PROLOGUE TWO
A little something from
Shane “Miraculous Mess” Willoughby
Dearest Reader,
Hello! Hi! How are you? Good, I hope…
Yes, you. Sorry!
I know… I’m not what you were expecting, am I? Especially if you’ve read Bash and Aidan’s stories. You came here for dick lit, and here I am bringing the chick, full force.
And I’m all chick, I’m afraid. I’m not one of those women who can rock the gender-neutral look, or who has a well-developed masculine side. I get my nails done every week, have a deep and abiding love for the color pink, and always ask for the super fluffy, sex-kitten styling at the blow out bar. (I think the look is actually called The Sex Kitten in that book they give you when you sit down to order. See? I have no shame.)
I also have no idea how to fix a garbage disposal or much of anything else that breaks, am mind-numbingly bored by ESPN and all other typically male forms of television, prefer to have someone with larger muscles lift heavy things for me, and consider camping a bug-spray-scented form of torture. I have been known to kill roaches and relocate spiders on my own with a minimum of squealing, but that’s only because I live alone and as a vet I feel obligated to project a calm, capable aura around non-human creatures—even insects and arachnids.
I realize a lot of this may be the result of gender-normative conditioning impressed on me by society, or a by-product of being raised by a woman old enough to be my grandmother, but I can’t help it. I am who I am. I am woman, hear me roar, except if I’m at a charity function and then hear me speak softly and keep my legs crossed at the ankles.
That’s why, before we get started, I wanted to apologize for any confusion. I know it might feel strange to have a woman heading things up at this point in the game.
Believe me, it was a surprise for me, too. When I thought about taking time off from running my aunt’s charitable trust, I imagined going back to work part time as a vet. Maybe starting a non-profit clinic to help spay and neuter feral cats, or address the problem of dog-on-dog violence in the city. You wouldn’t think New York City is a place where you would need to guard your teacup Chihuahua against attacks by packs of wild, feral dogs, but you would be wrong.
It’s a jungle out there, and not even the biggest and the baddest among us are immune to the danger.
That’s why I took this job for Magnificent Bastard Consulting—get revenge on your ex or your money back. Jake “the Dragon” Falcone may be a professional hockey player with a body built for tossing boulders up mountains, and legs thick enough to snap defensive guards in two with one flex of his manly thighs, but sometimes even a dragon needs a princess to help him get out of trouble.
Look at Game of Thrones! Where would those dragons be without their Khaleesi?
If you’re not a Game of Thrones fan, just imagine a warrior princess riding a fire-breathing dragon into battle against her enemies, silver hair streaking behind her in the wind, woman and beast united in the common cause of teaching the bad guys not to fuck with people under their protection. Soak in the pure bad-assery of that image and stand up a little straighter. If that doesn’t make you excited to be a woman—no matter how you feel about the color pink or Sports Center—I don’t know what will.
Yes, Game of Thrones is fantasy, but real life women are so much stronger than people give us credit for.
Every time I hear a man call someone a “pussy,” inferring weakness and a lack of determination, I want to stomp over and remind that asshole that pussies give birth. Pussies bring new life into the world in a flood of pain and blood and sheer freaking heroism. Pussies are the original warriors—fierce, flexible, life-and-pleasure-giving masterpieces of design that should be given all the respect.
If I were the supreme ruler of the world, every man who had ever used the term “pussy” to degrade another person would be forced to dress in pink robes and make daily offerings to a statue of Aphrodite snuggling a kitten that I would build in Central Park. I would also institute a three day weekend—annexing Monday into the fun so it doesn’t have to be the most hated day of the week anymore—consign Internet trolls to my real life dungeon until they complete a course in Not Being a Cowardly Suck Ass Bully, and provide free medical care to every creature great and small, because no one should ever suffer or die because they can’t afford medicine.
Unfortunately, however, I am not the supreme ruler of the world—I really would give the post my best, however, so if Earth is in an alien invasion type situation and we’re looking for someone to take point, I encourage you to Vote Willoughby for Benevolent Overlord. I’m just one woman with a better-than-average grasp on interpersonal dynamics and enough time on my hands that my friends Bash and Penny were able to guilt trip me into helping a bad boy with anger management issues turn his life around.
But Bash is deluding himself if he thinks I’m going to trust that this “dragon” is a harmless, fluffy, baby bunny simply because my new boss says so. I’m going to do this intervention my way and conduct my own analysis of the situation before hitching a ride into battle on Jake Falcone’s shoulders.
I learned to stop mistaking other people’s promises for truth a long time ago, when my trauma therapist told me that I would be “back to normal” by the first anniversary of my parents’ death. Of course I wasn’t back to normal. I haven’t seen “normal” since October fifteenth, three days before my tenth birthday, when I lost my mom and dad, two of the best friends I’ve ever had.
But then normal is overrated, don’t you think?
Normal people second guess their gut and put off for tomorrow what should be done today. But I’ve seen how quickly life can be stolen away, how you can suddenly and forever run out of time to say the things you need to say, or to be the person you want to be. Time is a line of brightly colored scarves pulled from a magician’s pocket—seemingly endless, until the moment the show’s over and you realize in a bittersweet rush that you’ve wasted your time watching when you should have been doing, speaking, learning, loving…
Before it was too late.
I’m thirty-two years old, ten years younger than my mother was when she died, and I haven’t come close to living all of the life I want to live or doing all the things I want to do. And I’m not going to waste one second of my precious time with a man who doesn’t deserve an intervention.
Jake Falcone better bring his A game to our first meeting and prove to me that he deserves an ally, or all bets are off.
So…I guess there’s a chance this will end up being a dick lit novel after all.
If “the Dragon” is a dick, I’ll leave you with him.
Or you could come with me! We could go window-shopping, or out for coffee. Or take a long walk and soak in the leaves feathering the skyline with bursts of glorious color. Fall is my absolute favorite time of year, but even if you’re not a fan of crisp, autumn air and the smell of chestnuts roasting in street vendor carts near Tavern on the Green, just about anything is more fun without a big, dumb jerk around.
Like my Aunt Tansy always said—a good man is like melted cheese; a bad one is like a rectal exam. In other words, a good man makes everything better, but a bad one is no fun under any circumstances.
Think about winning the lottery while having a rectal exam. Sure, you can imagine how excited you’re going to be after the probe is over, but at the moment there’s still something cold and hard stuck up your butt with nothing but a glob of cold lube to prep you for the invasion.
So, keep that in mind when you’re deciding if the Dragon is worth your time. I know I will.
Sincerely,
Shane “Miraculous Mess” Willoughby