I cross my arms. “He was cheating on me with another woman—or two—and I didn’t know. He promised to come to the art show, so I even booked him a flight. But instead of attending, he dumped me during that evening via text, and when I called him, I was treated to something I still need ear bleach for. So this”—I wave at the now-supine target dummy—“is the least he deserves.”
Devlin blinks a couple of times. “He took the plane ticket and didn’t show?”
“Correct.”
“Did he give you money back for the flight?”
“The ticket was non-refundable.”
“So? He should still give you your money back. What an asshole.”
“Yes, he is.” I nod vigorously.
“I’d never miss something that important,” he adds. “Hell, nobody should miss anything that important for somebody they care about.”
Well, his groupies probably never missed his big concerts to show their support. And for some reason, the idea gives me a stabbing pain.
Devlin shakes his head and turns back to the arrows.
Argh. I put a hand on his arm to stop him. I need to get him to quit thinking there’s some kind of dick curse on the doll. Because when a guy says he’s been having “performance issues” while standing over a doll with arrows stuck in its crotch, there’s really only one interpretation. “If you’ll think for just a moment, you’ll realize your assumptions are completely incorrect.”
Devlin pauses. “What do you mean?”
“Remember how your penis was working fine yesterday?” That wasn’t a banana I felt at Grandma’s house. Or later on. “It was working fine in Vegas, too.”
He slowly lets go. “We had sex in Vegas?”
“You don’t remember?”
“That, ah, evening is kind of fuzzy…”
“If you don’t remember, I’m not going to tell you.” We didn’t have sex because he was drunk. But he was hard when he wrapped himself around me and said, “I do,” and again back at the hotel.
“And the red splatters around the doll…?”
“A condom I filled with red paint. I wanted to have a more…visually satisfying experience, if you know what I mean?” Especially when it exploded. It was fabulous.
“I guess. But next time, stick to shooting arrows in his face, okay? It’s a lot less traumatizing.”
I laugh at the shudder he adds to that statement and decide against telling him the satisfaction from hitting the mannequin’s face and crotch are two very different things. I pull him gently toward the house. “Come on. Let’s have lunch.”
“Love to, but I have to bury this first.” He lifts up one of Grandma’s cows.
“Where did you get that? And when? Weren’t you home this morning?”
“Your grandmother gave it to me when I went over to return the Tupperware.”
“Wow. She must really love you. There’s only one other person she’s given a cow, and that’s Sylvie.”
“Ugh. I don’t want to be lumped in with her.”
I open my hand. “Here. Let me take it.” He gives it to me, and I toss it into the trash can by the back door. “There. Happy?”
“Yes.” His shoulders visibly relax.
“Now let’s have lunch,” I say as we step into the kitchen. “I’ve got stuff to make sandwiches, unless you want something else. But no Mexican. Tasha wants to meet you—I told her yes, and it’s most likely she’s going to want to hit the taco joint.”
“That’s fine. Do I need to lay it on thick with her, too?”