The mother road, p.1
The Mother Road, p.1Meghan Quinn
Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing
Cover design by Meghan Quinn
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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
Copyright © 2015 Meghan Quinn
All rights reserved.
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.
“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.
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.
“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 rui
“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.
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.”
“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.
“Hey,” Marisa walks closer to the farter and whacks her ankle. “Lady, can you stop with the toots? I’m trying to breathe back here.”
“Marisa,” I hiss.
“Is there a problem, ladies?” The instructor comes up next to us, clearly unhappy with our disturbance.
Being the obnoxious person she is, Marisa releases from downward dog and sits on her butt, legs crossed. “This one right here, she keeps farting, and frankly it’s ruining my aura.” Marisa tosses her thumb at the poor elderly lady, calling her out.
“You have no aura,” I chastise her, humiliated for myself and Tooting Tanya.
“Edith, are you having some gastral issues today?” the instructor asks.
I prefer to call the lady Tooting Tanya. Alliterations make my tongue feel sparkly, but I accept the name Edith.
With a thump, Edith falls to the ground and looks up at the instructor, an impish look on her face. “I had the California Burrito from Alberto’s last night. Carne Asada never sits well with me.”
“I knew it was unprocessed meat I was smelling,” Marisa accuses, making me throw up a little in my mouth.
Edith shoots a death glare at Marisa. “It would be best if you mind your manners, young lady. When you get old, you will find it much harder to hold things in. Let this be a lesson to you.”
“I’m not worried,” Marisa leans back on her hands. “I’ve already started my Kegel exercises.”
Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from your butt, not your vagina.”
The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in front of Edith’s face.
“No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly thighs.”
The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure shock.
“How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa.
Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says, “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.”
“Roots,” I subconsciously help her.
“Yeah, I can’t feel my roots, and you know what, Edith?” Marisa sneers her name. “I was feeling rather tree-like today. Thanks for wilting my branches with your sour carne asada puckered prune of an asshole. I hope you have diarrhea…”
“Okay,” I stop Marisa and grab my yoga mat as I stand, not even bothering to roll it, but instead wearing it like a veil to avoid eye contact with my classmates. “I think it’s time we leave.”
“And we would appreciate it if you don’t come back,” the instructor says, standing next to Edith, clearly choosing a side.
Mortification sets in as I dodge raised tailbone after raised tailbone and seek the exit while hiding my face from any onlookers. In the background, I can hear the instructor tell everyone to clear their minds and seek understanding for Edith.
Once we’re out of the class, Marisa goes off. “This is bullshit. We’re not the ones who were disturbing the class.”
She can be so dense sometimes. I give her a pointed look and grab my keys from the locker that sits just outside the room. “You were talking the entire time, you never once tried to communicate with Mother Nature and you called an elderly lady’s butt a puckered prune, she should have kicked us out sooner.”
“What? Are we not allowed to talk? What’s a gym if you can’t socialize?” We walk out the front of the gym and head toward our favorite smoothie bar. Marisa grabs my arm and says, “The only reason she wanted us to leave was because she is so obsessed with people listening to her perverted porn voice t
I check my phone while Marisa continues with her rant. A picture from Paul, my brother, pops up on my screen. He’s wearing a neon trucker hat that says McMann Clan across the top. I laugh to myself as I remember the days we used to wear such hats while traveling around the country with our mom and dad. I text him back.
Marley: Neon might be in, but that hat is just asking to be crucified by all fashion gods.
“I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom and record the instructor’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the perfect scheme. Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.”
We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us.
“You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.”
“We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra kale. We like it thick.”
Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa.
“Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to the toilet.”
The Mother Road by Meghan Quinn / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes