My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

For one second, she looks at me with this hysterical bullshit face, and reaches under the table to grab my crotch, and when that second is over, she transforms herself into an Academy Award winner, rises to the applause, gives the crowd a brief wave of acknowledgment, and walks glamorously toward the stage to accept her award.

As she steps up to the dais, the creepy little president comes out

from behind the podium, his lips still wet from the last babe he bussed, and plants a kiss on Amity’s lips that’s just a little more than Christian. She stomachs it beautifully, accepts her little silver 747-shaped award, and takes to the microphone.

“Y’all are so sweet!” There’s almost a tear in each eye, and she looks deeply touched. “I can’t believe I’ve been honored with this wonderful award. G’yaw, how am I going to live up to this? Does this mean I’m always going to have to be nice, even if JR

Ewing is on my flight?”

The crowd chuckles.

“This is a wonderful airline. I just want to say thank you to everyone that I’ve flown with in the last year and how much I’m looking forward to meeting all the new people who come on board as we grow. And to Mr. Gherkin, our president: Thanks for giving me a job I promise to never tell your wife our little secret.”

The audience howls and applauds, and Amity winks at the president, who is laughing uncomfortably. And then, with magic sincerity, her blue eyes become the same two spotlights as on the day we met, and she looks right at me and finishes, “And I want to thank Harry Ford, my fiancee, for making 1984 a year for new beginnings.”

Home run. Out of the park. With the bases loaded.

Everyone applauds, I look over at Perry’s table, and see that he’s watching me, not Amity. I look back to Amity, she lifts her award and motions to me, and I nod, and suddenly this is the finest, most legitimate award program on earth.

We’re tanked, flying down Suicide Express with the moon roof open, headed for a restaurant in the Knox-Henderson area for dessert and coffee. Amity’s screaming, “I’m an award winner! I’m an award winner, baby!” She holds the award up and announces, “Best Stewardess in a Foreign Bra and Panties!” And then she throws the statuette out the hole in the roof.

“Amity! What are you doing!” I try to watch it in the rearview

mirror careening into the dark. I look to see if it hits another car. I can’t find it.

“I don’t want that cheesy award, Harry,” she laughs. “They give those things to the butt suckers and brown nosers Besides, that thing was cheap. We can do better than that.”

Dressed in black-tie elegance, Amity and I are the best dressed couple in the restaurant. The place is packed, and we confidently squeeze our way into the bar. There’s a devilishly handsome waiter, about six feet four inches tall, with blond hair and blue eyes. He’s immediately attracted to Amity, I can tell. We’re sitting at the bar, and every time he approaches to get drinks for his dining tables, he gives her a glance. But he’s smart, and he smiles at me as well. It works I’m not jealous. In fact, he’s so gorgeous, I would want anyone I know to have him, including me. Amity and I acknowledge what’s happening, and she loves the attention and approval she’s getting from both me and the waiter.

We’re finally seated, and we find out that we have a different waiter, a Latin guy who’s really hot looking and energetic, who introduces himself as Nicolo. He’s around 5‘8”, with a beautiful strong nose and dark eyes, and a perfect body with one of those tight asses that’s got scoops on the sides, quite evident to me in his stretched-to-breaking black pants. He says hello and reaches out with the menus, but accidentally drops them and they crash onto a wineglass and break it.

“Boom!” Amity laughs.

He grimaces and apologizes, but I’m hardly listening to him because he’s just so fucking handsome, and I had just the right amount of red wine with dinner to make me feel sexy, so I’m boldly staring him down. He picks up the broken pieces of glass and tries to tell us what the specials are, but he’s too flustered to remember.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, laughing. “We only want dessert and coffee.” I give him my I’ve-been-drinking-red-wine smile, and before he leaves I notice he rests his glance on me a little longer than any straight guy would. Man, he’s definitely my type.

After he serves us coffee and two pieces of Chocolate Death Cake, that he almost drops in our laps, and we remind him that we need forks in order to eat them, Amity and I replay the evening in our heads and laugh while loading up on sugar and caffeine.

I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, and as I approach a table of eight, four couples of men and women, I hear cussing. “Fuck that!” and “Bullshit!” and other garbage is being spewed onto our waiter, Nicolo, who stands at the table with his arms at his side. I slow down to listen to what the problem is.

The waiter, his voice tense, tells a guy, “You asked for a Caesar and the buffalo wings.”

“No, I didn’t, Pancho,” the guy says derisively.

“Tim, don’t start,” a woman warns. I hear “faggot” slip out of one of the other guy’s mouths.

“He’s screwed everything up from the beginning,” a woman says to her date. And then I hear the word “faggot” again.

“Hey!” I say, stepping up to the table. “What gives you the right to talk to this guy like that?” I’m angry and shaking.

The table is silenced for a moment before one of the guys says, “Who the hell are you?”

I had a businessman treat me unkindly on the airplane