, and the entire lawn starts spraying water.

  “AHHH!” I squeal, getting shot in the face by flying water. I realize the neighbor’s sprinklers are going off and run to get off his lawn.

  That’s when I slip.

  And my legs go up in front of me.

  And all the food goes flying.

  In an unladylike fashion, I fall on my ass, with a shower of Mexican food to follow.

  “Oh my God.” I look around at the heaps of ruined Mexican food littering Will’s lawn. “The poor tacos,” I whine. I’m trying to cover my face from getting shot with water. I attempt to get up but slide on a destroyed taco, smashing it into the grass and falling back down onto the cup of salsa. The container breaks under me, splattering everywhere. I groan thinking I would have still eaten the salsa even with a little bit of water in it.

  One more attempt to get up and another no go. It’s like a Jell-O wrestling match. I’m sliding all over the wet tacos, smearing them into the lawn, failing every time I try to stand.

  Thankfully Daryl finally comes to my rescue, pulling me up and half carrying me back to my house. For a fleeting moment, I worry about his bad knee.

  “Okay, so maybe you’re right. Let’s wait until tomorrow to get even.” I lick sour cream and grass off my fingers, then push through the door, bidding him good night as I barely get it closed behind me.

  Wednesdays are for…What the Fuck is on my Lawn?

  I lace up my Nikes and crack my neck as I head out for my morning run. Running is something new to me. Presley is the one who got me into it. And while she gave up on it, just like everything else in her life, I kept it going. I run twice a day if I can. Early in the morning, it’s refreshing and invigorating, every bit a part of my morning ritual as my black coffee and the daily crossword puzzle in the Morristown Gazette. I give Björk a pat on the head on my way out.

  At five in the morning, nobody is hardly up yet and I get the neighborhood to myself. It’s dark because I even beat the damn sun up. I’m grinning as I run across my grass toward the street, still looking up at the sky, pondering if I smell rain in the air when I slip. At first I think it’s Mr. Paulson’s dog shitting in my grass again. But another step and I slip again, falling hard on my ass.

  The stench of Mr. Paulson’s dog’s ass is not what assaults my senses, though. Salsa. What the fuck is on my lawn? I lift a hand and chunks of goddamned salsa are left all over my palm. I jerk my head around to see the horror scene surrounding me. Destroyed tacos. Salsa. Crushed to-go containers. Tortilla chips.

  I’m stunned.

  Fucking stunned.

  With an enraged growl, I stand and glare at the mess. I don’t even have to follow the trail to know who’s responsible. Same nutty neighbor who’s responsible for everything horrible in my life. I storm over to my extra-long water hose and start blasting her mess back over into her yard. It takes far too long and the sun starts to peek over the horizon by the time I’m satisfied. I
’m positively fuming.

  You know what?

  Fuck this girl.

  With my hose in hand, I stomp over to her house.

  Bangbangbangbangbang!

  Bangbangbangbangbang!

  Bangbangbangbangbang!

  Bangbangbangbangbang!

  Bangbangbangbangbang!

  Bangbangbangbangbang!

  “Oh my God! Shut the hell up!” she mutters from just inside the door.

  I twist the knob and am surprised to find it unlocked. For a brief moment it makes me want to run home and locate the safety statistics we discussed in the last Homeowner’s Association meeting. This may be a nice neighborhood, but those are the places criminals often prey upon. A single woman like herself is vulnerable and—

  You know what?

  Fuck this girl. Fuck her so hard.

  I push the door open and find her sprawled out on the floor. Her clothes are soiled and she reeks of tequila. Fury bubbles to explosive levels and I lose my mind. Pointing my hose at her, I unleash the beast. Water surges into her house, specifically spraying her.

  “WHAT THE HELL?!” she screeches as she tries to scramble to her feet. Her drunk ass tries several times before she makes it up.

  I release the trigger on my hose, toss it behind me, and snap at her. “Keep your chaos over here where it belongs,” I roar. “Stay off my fucking lawn.”

  Her surprise molds into rage. She picks up a vase nearby and launches it at me. It misses me and sails over my head onto her porch, shattering behind me. “You’re such an overbearing psycho!” she yells as she charges for me.

  She slips in the water and slams against my chest. On instinct, I grab her hips to keep her from falling. Her fingers have fisted my shirt and she glares up at me. For a moment, I’m caught off guard, staring into her pretty brown eyes. They flare with anger but then soften as she regards me. It has me calming considerably just looking at her gorgeous features up close.

  “Why are you so messy?” I ask, my voice husky as I realize she’s beautiful even soaked to the bone and stinking of salsa and tequila.