Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)
“Hey, Masters?”
I frown as I’m pulled from my thoughts. “What?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m taking you to the vet. You need to be put down, you’re so fucking miserable.” Spencer tuts.
We’re all in a bar having lunch. My mind is anywhere but here with these two.
I force a smile on my face. “I’m fine.” “So, do you want to do that then?”
“Do what?”
Spencer slaps his forehead and rolls his eyes. “Stay in Sussex for Andrew’s wedding next weekend.”
I frown. “Oh, I’m not going to that.”
“You just said you were coming with us.”
“Did I?” I exhale heavily and sip my beer. “I don’t remember that.”
“Why don’t you want to come? Do you think you’re going to combust into fire when you walk into the church or something?” Seb asks.
“We probably all will,” Spence mutters sarcastically. “Do you reckon there’re hookers in Hell? Like, are we all just going to be naked, getting our rocks off down there or what?”
"Yeah, drag Queens that are going to fuck you up the ass," Seb retorts as he sips his beer.
Spencer winces as he considers the prospect. “That would be Hellish.” He nods to himself. “Guess it makes sense.”
I roll my eyes. Seriously. The conversations we have. “You two insult my intelligence.”
They exchange looks.
“Of course we are going to be naked and fucking down there,” I add, holding my hand up.
Spencer slaps the table. “Jolly good, then I’m down for hell.”
“Are you coming to the wedding then or not?” Seb asks.
“Not,” I reply. “I hate weddings, you know that. I would rather go to a funeral than a wedding.”
They roll their eyes at me.
“You need to go to a quack,” Seb says. “You’ve got some serious fucking issues.”
“Oh, like you don’t,” I hit back.
“No.” He points at me. “I’m no longer married because my wife is a fucking slut who fucked our gardener.”
“Here, here,” Spencer cheers, holding his beer up. “Fucking slut.”
I chuckle. Spencer hates Seb’s ex-wife with a fiery passion.
“But you…” he shakes his head as he talks, “are walking around broken-hearted like a lovesick puppy, pining for a woman who you love, who your children love, and most importantly, who loves you… all because you’re too fucking gutless to marry her.”
“I’m not gutless,” I snap. “I just don’t want to get married.”
"Whatever," he grumbles. "Are you coming to the wedding or not?"
“Not.” I sip my beer. “Stop pissing me off.”