Accidental Attachment (It's A Funny Story #1)

by Max Monroe

She shrugs. “You’re the easiest male I deal with—usually—and you pay me. So, you’re in a pretty good position. Still, there’s a reason that show Snapped is a thing.”

My brother-in-law Vinny laughs from across the table, and far from the first time, I question the health of their pairing.

I sigh. Run a hand through my hair again. “I’d like to sincerely apologize in advance if this turns into something you regret.” “Chase, relax. Any sibling of yours has to be at least half cool. And since I’m about half cool at maximum myself, that really works out. The universe won’t explode at our overwhelming power.”

Mo’s head pops out from the walk-in freezer like a cartoon jack-in-the-box. I swear her head doesn’t even look attached to the rest of her body. “What?” she asks, her voice horribly high-pitched and frightening.

“Well, thank you. That means a lot. It really helps to keep you from getting admitted to a padded room when other people enjoy hearing about the voices in your head too.”

“You know I’m not good socially, Will. I don’t think parading my awkwardness on a global scale is going to help sales.”

“I’ll get back to you when I nail down the details, okay? ‘The Dream is Still Alive.’” “Did you…” I pause, and my mouth forms a little “O” of its own accord. “Did you just do my own bit to me?” Wilson lets out a husky laugh. “Bye, Brooke.” The click of the line going dead kills my opportunity for a rebuttal, but nothing can put a damper on my smile. Because by joining in just now, poor Wilson Phillips has solidified that my game of music with him will never, ever die.

Still, it’s precarious at this point, so much so that if I were going through TSA, it’d be labeled an explosive device, taken out on the back forty, and allowed to detonate.

I nod—I think, anyway. It’s hard to tell with my head this fucked. Quickly, I scurry out of the bedroom and back into the living room, and Brooke once again follows. That’s to be expected since she’s seeing this thing for the first time, which makes me the unofficial tour guide, but my dick could use a little more time to himself to think about what he’s done. Dick detention, if you will.

For all I know, one little tease about sharing a bed and Brooke might pass out, and my dick might consider that some kind of go-ahead to put on his military uniform and stand at full attention.

Ha. Ha. You’re not in a relationship with Chase Dawson, Brooke. Be one with reality.

How on earth does he know how to drive a giant bus like this, when I barely know how to drive a car? I don’t want him to take my question the wrong way, though, so I try to make myself sound as sophisticated and professional as possible. “Have you ever operated something this big before? Or are you used to working with small equipment?” He coughs, and the innuendo of what I’ve just said hits me square between the eyes. So much for sophisticated and professional. I might as well be a producer on a porn set with the way I crafted that question. How big does your penis measure, sir? GAH.

The first stop on this tour is my old stomping grounds, and they’re planning on contacting my family to join the party? I’m starting to wonder if the people at Netflix even like me. “Are you…okay? Is home really bad? Do I need to call someone and make them change it?” “No, no,” I muster with a shake of my head. Obviously, I need to dial back the drama a little bit if Chase is ready to tell Netflix execs how to do their jobs on my behalf. In my experience, the leaders of large companies usually don’t like that. “Home is…fine. It’s not bad or anything—it’s just…small. Intimately knowing, you know? And I haven’t been back there in years.”

Note to self: Maybe call your therapist after this tour.

I’m hell-bound in a motherpucking handbasket, that’s for sure.

Me: DO NOT CALL ME. I CANNOT SPEAK RIGHT NOW. Sam: What? Why? Are you trying to scare me? Because it’s WORKING! Me: I can’t tell you that. I can hardly even tell me THAT. So just do it. Talk me down. Type me down. Whatever. Just pitch me whatever mental health shit you can come up with until something sticks. Sam: Okay, well…without context, this is going to be a little tough. Me: SAM! Sam: Okay, okay. Back away from the edge, Brooke. Back away slowly. Me: No offense, but you’re doing a TERRIBLE job. Sam: Oh, I’m sorry? Did you expect me to be creative in the environment I’m currently living in? DAD IS SHITTING WITH THE DOOR OPEN RIGHT NOW, BROOKE. WHY, YOU ASK? Because he took all the doors off all the bathrooms! The kids got into the toothpaste ONE TIME, and he’s gone fully insane. THERE ARE NO DOORS ON THE BATHROOMS. AT ALL. And you’re on a tour for fucking Netflix. So, tell me again, which one of us is it who needs to be talked off the ledge, huh? WHICH ONE?? I survey my emotions again, and in the strangest way possible, her rant worked just as I asked, bringing me back to reality and putting some steady ground under my feet. This isn’t the end of the world—far from it. This is just…life. And it could be a lot worse. Say, having to shit without doors, for example.

Panic makes me frantic, shifting from one side of the bed to the other to search the little back bedroom for something. I have no flipping clue what I’m looking for, though, because it’s not like a weapon will do me any good unless I use it to stab my own self in the heart. Which…has some merit. I can hear Chase’s gentle footsteps approaching the door, and Benji sits up to an alert position next to me on the bed. I’m obviously approaching the entrance ramp to passing the hell out, but at this point, I would genuinely welcome it. The sadistic thought is shockingly helpful, and almost instantaneously, I flop back onto the bed, close my eyes, and do my best impression of a woman fast asleep. As long as he doesn’t look too closely at the violent heave of my chest, I think it’ll be convincing.

“Goodnight, Chase. Goodnight, Dreams. Goodnight, Misguided Crush. Goodnight, Moon,” I whisper so only Benji can hear.

Talks with a drunken Caroline don’t usually put me in the greatest of moods, and last night wasn’t out of the ordinary.

Why not BLOCK her???

The tank top rides up to her navel, and on the bottom, a simple set of men’s boxer briefs bunch over her slender, warm-olive-toned thighs. It’s a bit of a mindfuck, but I swear they’re the exact brand and style I wear. Rationally, I know she didn’t steal my underwear, but…my dick really, really thinks she did.

The chapter before is one of the sexiest, most erotic things I’ve ever read, bar none, and seeing Brooke like this after reading that this morning is messing with my central-penis nervous system.

I wish I had a better way to explain it, but I’m enjoying watching her so immensely, I have to remind myself that it might look weird if I stare at her without blinking with a garish smile on my face for the whole two hours of this meet-and-greet.

When I thought I wasn’t prepared to be out here doing this, I had no idea just how right I was.

They don’t even notice that it’s Jamie as he and Mary Katherine make their retreat—thank goodness—so we’re spared of a dick-whipping sword fight between my dad and reluctant ex.

Just breathe, Brooke. It’s just a hug, not an invitation to touch his penis.

“Oh fuck.” The pitch of her voice is getting higher and the tempo is getting faster as she approaches what I’m absolutely positive is going to be an earth-shattering orgasm. The hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and so does the appendage between my thighs.

Liar, liar, pants on fire! You know these characters better than you know the folds of your labia, and thanks to writing this story about Chase Dawson, you know your meat flaps quite well.

Sweet Lucifer, I think the book broke my sister.

And his confidence is enough to keep even the rhythmless on beat, and as a member of that particular club, I’m super thankful not to be looking like a wounded turtle.