I fucking hate Valentine’s Day. It’s a retail excuse for showering your loved one in flowers and chocolates, and an overpriced dinner of surf and turf. The card companies make out the most, selling beautiful card stock dreams in red, pink, and white–all with promises of romance and devotion.
It’s poetry in motion, complete with a fat baby with wings and a bow and arrow. (Who gave a baby that job? Babies have no depth perception.)
And I hate it all.
Actually, I don’t hate it. Currently, I just hate Tyler. I had thought it had been a great six months. Then, two days ago, I found him in bed with some big breasted bombshell doing a very contorted 69.
Honestly, what pissed me off the most was he had refused to try that with me.
So there I was, arms full of two bags of groceries with the intent of making him a Valentine’s Day lava cake.
He’d looked up at me, tongue pausing mid stroke across her perfect, smooth pussy. And then the fucker smiled. “Oops,” he said.
Oops? No, what was an oops was dumping the quart of milk over his head. Oops was then ripping open the bag of flour and leaving him tarred and feathered.
Who am I kidding? It wasn’t an oops. It felt fucking good.
Now, it was 3 PM on Valentine’s Day, and I was on my second glass of wine. I was filled with rage and popcorn as I scowled at the couple on the screen. I gave my best friend, Abby, a glare.
“Why the fuck are we watching this? Tyler ruined everything.”
She picked at a cuticle. “Amanda, please. Having fun today is your biggest revenge.”
I scowled deeper. “I’m not having fun. I’m getting drunk in my own living room. With you.”
“Hey!”
I sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you. I’m sorry. It’s just that…I had so much planned for today with Tyler. I really thought he cared. And then the fucker found a prettier model.” I set down my glass of wine and paused the film. “Abbs, I can’t watch this.”
She ran a hand through her long, thick, light-brown hair. “I have an idea. Come on, go get dressed in something good. No more pajamas. Actually, go take a shower first. We’re going out.”
I stared at her. “Out where? It’s Valentine’s Day.”
She rolled her eyes. “Go get a shower, damnit. Now.”
I stood. Abby was a trained martial artist. I knew better than to fuck with her. I showered and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt.
She wandered into my bedroom.
“Nope. What the fuck, Amanda? Where’s your leather mini skirt and that red sequined top I got you when I was in Milan last month? You have to look like sex on fire.”
I frowned. “What’s the point?”
Abby was already in my closet, and had thrown the skirt and top at me, hitting me in the chest. “And you’re wearing these!” A pair of strappy heels went flying in my direction. Fine. We’ll do it your way.
An hour later, she pulled up in front of one of the local bars.
“Really?” I fumed, “I got dressed up to go to Vito’s?”
“Shut up, they have speed dating starting in five minutes. Let’s go.”
My heart went into my stomach. “Speed dating? Have you lost your mind?”
But she grabbed my hand and hauled me out of the car. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”