Le Preston was le shitfaced.
He was toasting again. Unlike the previous ones, Shannon could hear his words clearly now. She did her best to stay as still as the plastic leaf she hid behind.
“’Tis my birthday! Do you hear that, les Americans? Another year marking moi ostracism. I hope your shame bites you on your les têtes.” Preston took a sloppy slurp from the bottle.
Shannon could see into his apartment, and took full advantage of that, moving only her eyes, like one of those creepy cat clocks. The room was empty. The thought of this exquisite Frenchman alone on his birthday made her want to share a bottle of wine with him. She stepped out from behind the tree and cleared her throat.
He twirled around and pointed at her. “You’re there.”
“I am. And I’m going to apologize for America.” Shannon lowered her pitch and gave her next sentiment a booming volume. “We, the people, never wanted to bust your balls. Amen.”
She was confusing prayer and constitutions in her haste to make his moment better.
“Vhat is your nom?” Preston had a lazy eye, and the alcohol added to the lopsided effect of his gaze.
“Shannon Tinker, and I watch you like you’re a TV show.” Shannon added a bop to her stance, unconsciously dancing to the beat of the song constantly playing in her head.
“Shannon, I’m the only one of my kind. Do you know how alone I am?” Preston’s French accent fell off like a wart in a dermatologist’s office.
“ ‘Your kind’? I thought there were a lot of French people. Don’t they have, like, a whole country?” Shannon took a step in his direction, admiring his Eiffel Tower pajama pants. He was incredibly proud of his country.
He was French again. “Shannon, come into my maison. I will share my soul’s maladie with you.” Preston deeply bowed and farted. Again.
Shannon forgave him his gas because everyone’s muscles loosen up when they’re drinking.
“Pardon my gaz.” Preston motioned with a pretty gay hand at his door.
His flatulence encompassed them both like a skunk’s dirty underwear. He was such a gentleman; he apologized again. In fucking French.
“Désolé for my bad air.” Preston gestured to the closest cluster of rocks, which was serving as his couch. His collection was impressive.
“Please, tell me your story. I have imagined many things. Sometimes you’re a spy from France; other times, you’re a drug runner. Once, I imagined you were a woman. Break the mystery for me, Preston.” Shannon leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees.
He nodded at her for a long, long time as he seemed to decide whether he could share his deepest secret with her.
“I have a story for you, Shannon Tinker. Twenty-seven years ago today was le jour I was born. My mère was an irrational Walt Disney fan. Despite the fact zat she was almost ten months pregnant with me, she attended her vacation at Walt Disney Monde as planned. She and my father were strolling slowly from mini England to baby-sized France in the world showcase. The labor pains hit her on the bridge in between.” Preston’s eyes filled with the emotion the story brought out in him.
Dear God, his mother died? And she was pregnant for such a long time, my poor croissant!
He continued. “When her water broke, she knew she had to keep walking—staggering, even. My father held her arm as they made their way into France. She lay down on the cobblestone and spread her jambes to admit me into the air-breathing world. My father started singing his favorite song so I would hear joy mingled with my mother’s painful screams.”
Preston stood proudly like he was delivering a country’s anthem and sang, “It’s a petit monde after all, it’s a petit monde after all.” He put his hand to his heart and sat down.
“My father was too busy creating the mood to help. So, wouldn’t you know it, Pluto happened by and stopped to help urge me through the birth canal. I fell, covered in amniotic fluid, into his puffy, yellow paws.”
“And your mother?” Shannon held a shaking hand out to the man that was baring his soul to her.
Preston nodded solemnly. “She and my father live in Boca. They have annual passes to Disney Monde.” He took her offered hand.
Even though Shannon had no idea why Preston seemed sad, she was riveted by his words.
“My fight, sweet Shannon—my chère stalker—is with Le America and Le France. I am a citizen of both countries. But they deny me my rightful destiny.” He shook with indignation.
“What is that, Preston?” Shannon removed her hand from his and replaced it with her chin. Her head was in his hand.
“I’m the King of Epcot France, Shannon. My life’s work will only be complete when I can claim my throne. I’m Epcot France’s only countryman; I’m the government, the law, the people.” Preston bounced Shannon’s head like a hot rock.
“That’s amazing. And it totally explains your unconventional dialect!” Shannon wished he would bounce her head forever.
“Yes, it was a burden to create my own language. I needed to be le comfortable with ze tourists and myself.” Preston stopped bouncing her head so he could take another sip of wine.
“Preston, I can only say one thing to you.” Shannon stood and raised her hands above her head. “Take it.”
Preston may have been in pajamas, and his hand gestures could be conceived as ambiguous, but when Shannon batted her eyelashes, she was relieved he quickly stood with lust in his eye.
He seemed to have a head rush and weebled around a little. Finally, he found his target again. Instead of puckering for his kiss, he went in tongue-first like he was the little kid in A Christmas Story aiming for the frozen pole.
Shannon had been planning this in her head since she first laid eyes on Preston, she made her lips into a little sucking hole. They fit together like two pieces of factory equipment. His eyes bugged out as she massaged his tongue with her teeth and cheek muscles.
They braced themselves awkwardly on the rocks—almost like frogs playing twister on lily pads.
Shannon tried to enjoy the taste of him. She wanted to remember all of it: his winy breath, his shaking hands, the fact that she was now 99.8% sure he wasn’t gay. It was perfection. When she could maintain the suction no longer, she released his tongue. It snapped back into his mouth like a brand new measuring tape.
“Preston, I’ll do everything in my power to help you claim the throne of Epcot France.” She nodded at him like the royalty he was in her head—and his.
“Shannon, I will make vous French toast and French fries. Vous very well may be my le queen, and together, mon canard, we can rule the tiny street and establish an heir.” Preston bowed deeply again, followed by a backfiring car type of fart.
They were the romantic words every girl hoped to hear in her life. Shannon had tears of happiness. When the effects of all his wine finally screwed Preston in his ass, he toppled over and landed at her feet, narrowly missing hitting one of his rocks with his forehead.
Shannon patted his messy, sexy hair and smiled again. Someday soon, she would be queen.
Duke drove Dove’s car. Annoyingly, he had a suitcase for himself, so he looked like a non-circus performing traveler. Dove held on to her phone like it was the foot of a golden egg-crapping phoenix.
Duke looked her up and down and asked, “Am I going to need to work that thing into your outfit? Put it on a chain or somethin’?”
Dove ignored him and looked out the window, mentally reliving Johnson’s lips touching her skin.
Duke pulled into Bamshell’s parking lot and pinched her repeatedly until she got out of the car.
“Don’t you have a chick or a whore to take to this thing?” Dove stood next to her own passenger door, bending at the waist to stretch her lower back.
“Having second thoughts? Well, cram ’em in your cooter because we’re running out of time.” Duke grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the store.
“I hate this store. It’s like a yard sale—or looting a dead person’s house.” Dove
dragged her feet.
Duke turned to face her, grabbing her other hand like they were dating or lovers. Or drunk cousins. “Dove, quit fighting the leash. You are going to have a good time at this wedding if it kills us both.”
Duke smelled good. Crap, he looked good, too. He had on what looked like clean jeans and a nice black button-down shirt.
“You won’t get laid by a bridesmaid if you hang all over me like this.” Dove put her phone between them so she could check Johnson’s Twitter.
Duke sighed and tuned on his heel, dragging her behind him.
Inside, Bamshell’s was busy being Bamshell’s, a low priced warehouse for designer brands that were usually ill-fitting. When they were amongst the racks and racks of last season’s dresses, Dove sneered.
“Tell me your size.” Duke started leafing through the apparel.
“Shove your dick in a wood chipper.” Dove crossed her arms.
“My dick would grind a wood chipper to a halt.” He faced her again. “Size?”
“Pish.” Dove wasn’t going to tell him anything. The surge of self-confidence the prospect of leaving for the weekend had given her was now fading away in a steady stream.
Duke shook his head, captured her hands, and pulled them out to her sides. His vibrant blue eyes assessed her almost clinically. He ghosted her shape with his hands, not touching her but coming damn close. He stopped at her knees and looked up at her.
With a sinful smile that showed his dimples, he guessed correctly. “You’re an eight.”
Dove folded her arms again and ignored her clit, which was knocking happily on her vagina doors.
Duke did not just turn me on. I’m oversexed and overtouched.
He plucked a black gown from the rack and snagged a pair of matching heels before grabbing a few more things from the clearance rack and waltzing up to the checkout counter. After taking out his wallet, he peeled off the bills required to get out of the store without the airport-quality metal detectors screaming at them.
“Don’t you need me to try those bastards on?” Dove followed him without being dragged this time.
Duke opened her door and motioned for her to get in, clearly enjoying her stupefaction. “They’ll fit like they were sewn onto your body.” He slid his sunglasses over his eyes.
Dove sat in the passenger side of her own car and tamped down the desire to fix her hair. Maybe it was all the sex-having, but if Duke kept acting like this, it was gonna mess with her head.
Shannon packed her bags before doing a little dance. She’d tucked Preston into bed earlier. Well, actually, she’d tucked him into the floor, where he’d landed. He was too heavy for her to move. But damn if she was giving him a chance to change his mind. Now, she was headed south, so she went for a new look. She’d found the man of her dreams and he was a king. She tried to call Dove, but it went to voice mail. The only other person she wanted to talk to was Flower.
Shannon traipsed upstairs, and when she was about to knock, Flower pulled the door open before she got the chance to do so, her eyes wild.
“You knew I was coming?”
Flower nodded once and waved Shannon in.
“Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I’m headed on vacation with Preston. He’s the king of Epcot France. I was keeping half an eye on Steve the Cat for Dove. Even though she didn’t ask. Duke took her to a wedding.”
Flower narrowed her eyes by way of a question.
“The Anastasias have him.”
Flower made huge eyes.
“I know, right? Those nutcases can barely keep their act together. But whatever. Can you possibly make sure they don’t shave him bald or whatever?”
Flower nodded once and then got up suddenly. Shannon wasn’t sure if she was being dismissed and was standing when Flower returned. The woman had emerged from her broken Christmas treasure trove carrying an Epcot France flag. It was a little worn and had the emblem for Christmas 2005 in the corner, but damn it, Flower had just given her the most important thing in the world for Preston. It made her tear up a little.
Shannon grabbed her quiet friend in a hug and jumped around. Preston was going to flip when he woke from his drunken stupor. She felt a flare of uneasiness. Hopefully he meant everything he’d said.
She took the flag and thanked Flower again.
Flower watched Shannon leave with her prized Epcot France flag. She really hadn’t wanted to part with it. She’d brought it out just show it to Shannon, but when her annoying friend had started tearing up, Shannon didn’t have the heart to wrestle it from her.
She leaned against the closed door. Hearing that Duke had taken Dove to a wedding made her super sad.
She knew people thought she was weird. It was okay; she didn’t care. Flower had a medically diagnosed case of extreme empathy. Her parents called her a hoarder, but her doctor knew differently. Flower cared for the things that weren’t good enough for anyone else.
It had started when she was a kid. One day, their neighbor’s cat had had kittens. One kitten, called “That Poor Bastard,” had been born without any legs. The vet had been summoned to put down the hours-old kitten when Flower had spoken up.
“I’ll take that kitten.” She’d stood proud while she looked at the forlorn little furball.
The vet offered sage advice. “Sweetheart, trying to take care of this kitten would be like having a pet basketball. With a mouth. And a craphole.”
“No one else wants him, right? Let me try.” Flower had rushed past the grown-ups and snatched up the baby animal.
The vet had shrugged and given her number to Flower’s parents for safe keeping.
Despite the insurmountable obstacles a legless cat faced, That Poor Bastard , aka TPB, had flourished under Flower’s care. She’d bottle-fed TPB and kept him in a sling close to her body. After ruining fifteen outfits, she’d researched Elimination Communication. Dedicated parents could learn how to sense their baby’s bodily needs, and when the baby needed to take a crap, the mother would bolt for the shitter and dangle the baby over the water hole.
Flower had been determined to make herself a freak show, too. Soon enough, she’d been able to tell when TPB had to release any of his bodily waste products. Not only had she been allowed to bring her cat to school because she was listed as his service animal, she’d had a cat that was potty trained.
Wearing the cat all the time had proven to be tough, especially when TPB went through a play phase and bit the living hell out of her chest. But that had just made Flower tougher.
She and That Poor Bastard had been inseparable for twenty long years. It had been a shock when he died. Flower had been despondent without her friend on her chest. She hated the moment she’d realized that her heartbeat could exist without TPB purring next to it.
In her grief, she’d turned to Christmas ornaments. She had happened upon a thrift store that had an array of festive decorations, all scuffed and cracked. Her grandfather used to say, “Nothing’s over like Christmas when it’s over.”
So Flower had gathered the broken things to honor her friend. Not a single person had tried to approach her or offer any type of consolation on her loss, which made her feel even more alone.
She’d been dragging a huge, broken Frosty in the entrance of the apartment building when Duke yanked open the door for her. He’d grabbed the snowman and hefted it up the stairs without a word. Flower had opened her apartment and cringed; it had been full of broken Christmas, and the season was nowhere near the current date on the calendar.
Duke had smiled at her, his two dimples on display like spotlights. “Hey, baby, where’s your creepy, legless cat?”
Flower had looked down quickly, trying not to cry as she shook her head.
“It corked off? Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I thought you had a big bag of balls for taking care of that old fucker. Come here, baby. Do you need a hug?” He’d opened his arms.
Flower had taken the offered hug and laid her head on his chest. He’d patted her back and hummed. Th
e way he’d hummed had sounded just like a purr. She’d felt Duke had been a gift from her angel kitty. TPB had been showing her who he thought she should take care of now.
Duke had patted her until she stopped crying. She’d wanted to tell him then that she loved him, but she’d used all ten of her words haggling with the bitch she had bought Frosty from. She silently cursed her pledge to the limited word lifestyle she was committed to because of Duke. He had left quickly after, and Flower hadn’t had the courage to approach him since. So, she’d taken the slow route—stalking and sneaking.
Sitting in her apartment now, without her favorite flag and her favorite cat and her favorite stalk victim, Flower felt overwhelmingly sad.
The ride to the wedding took a good chunk of time, so they had to stop at least once. Duke pulled into a rest stop to fill Dove’s clunker up with some gas. He was trying not to feel like he was getting slapped in the balls by a leprechaun every time she checked her fucking phone. When he’d flustered her in Bamshell’s with his smile, he’d felt like a hero. He’d wanted to take her in the fitting room and push her against the wall. He wiggled in his seat, but he needed to be cool.
“Hungry?” he asked as she returned from the ladies’ bathroom.
Dove rubbed her stomach, lifting her shirt with the motion. Duke bit his lip; her skin was pale and perfect under her clothes.
“Yeah. I would let a monkey braid my tit hair for a Sausage McMuffin.” She looked at her fucking phone but told him the time instead of looking crestfallen again. “It’s one fifteen. Not even the president could get a greasy bomb of awesome now.”
Duke got in the car and drove to the rest stop’s McDonald’s. Instead of pulling up to the speaker to order, he pulled even with the employee entrance.
“I’m not eating out of the dumpster.” Dove rubbed her tired eyes.
Duke smiled and got out of the car. He knocked on the door and waited. A shifty-looking employee took some brief direction and the bills Duke passed him.