Look. There aren’t many things in this world more unmanly than being socked in the face by your fiancée. Macrame, owning a vagina, and still enjoying Guns N’ Roses after Slash left all come to mind.
But being sucker-punched by your fiancée…and then crying afterward?
Mate, it’s up there.
But it’s not my Aussie ass who’s sobbing into his Singha over a sucker-punch to the kisser. Oh, no—I’m not a dignified man by any means, but I’ve got more dignity than that.
Generally speaking, if a woman hits me, I’ve done something sufficiently asinine to deserve it—and I know how to take my knocks.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Eggbert Humphrey. And before you ask—yeah, that’s that’s his true blue, god-given name.
Poor fucking bastard.
Eggs and I grew up together, and I’ve known his problem from the fucking start, mate. You can say what you like about Lachalan Williams, but don’t say I didn’t earn my way in the world.
Putting the swish boarding schools Eggs and I attended together aside—the second that I had a chance, I spat my silver spoon right out of my mouth and into the orange outback dirt.
Eggs, though? Eggs has been sucking on his silver spoon like his life depends on it—only, of course, when he’s not taking it out of his mouth so he can suck on even more unsavory things.
But we’ll get to that in a moment.
See, my fucking issue with Eggsy isn’t that he’s a rich wanker with a stick up his arse the approximate size and length of a saltwater croc.
It’s the way he carries himself. The way he talks, the way he walks. It’s his boy’s club attitude, the way he fucks about like he owns every building he enters and every person within it besides.
And the real thing—here’s the kicker—the one thing about Eggsy that I can’t fucking stand…
Is the fact that no matter how pissed off Sammi Brighton looks as she pulls her fist back again for a second swing, I can see behind that gorgeous snarl of hers that Eggs Humphrey is breaking her heart.
“You broke my n-nose!” Eggsy sobs, looking up at Sammi like she just put a scratch in the custom paint job of his Ferrari.
“You’re fucking welcome for it, too.” Sammi’s looking back down at him like she’s sizing him up, looking for more things to break. “It’s an improvement when you think about, darling. You wanna pretend you’re some kind of bad boy marine biologist? Now you’ll look the part.”
I thumb my own crooked nose self-consciously as she mentions it. ‘Course, I didn’t get mine from a woman scorned.
I got mine from a Japanese shark fisherman who looked like he sumo wrestled in his spare time. Cheeky bastard clocked me right in the face with his harpoon gun—
Which is exactly what it looks like Sammi is wishing she could to her cheating fiancé—soon to be ex-fiancé—next.
Eggs’ one remaining ladyboy courtesan tries to shove her tits in his face to comfort him, but Eggs is proper pissed now. His sobs are subsiding into wounded little grunts, like he thinks he’s about to Hulk out and teach the gorgeous, leggy brunette before him some kind of lesson.
“Listen here, cunt,” he growls, pushing the ladyboy onto the floor. “You’re my woman. If you think you can get away with this and still marry me—”
Sammi fucking laughs at that.
Fuck’s sake, it’s a gorgeous laugh.
“Oh, honey,” she coos. “I ain’t fucking marrying you.”
Then, to my fucking delight, Sammi Brighton turns to me and asks me for something that makes me fall in love with her all over again.
She points to a bottle of tequila with a hooded cobra stuffed inside of it and tells me, “Pour me a fucking shot.”
My cock goes stiff at the sound of her voice. Just like that.
I do her one better. I pour us both a shot.
She drinks both of them.
Saucy bitch.
Samira fucking Brighton. Busty, boozing goddess of the seven seas. Long, sexy legs that were made for wrapping around a lucky bloke’s hips. Long, dark hair that falls down her back in midnight tidal waves.
She closes her green eyes as she grabs the bottle of cobra tequila, tipping the golden liquor down her throat like she was born without a gag reflex. She doesn’t stop until the cobra inside the bottle slides down to meet her lips—and when it does, she gives it a little tequila-flavored kiss.
Truth be told, I always knew that Eggs wasn’t good enough for her.
No one’s fucking good for her.
Not a single goddamn person in this rotten fucking world.
Sams and I go way back. First time I met her, I thought she was the most uppity bitch I’d ever had the displeasure of meeting in my entire fucking life.
We were grad students out on the same research boat, and she had me hauled back to shore for forgetting my lifejacket. Pissed me off something fierce at the time. Hated her with every bone in my fucking body.
Second time I met Sams was in the local sailor bar that night, bellies full of cheap tequila and somehow on the same losing side of a fist fight.
Third time I met Sams was three years ago, right here in Bangkok. We snuck back into the aquarium our conference was held after an ungodly amount of tequila and I had her screaming my name and writhing beneath me. I made her come over and over again until she forgot both our names.
And the fourth time I met Sammi was the morning after, when the tequila had all worn off and she’d forgotten everything.
And that’s not even the end of it.
I’ve fallen into bed with this fucking typhoon of a woman at least once a year for the last three years. And by the next morning, she’s forgotten about it. Every fucking time.
So as Eggsy blusters and threatens in the background and Sammi drains her bottle of questionable cobra liquor, I can’t help but think how fucking fortuitous this all is.
Now, like I said. I’ve always known Eggsy was wrong for her. When I found out that that little shitstain had proposed to Slammin’ Sammi Brighton, I put my fist through the bow of my yacht and nearly fucking sank the damn thing for the pleasure.
No one’s right for Sammi Brighton.
No one, that is…but me.
If she could ever fucking remember, well…fucking me, anyway.
“Okay, Kangaroo Jack.” Sammi slams the empty tequila bottle down on the counter and looks up at me with nothing but trouble in those gorgeous eyes. “You’re up. I’ve still got a few nights in Bangkok—wanna show me and my friends a good time?”
I cast a glance across the bar where Sammi’s entourage of troublemakers is clustered together, watching us intently.
There’s a little redheaded one, flanked by two blondes. She’s wearing a tiara that reads SLUT spelled out in rhinestones across the front of it. She’s got a tall, scruffy-looking bloke’s arm wrapped around her, and I can just barely make out part of a Union Jack tattoo on his chest.
“You sure your friends can handle us?” I wave over the bartender and exchange a few words with him in Thai.
Sammi narrows her eye and smiles. “Question is, Crocodile Dundee…can you handle us?”
I’m just tipping back the first ounce of my own bottle of cobra tequila when fucking Eggbert wrongly decides that his opinion is needed again.
“Sammi-poo, no.” He says it like he’s talking to a misbehaving housecat. “You’re my bride, dammit!”
I ought to punch his fucking lights out for it, but Sammi does him one better.
She grabs him by the balls and pulls her lips back in a snarl.
“First off,” she says, “I’m not your bride. Second off…”
Eggsy makes a strangled sound as I polish off the last of my own bottle of cobra liquor. It gives me the impression that Sammi’s not just grabbing his balls…she’s twisting them, too.
“You know what you did,” she sneers at him. “And thirdly—don’t fucking call me Sammi-poo.”
I slam my bottle of tequila on the bar, and she looks back at me again.
“You ready?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Think you’re gonna remember me this time?”
Sammi throws her head back, twining her fingers between mine as she takes me by the hand.
“What do you mean, this time? Seriously, Lock—if I’d ever had the bad sense to fuck you, I think I would’ve remembered it.”
Ah. Won’t pretend that doesn’t sting a little bit. But that’s just part of being hopelessly in love with Sammi fucking Brighton.
She’s all bark and all bite.
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” I say as she drags me across the bar to meet her friends.
“That’s a fuck no, Lock. I don’t want to remember anything about this awful fucking night.”
When Sammi says shit like that, she usually means it. Hell, she even usually succeeds. But nonetheless, some small part of me still hopes that she might remember me come morning. That I can make her remember.
Until then, I suppose there’s nothing left to do but give her the best night she’ll ever forget.