The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)

The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)

Tara Sivec





For Dude – The original zombie cat. Sorry dad ran you over and tried to bury you alive.





Prologue




Noel


When I was a little girl, I spent hours and hours dreaming about my wedding. I would close my eyes and picture myself in a gorgeous princess dress with beautiful flowers and a sparkly crown.

A string quartet would be softly playing the theme song from The Powerpuff Girls (it was the 90’s and I was a child; give me a break), everyone would stand, and my father would wipe away a few tears and tell me he couldn’t believe the day had finally come for him to give his little girl away, but that he was happy to be giving me away to the best man he’d ever met.

I would smile and bask in all the attention as we made our way down the aisle, everyone whispering how beautiful I looked and how perfect the wedding was. I would slowly walk past my mother, smiling at me brightly and mouthing the words, “I love you, my precious daughter.”

I would walk down that aisle, covered in pink rose petals, to my handsome princes (obviously I’d be marrying all the members of NSYNC, even though we all know Justin Timberlake is the only one you’d want to marry but they came as a packaged deal in the 90’s, so if you wanted to marry Justin, you had to take on JC, Chris, Lance, and Joey as well) who waited for me at the front of the room, sitting astride a Lisa Frank unicorn named Butterfly (shut up, this was a little girl fantasy and in my fantasy, all five members of NSYNC could totally fit comfortably on the back of a Lisa Frank unicorn named Butterfly) overcome with emotion and not afraid to cry in front of our family and friends because they couldn’t handle how beautiful I looked and how much they loved me.

But then I grew up. And I realized the dreams I used to have about my future wedding when I was a little girl would be shot to hell as soon as my family got involved and didn’t want to listen to any of my suggestions, begging, or pleading.

The string quartet playing The Powerpuff Girls theme song turned into a garage band named Lenny and the Goat Fuckers who only knew how to play “Helter Skelter” (the Motley Crüe version) and “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry.

My father’s beautiful speech about my intended turned into him running down the aisle screaming, “I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE BAD NEWS, SHIT TITS!” before he punched him in the stomach.

My mother asked, “How do you expect me to get blood and jizz stains out of your wedding dress?” instead of anything even remotely sweet and sentimental.

The unicorn became a pissed off zombie cat that frightened small children and whose only joy in life came from latching his claws and three remaining teeth onto my fiancé’s leg every chance he got.

The only thing that happened that was even remotely similar to my silly childhood wedding fantasy, was my handsome, loving fiancé standing at the end of the aisle with tears in his eyes as I ran toward him in a sprint that would have made a gold medalist in track and field proud, covering my head and trying not to die.

Sadly, I’m guessing his tears and full-on wailing had more to do with the pain of having his ball hair burnt off than watching me run toward him, thinking about how lucky he was. One could maybe assume it had something to do with the fifteen bald drag queens beating a guy over the head with their singed wigs, the best man grabbing the microphone and reciting horrible original poetry (while also crying), the guests running around screaming and knocking over chairs like a stampede of bulls (while also crying), a mishap with the fake snow machine that forced five strippers to stop dancing and huddle in the corner of the yard, cursing about frostbitten tits (while also crying), or watching the maid of honor flip tables and then ask the priest from my parents’ church if he’d rather have penises for fingers or a finger for a penis (while also crying—the priest, not the maid of honor).

Honestly, I’m sticking with the burnt ball hair at this point. That shit looked really painful. Nothing says “I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!” like a ride in the back of an ambulance, holding a bag of frozen peas against your fiancé’s junk.

Happy Fourth of July, folks. And happy wedding day to me. Please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and grab every bottle of available liquor you can. You’re going to need it.





Chapter 1




Pissy McPisserson

Noel


One month earlier…

Closing my eyes, I bury my face in the side of Sam’s neck, tighten my thighs around his waist, and moan his name as I come. We’ve been together for six months, and I’ve lost track of how many orgasms he’s given me in that time. They’ve always been amazing, each one better than the one before it. I’ve had to stop myself several times from sending emails to previous lovers telling them they suck at life and should never ever be allowed to use their penises again without some sort of additional adult supervision or sex intervention.

Sam slides his hand underneath me and clutches tightly to my ass as he picks up the pace and starts thrusting harder and faster inside me. Just like always, he makes sure I’m satisfied before he even thinks about taking his own pleasure, which should be a good thing, right?

I mean, it is a good thing. It’s a really good thing. What woman wants to have sex with a guy who finishes before you even have time to close your eyes and get a good fantasy going in your head? Maybe something in the threesome family or even some girl-on-girl action. When he’s going to town and moaning your name before you’ve even established if this fantasy is taking place in an elevator that suddenly broke down or under the bleachers at a football game, you know you’ve got yourself a dud. And don’t get me started on feeling him jerk and convulse on top of you before you’ve even had time to pick out the hot, yet tasteful outfit that you’re wearing in this fantasy.