Last Christmas Skid Marks Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Last Christmas

  Thank you Reader

  About April

  Last Christmas Skid Marks

  April Ryder

  Copyright © 2015 April Ryder

  978-1-927236-78-9

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from April Ryder except for the use of short quotations in a book review.

  Cover images provided by

  FCG / Shutterstock

  Emilia Stasiak / Shutterstock

  Cover fonts:

  Good Foot © Jakob Fischer

  American Typewriter

  Last Christmas Skid Marks

  =^.^=

  My chest was killing me. My skin felt like it was in the middle of an inferno. An inferno of ants crawling all over my poor bloated body as I lie precariously sprawled across the top of my bed. My body, it burns! It burns!

  I scrunch up my eyes and ask myself, why didn't I remember to use sunblock yesterday? What on earth made me think I could avoid the sun—in the middle of summer—at my work's Christmas party? Stupidity. It was the only possible reason. As my skin would go pink at the slightest glimpse of the sun, you'd think I'd know better. At least I had the presence of mind to cover up. Only some of my chest, arms, and lower legs have suffered from lobsterfication, and that's the official medical term for my current condition.

  I couldn't stay here all day as I had things to do and people coming over. So I started rocking back and forth, intending to use science to get me out of bed without having to bend any of my burnt parts. Five minutes later—getting out of bed achievement unlocked—I was on my feet and realised I had spent the night alone. My fiancé Paul had been out celebrating Christmas with his friends from law school. He had promised me he would be home in time to help me make Christmas lunch.

  "What idiot holds their work Christmas do on Christmas Eve?" I muttered to myself as I shuffled off to the bathroom. There, Shawn the Shower waited patiently for use.

  I looked down at my singlet and boxer shorts and sighed. They'd have to take one for the team I decided, and I turned Shawn's knob to cool. I waddled in, clothing and all and hissed when the first drops of low-pressured water hit my sensitive skin. The cool water did its job and I thanked Shawn for his help. On any other day I would have continued our secret love affair with his detachable head, but not today. Not because it would be unseemly to have an orgasm in the shower on Christmas morning, but because I was temporarily unable to reach!

  I gingerly pulled off my wet clothes and tossed them on the bathroom floor before I quickly—but very, very gently—washed and patted myself dry. I then emptied the bottle of aloe vera gel into my cupped hand and smeared it all over myself. Ahh…relief.

  I wrapped a sarong around my waist and tied it off, eased on the loosest fitting T-shirt I owned, and then stepped into my jandals—that'd be "flip flops" for Americans or "thongs" for you crazy Aussies. My hair could just air dry. I really didn't care. No matter what I wore or how much effort I put into my appearance my mother would just tear me apart. I think she was entering menopause. God help us all.

  A knock at the door interrupted any murderous thoughts I had about my pre-menopausal mother and I was relieved to find my best friend Adam, laden with goodies. He beamed at me—brighter than yesterday's evil sun—with so much Christmas cheer in him I wanted to slap him.

  "Bite me," I said and stepped back so he could enter.

  "Merry Christmas to you too, sweetie," he said. He gave me the once over and smirked. "Either you've already gotten into the drinks or—"

  "Sunburn. I forgot to take my sunblock and they didn't have any SPF eleventy-billion at the shop."

  "Ouch," he said and showed the right amount of sympathy to save him from my miserable wrath. "Well fear not, fair—er red—Hayley, I have brought everything you asked for."

  "Everything?" I asked. I was skeptical, yet hopeful. "Including the homemade lemon cheesecake with malt biscuit base and whipped cream on top with slices of kiwifruit and mandarin segments?"

  I knew before he answered what the answer would be.

  "About that…I was at the supermarket last night, buying all the ingredients for it when I bumped into this guy I used to know from high school and…"

  "And?"

  "And, you know?"

  "No, I don't know—oh."

  Damn Adam for getting lucky. No, that wasn't fair of me. It just sucked that he was way luckier than me. I even had a fiancé and I didn't get anywhere near as lucky as Adam did. "You should buy lotto," I told him. He really was that lucky.

  My comment confused him but he ignored it. He was used to my sudden changes of topics. I often said things out of the blue that had nothing to do with our current—or any—conversation.

  "I'll put the salads in the fridge then?" he said and together we headed for the small galley kitchen in the apartment I shared with the—still absent—man I loved.

  Adam opened the fridge and whistled. "That's one big bird. You'll have to put that in the oven soon if you want it ready for lunch."

  I agreed and fiddled with the oven's settings to get it going. If only I were that easy to turn on, I thought. Although sometimes it wasn't—the oven that was—easy to turn on. The blasted thing had been flakey lately and I crossed my fingers it would behave today.

  "I thought I'd err on the side of caution and get a big chicken since there are a few of us."

  Instead of doing the rounds for Christmas with my family, I had decided to invite them over instead. Adam had thought this was a bad idea but wanted to see what would happen. Still, I was optimistic that today would be fine. We had invited Paul's parents but they had announced that they were going on a cruise instead of spending time with their son. They were somewhat rich and—at least according to Paul—rich people didn't do family time. So that left just my maternal grandma and my older sister, Chloe. Chloe and I had a love-hate relationship in that we loved to hate each other. The only time we chose to see each other was for Christmas and that was purely for our much loved Grandma's sake. This was the one day a year where we declared a twelve-hour truce and set aside our differences to make believe we had a happy family. But Grandma ain't dumb.

  Paul staggered in through the front door a few moments later and blinked. He gave Adam a squinty look before turning to me and mumbling what I assumed to be an apology for being so frickin late!

  "Paul, what the hell?"

  "The guys ditched me and I woke up in a bush. Two blocks away," he explained.

  Adam tsked and rolled his eyes. I gave my husband-to-be more sympathy. Just a smidge more. He was obviously still hungover. "Nevermind. You have time for a shower and coffee. Adam and I have to pick up Grandma, so could you put the chicken in the oven in about fifteen minutes? I've already turned it on."

  He nodded absently and waited long enough for me to give him a peck on the cheek—and inhale noxious fumes—before he shuffled off to Shawn.

  "Don't say a word," I warned my bestie. He looked like he was about to lecture me on disciplining my wayward fiancé and I didn't want to hear it. Not on Christmas day. Not ever. We—Paul and I—were in love and that's all that mattered.

  "Fine," he grumbled, but brightened when he remembered we were picking up his favourite Grandma.

  My Grandma and Adam adore each other. If it weren't for the fact A
dam is gayer than a gay rabbit, they would have run off together by now. Instead my Grandma lives alone with her dog, Sir Lancelot, aka Sir Humps-a-Lot. No furniture and human leg is safe. He also farts. He farts so loud and unexpectedly that he scares the shit out of himself—and I mean that literally and figuratively. There have been some accidents.

  Grandma met us at the door with Sir Lancelot in tow.

  "Heya little one," Grandma said as she embraced me in a hug. "Dumped him yet?"

  I shook my head, long past being annoyed with the question she asks every time I see her. There is no love lost between my grandma and Paul. She thinks he's a fool and a number of other things that are less nice, but out of respect for my feelings she keeps those to herself. Asking if I've dumped him yet is the standard greeting from Grandma. I'd be worried if she didn't ask it.

  "And how is my favourite grandson?" she asked Adam, discarding me in favour of her favourite non-relative.

  "Still gay," he said before she can ask. She's nothing if not predictable.

  Grandma sighed dramatically. "Men my age just can't keep up with me, let alone get it up. Oh, to be young and perky."

  As you can probably guess, my lack of mental filter is a genetic trait I inherited from my grandma. Still, I kept my admiring comments to myself when ogling men—mostly. Grandma would go so far as to share her thoughts with them. She was of a certain age though, where she could get away with saying anything. Not that she was all that old. Grandma was a young sixty-something. Spry, feisty, and a regular player for the local touch rugby team.

  "How are you doing, Grandma?" I asked, hoping to head her off before she started going into too much detail about her perky—or unperky—female bits. I didn't want Adam to puke or run off screaming. He was the driver after all.

  She smiled and I swear her eyes glinted. "I'm doing well. I have a new job—"

  "What happened to the old one?"

  "Fired," she said and waved her hand dismissively. That happened a lot. She was an opinionated woman and tended to clash with management, even the management at places she had never worked at. It's why she was banned from McDonald's, every fish and chip shop in a five kilometre radius, and two shopping malls. The woman was trouble on legs.

  "But don't worry little one. No one can fire me from this job. I'll be self-employed."

  "Oh good," I said. This might solve her revolving employment problem. She still had one year left until she could apply for her retirement payments—unless she decided to fire herself that is.

  "But it's a secret for now, so keep it to yourself. I don't want madam to get all uppity and cause a scene. I thought she'd grow out of that. But there you have it, I was wrong. It happens."

  Grandma called shotgun so I had to sit in the back with the humping dog. You would think that since it was a pug it wouldn't have as much energy as say a German shepherd. But this little ball of stupid was like the Energizer bunny. He'd keep going and going and going if you let him. He didn't care if the object of his affections was another dog, a cat, a human leg, furniture, or an innocent stuffed animal—all of mine had been deflowered by Sir Humps-a-Lot a long time ago.

  The dog's butt honked and everyone—even Grandma—jabbed at the window buttons to let the foul stench of death out and the good air in.

  "Oh my God!"

  Back at home I found my older sister Chloe had arrived. We were opposites. She was tall, slender, and athletic and had always been popular. I wasn't as tall—not that I'm short—but I have generous curves and prefer to spend my time on the couch binge-watching anime while eating corn chips and salsa. Chloe had also been gifted with straight teeth—no one had ever called her "tin grin" or "train tracks" in high school—and the magical ability to tan evenly. Jealousy thy name is Hayley.

  Chloe unnecessarily fussed with her hair as she joined us in the kitchen. "Paul let me in. He looks pretty nice in a towel, lucky girl," she said.

  I nodded. The ceasefire had officially started. A horrible thought suddenly struck me and I yelled, "Did you put the chicken in the oven, Paul?!"

  Chloe blinked. "Ow, that was loud. No, he didn't."

  "Oh my God. Oh my God!"

  "I did."

  "Oh thank God," I sighed with relief. The last thing I wanted to go wrong today was the chicken not being cooked. The dog could fuck the couch, Paul would be impolite to my grandma and she could open her mouth and have at him. My parents could even passive aggressively ignore each other like they did most years, and my sister and I could end our temporary truce and escalate to all-out war. I didn't care, so long as the goddamn chicken was perfect.

  "I'll make Paul a coffee," Chloe kindly offered.

  I stared at her a moment, surprised that she was offering to help. Chloe never lifted a finger to help, not even when Christmas was held at our parents'. Instead she sat there and expected mum to wait on her. The sad thing was, mum did. Chloe was her favourite. Always had been. Everything Chloe did was perfect. Gaining a university scholarship and graduating with honours in accounting, perfect. Landing a job with a large accounting firm, done perfectly—they even gave her an office. Dating rich successful business man after rich successful business man? Well, I'm sure you get the idea.

  I opened the fridge and pulled out containers of vegetables that I had peeled and chopped the night before while keeping one eye on my sister. Could she have turned a new leaf? Realised how much of a bitch she was and decided to do something about it?

  The jug whistled and automatically switched off. Chloe poured the boiled water into a cup and added a heaped teaspoon of instant coffee along with three of sugar. No milk. Just the way Paul liked it. Huh, maybe she did pay attention to other people. I returned to the task at hand and dumped all of the oiled-up veggies on a roasting tray. They needed to be in the oven before the dragon lady—Mum—arrived.

  "Speak of the devil," I murmured when I heard a short, sharp knock at the door. I quickly shoved the tray into the oven under the chicken and slammed it closed before greeting my parents.

  "Mum!" Chloe sang and embraced our darling mother.

  "Chloe!" she replied in kind. Over my sister's shoulder she glared at me and asked, "Is the turkey in the oven yet?"

  "Chicken," I said correcting her but confirming with a nod. In an attempt to stave off an interrogation, I hastened to add, "And the veggies."

  "Paul likes turkey."

  "I know he does, but we can't afford one. Besides, they taste the same. You won't know the difference," I assured her. I'm not even sure why I bother to explain the reasoning behind my actions to her. Nothing I do seems to be good enough. She even looks down her nose at my choice of banks!

  "Oh, I'll know."

  I inhaled slowly and counted to ten. Luckily for everyone, Paul joined us. Paul was the ultimate distraction where my mother was concerned. He was the one thing—in her opinion—that I had done right with my life. He wasn't perfect, but he was my fiancé and we were happy.

  My mother kidnapped Paul and my sister followed, leaving me alone with my father. My father, not Chloe's. We didn't know who Chloe's father was. All mum would ever say about him was that he had been a successful man. Why she didn't marry him instead of Dad was beyond me. Sometimes I get the feeling she doesn't even like him.

  "Hayley," my dad said with a nod.

  "Dad," I acknowledged. He wasn't a physically affectionate man, so at times like this where most people would hug, we just said each other's name. Sure, it was awkward, but so were the times I had tried to hug him. You might think that's cold, but I know he loves me and that he really cares. He uses his actions instead of words and hugs. If there was anything I needed, he would find a way to get it for me. If something broke in the apartment, he would come over and fix it. I worked out a long time ago that that was how he said he loved me. It's sweet really. My mother on the other hand…

  "Your mother and I…" he said, and trailed off at the sound of my mother's loud grating laughter.

  "Are having another fight?" I ask
ed.

  He nodded. Dad was a man of few words. The total opposite of my mother. So when he said they were having a fight, it meant there was a passive-aggressive power play going on. To the average outsider this would look like they were ignoring each other.

  I sighed but silently thanked him for letting me know. Every year I did everything I could to make Christmas an enjoyable day, but every year my family worked against me. Sometimes I think they got together in advance and meticulously planned out every detail. My mother still maintains the flood two years ago in the bathroom was an act of God and not her trying to flush Grandma's trifle down the loo. Last year Grandma had gotten drunk and propositioned my dad, which had been embarrassing because Paul's family had been here to witness it—which might explain why they weren't here this year. Three years ago Chloe had tried to put a Christmas sweater on Sir Humpy, who had then freaked out and knocked the tree, Grandma, and the pavlova over. But this year it wasn't happening. This year everyone was going to behave—even the dammed dog—and I would finally have the perfect Christmas.

  "Hayley?" my dad asked, a worried look on his face.

  I realised I had clenched my fist and been pumping it in the air as I made my silent vow.

  "I'm not crazy, Dad."

  The look he gave me said he wasn't so sure but he left it at that. We moved further into the open plan living space and joined the rest of our nutso family.

  Everyone was silent except for my mother, who was telling poor Paul about her latest trip to the doctor's. I decided to rescue him, the only way I knew how.

  "Maybe we should open our presents now?"

  My mother paused mid-sentence and with a pointed look, said, "I thought we weren't doing that anymore?"

  "What?" I asked, my heart already sinking as the image I had in my head of my family happily ripping open presents they had lovingly picked out for each other slowly vanished.