Twisted (Tangled 2)

And Billy looks at me. “Okay, I’m a guy—and even I thought that was gross.”

Can’t say I disagree with him.

A few minutes later, Delores tears back into the room. Still on the phone and going off like a cherry bomb. “Of all the ignorant, balls-out shitty things to say . . . by the time I’m done with you, they’re going to have to reinstate your V card, buddy!”

She punches the OFF button on her cell much harder than necessary.

“Problem?”

“Yes. The problem is, people are what’s between your legs—which explains why my husband is behaving like a big, fat, uncircumcised dick!”

I cover my ears. “TMI Delores! T. M. I.” There are some things you just don’t want to know about your friend’s husband. What happened?”

She huffs and sits down next to me. “Apparently, after I left for the airport this morning, Matthew went to check on Drew.

The apartment was locked up like Fort Knox, but Matthew had that extra key. So he goes in and finds your ass-hat ex-boyfriend passed out wasted, on the bathroom floor. After he went all Left Eye Lopes, setting shit on fire in the bathtub.”

“What!?”

“Exactly. Matthew said if he hadn’t gone by when he did, the whole place could’ve gone up.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “What was he burning?”

Delores shrugs. “Matthew didn’t say.”

Yeah—but I bet it wasn’t any of Drew’s stuff going up in flames.

Bastard.

Delores goes on. “So Matthew got the pathetic excuse for a man sobered up. At first Drew didn’t want to talk, but Matthew kept at him. And eventually, he spilled like oil in the Gulf.”

My stomach clenches, “he . . . he . . . told Matthew about the baby?”

Delores nods. “Matthew said Drew told him everything that went down between you two.”

Okay. This is a good thing. If Drew is telling his family I’m pregnant, maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe all he needed was some time to get used to the idea. And Matthew’s a great person to talk to in this situation. Not as good as Steven or Alexandra, but still—he’s pretty level-headed. At least compared to Drew.

“What did Matthew say?”

Delores grinds her teeth together. “he said he couldn’t believe you would do something like this to Drew.”

“What?”

Cue the music.

It’s the Twilight Zone.

In the end, I knew Team New York would take Drew’s side—I said they would. But I thought . . . maybe . . . they’d defend me. Or at the very least, be pissed off about his methods.

Delores puts her hand over mine. “Don’t let what Matthew said get to you. It’s only natural that he’d back Drew up—just like I’d help you bury the body, even if it was my own dear mother we were tossing into the ground.”

“Delores, that’s sick.”

“Oh, really? You weren’t the one who walked into the house and heard her mother knockin’ boots with Sheriff Mitchell!”

My mouth drops open.

Delores continues disgustedly, “And they were loud. Like surround-sound, IMAX-theater loud. I’m totally scarred for life.”

Let’s pause here a moment.

You’ve never met the good sheriff, so I’ll explain. Growing up, Sheriff Ben Mitchell was the thorn in our sides, the rock in our shoes, the pain in our asses. he had nothing better to do than follow us around—breaking up our beer bashes, pulling Billy’s car over and searching it for weed.

he always thought we were up to something . . . and . . .

well . . . he was right.

But that’s beside the point.

Even though Sheriff Mitchell was about the same age as our parents, to us, he always seemed older—like that grumpy neighbor with a cane who never lets you get the baseball that accidentally lands in his yard. Mitchell was never married and didn’t date as far as we knew, so it was always assumed that his wrinkly face and piss-poor attitude came from his extreme inability to get laid.

Amelia Warren is the opposite of Mitchell in every way. She’s a free spirit. An official card-carrying member of the healing Power of Crystals Club. A flower child for the modern age.

The very idea of them getting it on is equal parts horrifying and peculiar.

I shudder. “You’re right. That is sick.”

Billy hops down the stairs. “What’s sick?”

Delores drops the bomb. “Amelia and Old Man Mitchell screwing—on the kitchen table.”

Billy grimaces. And whines, “Aw, man . . . I ate on that table this morning.”

I turn to him. “Did you know about this?”

“I had my suspicions. But I was hoping I was wrong.”

Delores agrees, “Weren’t we all. I don’t know what was worse— having to listen to my mother moaning in ecstasy, or hearing him beg for more and having to visualize what the f**k she was doing to him.”

I cover my mouth.

And laugh.

We all do. It starts off small, and then builds—to a tablesmacking, eye-tearing, bent-over-at-the-waist crescendo.

“Oh . . . my . . . God!”

And even though Delores is cackling, she insists, “It’s not funny! I think my girl parts are broken. Every time I think about it, my vagina clamps down like a littleneck clam fighting to stay closed.”

We howl louder. And it’s the first real, genuine laughter I’ve had since this all began. My cheeks hurt and my sides ache—and it feels wonderful.