The Mother Road
Authors: Meghan Quinn
Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing
Copyright 2015
Cover design by Meghan Quinn
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2015 Meghan Quinn
All rights reserved.
Acknowledgments
I have so much to be grateful for. I started this journey two years ago and I’ve had my ups and downs, my mistakes and my successes, but the one consistent in my life has been the beautiful people who’ve supported me down this crazy world of being an author. This is for you.
To the bloggers who’ve always been by my side: The Smut-Brarians, The Literary Gossip, Margie “Mrs. Dash Darcy”, Nicola at Endless Reading, Fiction Fangirls, A Book Whore’s Obsession, Witchey Richey’s Booktastic Reviews, The Book Boyfriend Hangover, Crazy Chaotic Book Babes, Author Groupies, Schmexy Girls, Red Cheeks Reads, Once Upon a Time Book Blog, Up All Night Book Addict, Twin Sisters Rockin’ Book Reviews, Cherry Red’s Reads, The Two Brains of Book Reviews, PopKitty, Shh Mom’s Reading, Give Me Books, Sugar Shack Book Blog, iScream Books, Worth the Read Blog and so many more. I’m sorry if I forgot you, but please know, from the bottom of my heart, I am so beyond grateful for all the love and support.
Along the way, I’ve met some fabulous people who have taken the time to talk to me, listen to my stories and answer my questions. They need to be acknowledged. Thank you to Courtney Cole, Helena Hunting, Debra Anastasia, Katherine Stevens, Tara Sivec, Melanie Harlow, and Katie Ashley. You pretties have been such wonderful blessings in my life. I’m grateful for your friendship.
To my bitch, my BFF and my person. Thank you for always supporting me, listening to my neuroses, and being my sounding board. I love you.
To the love of my life. I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you for sacrificing our time together so I can be the author I dream to be. Life is easier with you in it.
Lastly, to my readers. Thank you for loving my stories, for becoming friends with my characters, and for being the most fabulously beautiful people I’ve had the pleasure to write for.
Much Love and boob squeezes. B>>
To my family – for providing me with such valuable material for this book. I love you.
PROLOGUE
“Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help.
“You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.
“Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”
Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer?
Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground.
That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster shit shavings.
I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit.
There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about.
The crazy.
Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does.
Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on your
Saved by the Bell
days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat.
You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts.
Can you feel the monster start to awaken?
You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re life isn’t spiraling out of control into the depths of hell…until one simple crack of his knuckles rings through the room.
One single pop.
You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the human carnage you’ve turned him into.
That moment right there, that’s where I’m at.
In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life, or at least I did.
It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average human.
This is about the week leading up to my brother’s wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush.
Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.
**MARLEY**
“Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.”
“Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her mouth.
My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no attention to Marisa grumbling next to me.
“And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she ever let it rain here?”
“It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.”
In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan dive into a front fold. On your count.”
I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her.
“The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to us.
The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies, let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower to the power of breathing.”
“The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying to kill me.”
Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal.
Johnny has a six pack, did you know that?
Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know.
Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of SnackWells for the first time.
Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on any lady egg that floats in his direction.
“On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left, positioning yourself into downward dog.”
Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off, compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain.
“What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me, she’s so close.
I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch.
“Get back to your mat,” I chastise.
“It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out their lady business.”
“Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins.
Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.”
Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the offensive odor.
Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky.
Pffffttttt…
Marisa inches closer to me, making it seem like we are in the midst of a couple’s yoga session.
“Marisa, you’re going to get us in trouble.”
Pfffftttt…
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, looking up again to see the lady who is directly in front of Marisa’s mat adjust her legs, shaking her butt in the air, as if she’s trying to air out a bubble that’s been trapped in her spandex for days.
Marisa bumps my elbow with hers and gives me the stink eye. “I told you. Lady’s got the toots.”
“Be cool,” I say under my breath, not wanting to make the poor elderly woman with the saggy spandies and large panty line self-conscious. Yoga is a place to relax, not judge.