Bad Husband by Shey Stahl

Author:Shey Stahl [Stahl, Shey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shey Stahl Publishing
Published: 2016-12-14T18:30:00+00:00

I’m not in the greatest mood Sunday morning. Mostly because nothing is going my way lately and my date with Madison is tonight. I’m scared. Honestly, I am. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve taken my wife on a date and had to make it perfect?

A while.

Not only that, Callan has a soccer game they moved from yesterday to today. A Sunday. A day I’m trying to get a house at least close to the primer stage before Tuesday afternoon when the compliance inspector will be back.

I go over everything Madison said the other night about me not being around and not helping. My mind is clearly elsewhere as I move outside to the backyard where we’re installing an outdoor kitchen.

Pounding nails with a hammer into what will eventually be a pizza oven, my attention is elsewhere.

Brantley comes outside carrying a bag of nails and a caulking gun. “Hey, dude, what’s—”

And I turn my head to look at him, but it would have been smart not to. I'm sure you can guess what I did. If not, think about it.

A man driving nails into drywall turns his head and is still hammering.

Finger. Nail. Not friends.

It takes me a minute, maybe from shock and the pure white look on Brantley’s face before I understand, let alone feel what I’ve just done.

And when I do, it’s quite possibly the worst pain imaginable as far as I’m concerned. Worse than having your ball skin ripped off.

To make matters worse, I try to move my left hand that has a nail in my index finger. I’m pretty much the dumbest motherfucker alive for doing that.

The next ten minutes are full of a lot of screaming, blood and more screaming as Brantley has to take the nail out of my finger because how else was I going to have it stitched up?

“Dude, it’s turning black at the end,” Brantley notes, handing me a towel to wrap around it.

Of course I’m in pain, but I’m more pissed than anything because I’m supposed to be at Callan’s soccer game in two hours, and this is more than likely going to take more than two hours to fix. Kicking tools and shit out of my way, I mumble, “No fucking shit,” to Brantley and nod to my truck. “Can you take me? I might pass out.”

And I do, I think, because the next thing I remember I’m in the ER and there’s a girl staring at me. “What did you do?”

“Nailed my hand to the wall.”

“You’re supposed to nail women, not your hand,” she says, her cheeks warming with her words.

Is she for fucking real? Probably. I roll my eyes. Ordinarily I’d come back with something equally as snarky but I’m not in the mood today. “That’s highly inappropriate.”

“Oh stop,” she teases, unwrapping the towel from my hand. “We need to get an X-ray to see if you broke the bone and then we’ll clean it and get you stitched up.”

The next two hours seem to go by so fucking slow.

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