Scorched (Sizzle #2) (6 page)

Molly

Molly
knew Devil was disappointed by the unplanned intrusion into their special
night, but honest to God, she only had so much energy. Right now, she had a
feeling she would need every bit of  remaining strength she still maintained to
deal with whatever calamity her highly emotionally challenged friend was
facing.  Devil would just have to schedule
his
nervous breakdown for another
time.  She was only one person, damn it.

“Will
you
please
shake a tail feather over there?  Moss is gonna start growin’
under your feet if you move any slower!” she griped impatiently as Devil shoved
a foot into his pajama bottoms.  “He’s waiting!” she added while she shoved her
foot into some comfy slippers.  “And he sounds horrible,” she muttered when she
cracked open the bedroom door and Mannie’s wails become substantially louder. 
Reaching for her phone on the dresser, she quickly sent out an emergency text
to the wedding posse.  It appeared it was time for them to circle the wagons
around Armando.

“He’s
gonna
feel
worse when I get my hands around his scrawny neck,” Devil
vowed grimly, his words a little muffled by the black tee shirt he was pulling
over his head.  “It’s freakin’ midnight, Molly.  His meltdown couldn’t be
postponed until morning?  I mean, really, if the wedding is off now, I’m
willing to bet it’ll
still
be off at say, eightish.”

“You
better get down on your knees and
pray
to whatever dark deity you’re
currently worshiping that isn’t true, Devil.  I just prepaid the seafood shop
for three hundred cracked lobsters yesterday and I can assure you that deposit
is non-refundable!” Molly hissed, glaring at her husband as he stormed toward
her. 

“Molly,
may I remind you that we served
crab cakes
at our wedding.  Not fucking
lobster!  Would you like to explain that to me?” Devil asked, eyes narrowing.

Molly’s
lips twitched as she watched Devil try to remain calm.  The muscle in his jaw was
jumpin’ and that vein in his forehead was throbbing, but she’d give him
credit.  He was doing a remarkable job of modulating his tone.  She should
really try and be nice.  She knew that.

Of
course, that just wouldn’t be like her at all.

“It’s
simple, honey,” Molly replied sweetly.  “I like Armando and Nick much better
than I like you.”

“Clearly,”
Devil retorted, reaching for the silver door knob and jerking their bedroom
door open before gesturing for Molly to precede him. 

Molly
led the way down the upstairs hallway to the staircase, Mannie’s sobs growing
shriller with every step.  Grimacing at the earsplitting noises, Molly barely
heard Devil’s groan behind her. 

“Good
God, Mols.  That attention whore is gonna get every damn dog in the neighborhood
howling at this rate.  If you think the neighborhood association was hard on the
two of us when Coco and Chanel got loose to terrify the villagers, imagine how
hard it will be to spring Armando from the pound.  Do something!”

She
wanted to scream at her husband for his insensitivity, but he had a point. 
They had paid hell when their Pekinese dog and Siamese cat had decided to paint
the subdivision red a few months ago.  And they’d almost never convinced those
animal control people that their persnickety pets were perfectly harmless.  So
instead of arguing with her headstrong hubby, she lifted her robe, picked up
her pace and called, “Mannie, we’re coming, sweetie!  Just hold on a sec!” 

Hurrying
down the stairs, Molly skidded to a halt as she reached the doorway to the
living room. Her jaw dropped as she got a look at her best guy friend.  “What
the hell happened to your face, Mannie?” she shouted, her gaze glued to the
huge set of raccoon eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d left earlier in the
night.  “Oh, my God, did somebody hit you?”

“Forget
his face; what the hell happened to his clothes?” Molly heard Devil ask from
behind her.

“Devil,”
Molly hissed in warning, sparing a second to glare at her husband.

“What?”
Devil yelped indignantly.  Waving his arm at the bright orange ‘Frankie Say Relax?’
tank top, slouchy grey sweats and battered flip flops Armando wore, he
continued, “I might be straight, but I’m secure enough in my manhood to be
comfortable saying that ensemble is without a doubt a fashion
don’t
.”  

“I’m
going to
kill
you, Devil,” Molly informed her husband threateningly.

“No,
no, he’s right, Molly,” Armando whimpered brokenly, tears still running down
his handsome swarthy face.  “I know I look like mierda.  I was in such a hurry
to get out of Nick’s apartment, I put on the first thing I grabbed.”

“Does your
future husband only wear clothes from 1984?” Devil asked dryly, eyeing the
dated tank top critically.

Smacking
Devil’s arm, Molly growled, “Seriously, Dev.  Yours will be a particularly
bloody death.  I’ll make sure of it.”  Turning her attention back to Armando,
she took a half step toward him and lifted a hand to point at his eyes.  “What
about those bruises?  What happened there?” she questioned worriedly.

“Bruises,”
Mannie echoed blankly, turning to peer into the ornamental mirror on the wall
above their walnut liquor cabinet.  Wailing as he got a look at his refection,
he stomped his foot in a fit of temper.  “Those putas at the Clinique counter
promised
me that eyeliner was waterproof.  Lying perras!” he snarled, vigorously
rubbing at the runny makeup.  “I look like a fucking raccoon, Molly,” he
shrieked.

Quickly
crossing the room to reach her frantic friend before he could gouge out his
eyes, Molly soothed, “Hey, we’ll fix it.”  Reaching for a napkin from the
liquor cabinet, she poured some bottled water over it and began to dab at
Mannie’s eyes.  “Everything can be fixed, Armando,” she repeated gently.

“No. 
I’m afraid you’re wrong this time, mi amiga.  Some things can’t be fixed no
matter how hard you try.  Sometimes, people are just too broken to piece
together again once they shatter,” Armando whispered, shaking his head sadly as
he bent his head and began to cry again.

Shooting Devil a startled look, Molly
tossed the napkin in the trash and dragged Mannie toward the couch.  “You
listen to me.  You are NOT broken, Armando Savage.  I don’t know what the hell
Nick said to you, but….”

“Oh!  I am not the broken one, Chiquita.  Nicholas
is the broken mentiroso, little Molly!  He is a fool!  Idiota!”  Armando
declared passionately.

Moving closer, Devil rolled his eyes at
his wife before shaking his head at his executive assistant.  “Look, Armando,
man, I’m gonna need you to stick to English if you want either of us to follow
you on this.”

Glaring at Devil, Armando lifted his chin
defiantly.  “I said that your vice presidente is an idiot and a fool!  And
apparently he intends to cuckold me,” Mannie declared, thumping his chest for
emphasis.

Looking at Molly, Devil shrugged his shoulders. 
“I’m lost, Molly.  Are you lost, because I’m surely lost?”

 Waving off her husband’s theatrics, Molly
instead chose to concentrate on Armando.  “Honey,
why
is Nick a fool? 
What happened?  Start from the beginning…start when you left our house,” she
ordered, knowing that unless he did, he’d continue to rattle on aimlessly for
hours.  

“Good God, Molly, are you trying to keep
us here all night?” Devil complained as the doorbell rang.  Looking over his
shoulder, he stared at the front door incredulously.  “Who the hell could
that
be?” he asked as he watched the door knob turn.

“I told you not to ring the bell,” Molly
heard their friend Sami grumble as both she and Vivian stepped into the foyer. 

“Polite people from good families ring the
bell, Samantha,” Vivian said with a yawn. 

“Well, that’s the problem,” Sami said with
a dismissive flick of her fingers, “I’m almost
never
polite.”

Devil turned back to Molly, his face
irate.  “You gave them keys,
TOO
?” he roared.

“Of course she gave us keys,” Sami returned
carelessly before Molly could open her mouth.  “We’re her best friends.”

“You’re not my friend, Samantha,” Devil
returned stiffly.  “Right now, you’re the bane of my existence.  We’ve already
got a manic Mexican here; I don’t think I can handle a malicious model, too,”
he sneered.  Nodding toward the woman standing beside Sami, Devil’s tone turned
affable.  “Good evening, Vivian.”

“Hello, Devil.  Sorry it’s so late.  Molly
texted and said we had a wedding apocalypse to avert,” Vivian explained. 

“See,” Sami jeered, “We were
invited
guests.”

“Yes, and it that vein, guests – invited
or otherwise - ring the doorbell before busting into someone’s house,” Vivian
stated vehemently with a narrow look at Sami.  “What if Devil had had a gun?”

“A gun.  Now that’s not a half bad idea. 
I knew you were my favorite, Vivian,” Devil informed Vivian with a wide smile
before turning toward his wife.  “See, Mol?  Some people understand that the
emergency key does not mean free entry at any moment.  What a novel idea!”

Molly saw their situation was rapidly
spinning out of control, and if she didn’t act fast, the police were going to
have a mass murder on their hands.  She just wasn’t exactly sure who the
culprit would be.  Honestly, they all looked like viable suspects to her, she
thought silently, looking around the occupants of the room.  Patting Mannie’s
firm thigh reassuringly, she rose from the couch.   “Okay, you three, enough. 
We’ve apparently had a matrimonial meltdown and Mannie was just getting ready
to share the details,” she said, exchanging a meaningful look with both women.

Tossing her long blonde hair back over one
shoulder, Sami nodded.  “Sounds good to me.  I’ve got no problem at all making
that stud a gelding if that’s what Mannie wants though.  I always said that man
of yours was too pretty to be considered safe,” she muttered, pacing the room.

“Let’s not whip out our scalpels just yet,
Sami.  Maybe this situation is salvageable,” Vivian said quickly, following
Sami into the living room and sitting down on Armando’s other side.

“He’s not pretty; he’s striking.  There’s
a difference,” Armando defended his love, offering Sami a hard look. 

“Nick spends as much time on his hair as I
do, Mannie,” Sami scoffed.  “Trust me, he’s pretty.  And he’s dead, too, if
he’s hurt you.  We
will
cut a bitch if we need to,” she added
menacingly.

“I love you, too.  Even if you are a
bloodthirsty diva in heels,” Armando replied huskily with a watery smile.  “But
nobody is sticking my Nicky with anything unless I’m the one giving it to him.”

Molly tried desperately to keep a straight
face as she looked at her friend.  “You didn’t hear that in your head before
you said it, did you, sweetie?”  Watching as Armando silently reran his
statement, she saw the moment he got it.

“You are a filthy hermana, you know that?”
Mannie giggled, his face looking carefree for a brief moment.

“You said it, not me,” Molly smirked as
Sami and Vivian joined in the laughter.  Waiting until the cackles subsided,
Molly canted her head as she stared at the man beside her.  “Now, why don’t you
tell us what’s going on,” she suggested patiently, avoiding her husband’s
irritated gaze as he, too, took a seat in the leather wingback chair in the
corner.  She noted that he was close enough to hear them, but far enough away
to get away with not actually participating in the conversation.  In other
words, her mulish man wanted to eavesdrop. 

Mannie released a shaky, dramatic sigh as
he flopped back into the overstuffed cushions of the extra-long couch, his tank
top billowing around him.  “Oh, Molly, my little lovey lumpkins has made a fool
out of me.  Of all the fast one’s he could have pulled out of his pockets, this
was the worst.”  Thumping his chest, he whispered haggardly.  “It hurts… like a
dagger through my heart, chica.  This pain’s so bad, mi amigas.”  Taking a deep
breath, he audibly swallowed before he continued.  “My Nicholas…he’s not who I
thought he was, Molly.” 

Thinking the worst, Molly clutched
Armando’s hand in hers.  “Tell me that son of a bitch did not point his pecker
at another rooster,” she demanded as she suddenly visualized hanging Nick
Santino from the highest tree she could find in Atlanta.

“Because I’ll make that rooster into a hen
real fast, sweetie.  That’s a promise from me to you,” Samantha vowed in a tone
that was equal parts forbidding and ruthless.

Moaning loudly in a way that seemed to
stretch from one end of the room to the other, he whimpered, “No, no, no,
noooooo … My Nicky only parks his penis in my garage.  It’s much worse than
some tawdry affair!”