Garrett & Sunny: Sometimes Love is Funny Read online

  GARRETT & SUNNY

  by

  Peter Butler

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

  Copyright © 2014 Peter Butler

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception being unedited, continuous sections, of less than one hundred words to be used solely for review purposes. (Maximum of three (3) without further permission.)

  Published by: Peter Butler

  ISBN: 978-0-9924417-1-5

  Contact: [email protected]

  www.peterbutler.net

  Cover design by:-

  Peter Butler Copyright © 2017

  Also by Peter Butler

  Buy Me a Dream (Dreams series - Book 1)

  Dream On (Dreams series - Book 2)

  This book is set six months after Buy Me a Dream ends.

  Life at the Top (Dreams series - Book 3)

  In pre-release. Available 1st week Oct 2017

  Womanhood

  Kinky

  Chapter 1

  A bed can be used for sleep... for fun and recreation... for reading... for resting... for recuperating... Or in my case right now... for dying.

  I hope I'm being melodramatic, but the honest truth is I feel absolutely dreadful. I have made this diagnosis without opening my eyes - It is actually my waking thought. Stomach like an explosive bubbling cauldron - head woozy going thump.. thump.. as it orbits around my body - joints aching - a shadowy black-clad figure with a scythe in his hands overhead. That last part I imagined, but it wouldn't surprise me to find I was in a hospital bed, hearing my mother gently weeping as an unfamiliar voice says, 'I'm sorry, there's nothing more we doctors can do. Please sign the Organ Donation form before your weeping becomes uncontrollable.'

  Hell no..! Don't do it mom. My imagination fights back against itself... my heart is good for a lot more kicks, before you give it to someone else.

  I force my eyes open to prove my right to keep my organs, but nobody is actually there to notice - No mom.. no guy with a scythe.. no doctor.. although one of the three might be useful. The jury is yet to decide which one.

  Now that I'm semi-roused I begin to analyze my symptoms again and realize that alcohol might be responsible for my depleted state. I have experienced the occasional blinding hangover in the past so I feel competent to make a diagnosis. But when I think about it a little deeper, today's symptoms have an added dimension that I've not experienced, one that probably rules out a hangover. The best way I can explain my problem is to compare it to a heavy fog draped over my brain, stopping vital information from coming out. Admittedly I have had only a minute of wake-time to make this observation, but already several thoughts have started, then seemingly just stopped or drifted off, as if my brain just lost the energy to go on.

  Never-the-less, alcohol may still be part of the problem, and if it is, it would be useful to know what I drank.

  What did I drink?

  I search my brain but I cannot recall anything. Not just what I had been drinking - Anything! Where I went last night, who I was with, what I did, how I got into bed, even - none of that information is available - The more I search, the more I find missing. Now that is definitely weird. I've had memory slips in the past but never a total blank-out. This might be serious.

  Maybe I've had a stroke... or developed Alzheimers... or - my thumping headache suggested to me - contracted some exotic brain eating disease?

  I move my arms and legs and they seem normal - except for the pain in the joints. I remembered that a symmetrical smile is a good way to test for stroke and I grin like a monkey and use my fingers to measure if both sides are the same. I lock my fingers in shape having used them to measure the distance from the corners of my mouth to the corners of my eyes, then bring my hands together. The fingers and thumbs touch together perfectly. Symmetry. Rule out stroke. I don't know any tests for brain eating diseases or Alzheimers apart from loss of memory, so I quiz myself: What is my name? Garrett Nixon. So far, so good. How old am I? Thirty-two. Ha! Doing okay here. Now, something harder. What is my sister's name? I don't even pause, it's there straight away. Megan Cullen.

  Having aced all those difficult questions I conclude it is just my recent memories that seem to have disappeared, or more correctly, been erased - Logically, I was there when they were being created, so my brain had them, but now it doesn't. More than strange, that is a little scary. I swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge waiting for my eyes and brain to sync up. My gut is still gurgling but, thankfully, I don't feel I'm in imminent danger of throwing-up. I take my time, sitting there with my elbows resting on my knees, my hands supporting my throbbing head.

  My daily waking moment can often be very special, my brain is relaxed having had a whole night to devour any problems that were bothering me, and frequently it delivers some answers at this moment. These waking epiphanies are greatly valued and taken very seriously. Today - no epiphany, just a need to look-up a word. One that means the opposite of epiphany.

  When I eventually feel replenished and strong enough to look around the first thing I see is my dresser, and my blank-canvas, memory-less world, suddenly becomes interesting. I love this beautiful piece of furniture; it is made of old oak that was given a second life, which is to say it's made of secondhand timber; a phrase the marketers quickly replace with words like antique or historic which miraculously lifts its value tenfold. If only the rest of business was that easy we would all be millionaires. In it's first working life this particular timber was part of a wharf for over a hundred and fifty years. I bought the dresser a few years back, not only because it looks great, but also because it reminds me that value and usefulness can be found in most things, sometimes you just need some imagination and hard work to reintroduce it to the world, not to mention a catchy marketing phrase at the end of the process. Besides, who else can say as a conversation starter: Guess how many people have walked on my dresser? It is a rhetorical conversation starter, if that is at all possible.

  Given my current state I'm mildly impressed that my brain can recall details like these. But, what the hell happened to last night?

  As wonderful as the dresser is, that is not the reason for my sudden spark of interest in it. It is nothing crazy like somebody is actually walking on it, but something unusual is sitting on it. Apparently, I have a handbag. My missing evening last night has just been presented with some potential answers.

  It's a big, red leather bag, and I do mean big, not quite suitcase dimensions but definitely carry-on size. I don't think it's my type, so I can't imagine I would have bought it.

  Or worse... stolen it.

  This is really starting to piss me off.

  Slowly, the obvious more likely option occurs to me, and a sly smile creeps across my face.

  As quickly as my impaired condition allows I twist my head around to the bed, fully expecting to see a woman lying next to where I lay a minute ago. I should mention my bed is king-size and a Sumo wrestler could have been sleeping there beside me and I would, most likely, have been clueless about it. Once again I should explain - I chose the Sumo because he is a politically correct example of a very large person, not because I have a preference in that direction.

  But back to my
bed, unless I'm dating the Invisible Woman, it is empty.

  I scan the room for some clues and I'm rewarded straight away when I see a scanty pair of pink panties on the floor at the foot of the bed. It gets better; there's a non-matching white bra a short distance away. From where I stand wobbling, they both appear to be quite small. That's to say, too small for me to wear. Surely I wouldn't have bought them to go with the red bag? No..! Surely not...

  But I do have that gap in my time-line and, at the moment, only slightly freaky questions seem to be filling it.

  'What the fuck did I do last night?'

  I actually say this out loud, and startle myself as the words come back and land in my ears.

  Or, more importantly... who?

  I turn back to the dresser with the big red bag sitting temptingly on top. Very wrong thoughts enter my head.

  This is potentially dicey, I've never been one for invading peoples private things, but this was different. It was unlikely the woman would have left without her bag, not to mention her underwear, so the only conclusions that I can come to are that I have slept with a woman, in my own bed - and that woman is still in my house. Minus her panties and bra.

  I smile and raise an eyebrow at that last thought, and realize that in all the excitement of these discoveries the pain in my head has almost disappeared and my woozy stomach is less of an issue.

  Had I just invented a magic cure..? Or was I just an easily distracted, horny guy?

  I'm pretty sure I knew which side I'd put my money on.

  I examined the outside of the bag while I listened as hard as I could. Apart from the madman still beating a slow, rhythmic drum inside my head no other sounds came to me. I held my breath to maximize my chance of hearing her. I had a choice at this point, I could go searching through the house and find the woman and attempt to feign some sort of familiarity about her - I had, presumably, slept with her after all. The other option sat within arm's reach of me.

  Expediency... or moral correctness... Difficult dilemma. Which should I choose?

  The first thing I noticed was that the contents, and there were many, were scattered randomly over the bottom third of the bag. I mainly recognized pill-bottles containing vitamins and supplements. The woman was clearly some kind of health-nut, or more to the point, a walking pharmacy. There were other more normal handbag items scattered amongst her pharmaceuticals, like some makeup and a mirror, lipsticks, perfumes, a hairbrush and a small packet of tissues, not that I was an expert on the subject of what women carried in their handbags. I couldn't see the metaphorical kitchen sink, but I'm sure there was one there... somewhere.

  At least I had my first clue about her. My second actually; she wasn't Sumo large, judging from the underwear.

  I felt around inside the bag, painfully aware of the noise I was making as I pushed my way through the rattling bottles. The side of the bag had a familiar bulge, secured by a zip at the top. I opened the pocket, put my hand in and was rewarded when my fingers felt the shape of a wallet. In spite of its bulging size it came out relatively easily. It was made of the same red leather and looked like a mini-me handbag; obviously a matched set. Or perhaps the bag was a complete entity and was reproducing, maybe even cloning itself. This wasn't such a crazy thought, given the size of the thing.

  I held the wallet up and examined it. It had a little flap with a stud that secured its two sides. My fingers were poised to cross that final boundary and flip open that flap when I froze in horror. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the handle on the bedroom door turning and the door begin to push open.

  I didn't have time to replace the wallet.

  I didn't have time to do anything.

  I stood there like a rabbit frozen in a headlight beam. The evidence of the crime firmly clenched in my hand, and I gather, a look of total anguish on my face.

  Her eyes locked on me the instant she entered. She stared at me.

  Or was it glared.

  My brain was refusing to help in any way. Under more normal circumstances words would have come rushing out of my mouth, hopefully with a combination of wit and humor. But not at this moment - the empty, blankness of last night had returned to paralyze me.

  I stared, open mouthed, at her. She glared at me. Mouth tightly closed.

  Stalemate!

  Seconds, that seemed to me like hours, passed. My weakened state actually became an asset for the first time that morning when she was forced to speak first.

  'Taking my virginity wasn't enough for you? You want my cash, too?' Her look hardened even more, becoming more like mock, over-the-top severity, than that of a really pissed-off woman.

  I frowned at her, partly because my mind was trying to process the changed look on her face, and also comprehend what she had just said. But mainly because my mind-mouth coordination was still useless.

  The other factor that was playing havoc with my normally confident manner was what I was looking at. She was in her mid-twenties, I guessed. Her hair still looked as it must have when she got out of bed. The fact that she had made little attempt to fix it ticked a box in my mind. Her powder-blue dress had wrinkles and creases from a night left anywhere other than on a hanger. Long, flowing wavy honey colored hair cascaded over her shoulders. She had no make-up on which emphasized her natural beauty. High cheekbones with two big, perfectly shaped deep blue eyes either side of a nose that would most likely be considered a bit too big by classic beauty standards. But by my standards, which I like to refer to as "flawed perfection", she was bang on the money. My eyes swept down the length of her body confirming my first impression.

  Typical of a woman who gets stared at a lot, she had instantly taken in my reaction and had already awarded herself a point in the game she was playing with me. That part I was pretty sure about - I was involved in a game. Memory-less and brain dead - what could possibly go wrong? She was still staring at me challengingly, and I realized that it was my turn to speak. I returned her look, trying to replace the previous look of horror with a half-ass smile. I had no mirror to check the result, but from her change in expression I probably managed to look more like I was in agony than what I was aiming for, which was a friendly guy, who just happened to be caught with a wallet in his hand that didn't belong to him.

  My mind must have been on some sort of time-delay mechanism, in a desperate attempt to cover my weirdness, I blurted out, 'You were a... virgin!' Accompanied with what I hoped was a look of shock.

  As the words were toppling out of my mouth my eyes were already on their second trip around her body. They seemed to want to do their own thing, ignoring the command from my brain to look shocked. She was gorgeous, and even in my fragile state I reasoned that the question of her virginity must surely have been resolved many years ago.

  So, she had a sense of humor. I award her another tick! And she's already miles ahead on the scoreboard. In fact, I doubt that my name is even listed on that scoreboard.

  My problem is still real though. I have no memory of last night and because of her untimely return I still don't know her name. And she says we made love. This thought really pisses me off, as making love to her is something I would want to remember, forever. I'm not saying that I've never been with a really beautiful woman before. I have, on many occasions, but I have almost always found them wanting in personality or sense of humor, or intelligence, or humility, or... something.

  I hardly knew anything about this woman, but my instincts were screaming at me in a way that I'd never experienced. I trust my instincts. In importance they rate along with my waking epiphanies.

  Still with that unreadable expression, and looking straight into my face, she said with emphasis, 'I was.'

  Her answer wasn't specific, in that she didn't actually confess that the virginity loss happened last night. This strengthened the feeling I had that she was playing with me.

  'I have some money here.' I held her wallet out in front of me. 'I'm happy to compensate you.' I smiled my best smile.


  I was relieved to feel that my mind was coming out of its glue-like coma. Her attitude towards me seemed to be softening too, because she gave me a tight-lipped, half smile. So there was a small chance I might be able to partially retrieve this situation, so long as she doesn't rethink my last joke and decide I just called her a prostitute.

  Then she counter-punched with the dreaded question: 'What were you doing in my bag?'

  I paused a beat, then I smiled. It was a smug smile, the sort of smile that challenged her to call me on this. I said, 'I was just looking for some pain-killers. Thought you might have some, the bag looks like it's big enough to have one of everything known to mankind inside it.'

  I knew this was far from a good response, but at least it sort of explained the unexplainable. I put the wallet back into her bag. Besides, everyone knows the best form of defense is attack. I hoped it would work.

  She stared at me with a, 'I don't believe a word of it', look on her face, and then she slowly shook her head as if to say she was ready to move on. Did I finally have a point on the scoreboard? The crowd didn't go wild, as the sports commentators say, so I was left to wonder.

  She turned and walked over to the bed with a floating grace that resembled a skater on a sheet of ice. I loved it. As she turned and sat I noticed she was carrying two cups of coffee. Strange that I didn't notice this before. In fact it was the coffee smell that wafted into my nasal passages that I noticed first. Seems my eyesight is the most easily distracted of my senses. Who would have thought that?

  'Is one of those for me?' I said with a quizzical look, pointing to the cups as I walked over and stood in front of her.

  'There's the problem,' She nodded as she replied, looking me straight in the eye, 'I didn't put any sugar in, so I don't think we'll need your help.'

  'What?'

  'With any stirring.' She added with a questioning, raised eyebrow, and she pointedly dropped her gaze from my face.. to my waist.