The Firework Exploded Read online

  Other books by Tara Sivec

  Romantic Comedy

  The Chocolate Lovers Series:

  Seduction and Snacks (Chocolate Lovers #1)

  Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers #2)

  Troubles and Treats (Chocolate Lovers #3)

  The Chocoholics Series:

  Love and Lists (Chocoholics #1)

  Passion and Ponies (Chocoholics #2)

  Tattoos and TaTas (Chocoholics #2.5)

  Baking and Babies (Chocoholics #3)

  The Holidays:

  The Stocking Was Hung (The Holidays #1)

  Cupid Has a Heart-On (The Holidays #2)

  The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)

  Romantic Suspense

  The Playing With Fire Series:

  A Beautiful Lie (Playing With Fire #1)

  Because of You (Playing With Fire #2)

  Worn Me Down (Playing With Fire #3)

  Closer to the Edge (Playing With Fire #4)

  Romantic Suspense/Erotica

  The Ignite Trilogy

  Burned (Ignite Trilogy Volume 1)

  Branded (Ignite Trilogy Volume 2)

  New Adult Drama

  Watch Over Me

  Contemporary Romance:

  Fisher’s Light

  Worth the Trip

  Romantic Comedy/Mystery

  The Fool Me Once Series:

  Shame on You (Fool Me Once #1)

  Shame on Me (Fool Me Once #2)

  Shame on Him (Fool Me Once #3)

  Psychological Thriller

  Bury Me

  The Firework Exploded

  Copyright © 2016 Tara Sivec

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notice

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter may not be appropriate for minors. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.

  Cover Design by Tara Sivec

  Edits by Erin Garcia

  Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks

  bbebooksthailand.com

  Stocking Icon made by Vectors Market from www.flaticon.com is licensed by CC BY 3.0

  Table of Contents

  Other books by Tara Sivec

  Copyright Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Pissy McPisserson

  2. Spit the Spooge

  3. Mister Ed

  4. Lucifer’s Waterfall

  5. Two Girls, One Fist

  6. Chicks with Dicks

  7. Turd Ferguson

  8. Bring Out Your Dead

  9. Drunk in Love

  10. SheWee

  11. Country Crock

  12. Cumquats and Rice Krispy Treats

  13. Dial That Phone, Bitch!

  14. Fat Ralph

  15. Liquefying Labia

  16. Lenny and the Goat Fuckers

  17. Pay Attention to Me and My Dick Fire!

  18. That’s Not Where Pee Goes

  Acknowledgements

  The Firework Exploded

  (The Holidays, #3)

  Tara Sivec

  For Dude – The original zombie cat. Sorry dad ran you over and tried to bury you alive.

  Prologue

  Noel

  When I was a little girl, I spent hours and hours dreaming about my wedding. I would close my eyes and picture myself in a gorgeous princess dress with beautiful flowers and a sparkly crown.

  A string quartet would be softly playing the theme song from The Powerpuff Girls (it was the 90’s and I was a child; give me a break), everyone would stand, and my father would wipe away a few tears and tell me he couldn’t believe the day had finally come for him to give his little girl away, but that he was happy to be giving me away to the best man he’d ever met.

  I would smile and bask in all the attention as we made our way down the aisle, everyone whispering how beautiful I looked and how perfect the wedding was. I would slowly walk past my mother, smiling at me brightly and mouthing the words, “I love you, my precious daughter.”

  I would walk down that aisle, covered in pink rose petals, to my handsome princes (obviously I’d be marrying all the members of NSYNC, even though we all know Justin Timberlake is the only one you’d want to marry but they came as a packaged deal in the 90’s, so if you wanted to marry Justin, you had to take on JC, Chris, Lance, and Joey as well) who waited for me at the front of the room, sitting astride a Lisa Frank unicorn named Butterfly (shut up, this was a little girl fantasy and in my fantasy, all five members of NSYNC could totally fit comfortably on the back of a Lisa Frank unicorn named Butterfly) overcome with emotion and not afraid to cry in front of our family and friends because they couldn’t handle how beautiful I looked and how much they loved me.

  But then I grew up. And I realized the dreams I used to have about my future wedding when I was a little girl would be shot to hell as soon as my family got involved and didn’t want to listen to any of my suggestions, begging, or pleading.

  The string quartet playing The Powerpuff Girls theme song turned into a garage band named Lenny and the Goat Fuckers who only knew how to play “Helter Skelter” (the Motley Crüe version) and “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry.

  My father’s beautiful speech about my intended turned into him running down the aisle screaming, “I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE BAD NEWS, SHIT TITS!” before he punched him in the stomach.

  My mother asked, “How do you expect me to get blood and jizz stains out of your wedding dress?” instead of anything even remotely sweet and sentimental.

  The unicorn became a pissed off zombie cat that frightened small children and whose only joy in life came from latching his claws and three remaining teeth onto my fiancé’s leg every chance he got.

  The only thing that happened that was even remotely similar to my silly childhood wedding fantasy, was my handsome, loving fiancé standing at the end of the aisle with tears in his eyes as I ran toward him in a sprint that would have made a gold medalist in track and field proud, covering my head and trying not to die.

  Sadly, I’m guessing his tears and full-on wailing had more to do with the pain of having his ball hair burnt off than watching me run toward him, thinking about how lucky he was. One could maybe assume it had something to do with the fifteen bald drag queens beating a guy over the head with their singed wigs, the best man grabbing the microphone and reciting horrible original poetry (while also crying), the guests running around screaming and knocking over chairs like a stampede of bulls (while also crying), a mishap with the fake snow machine that forced five strippers to stop dancing and huddle in the corner of the yard, cursing about frostbitten tits (while also crying), or watching the maid of honor flip tables and then ask the priest from my parents’ church if he’d rather have penises for fingers or a finger for a penis (while also crying—the priest, not the maid of honor).

  Honestly, I’m sticking with the burnt
ball hair at this point. That shit looked really painful. Nothing says “I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!” like a ride in the back of an ambulance, holding a bag of frozen peas against your fiancé’s junk.

  Happy Fourth of July, folks. And happy wedding day to me. Please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and grab every bottle of available liquor you can. You’re going to need it.

  Chapter 1

  Pissy McPisserson

  Noel

  One month earlier…

  Closing my eyes, I bury my face in the side of Sam’s neck, tighten my thighs around his waist, and moan his name as I come. We’ve been together for six months, and I’ve lost track of how many orgasms he’s given me in that time. They’ve always been amazing, each one better than the one before it. I’ve had to stop myself several times from sending emails to previous lovers telling them they suck at life and should never ever be allowed to use their penises again without some sort of additional adult supervision or sex intervention.

  Sam slides his hand underneath me and clutches tightly to my ass as he picks up the pace and starts thrusting harder and faster inside me. Just like always, he makes sure I’m satisfied before he even thinks about taking his own pleasure, which should be a good thing, right?

  I mean, it is a good thing. It’s a really good thing. What woman wants to have sex with a guy who finishes before you even have time to close your eyes and get a good fantasy going in your head? Maybe something in the threesome family or even some girl-on-girl action. When he’s going to town and moaning your name before you’ve even established if this fantasy is taking place in an elevator that suddenly broke down or under the bleachers at a football game, you know you’ve got yourself a dud. And don’t get me started on feeling him jerk and convulse on top of you before you’ve even had time to pick out the hot, yet tasteful outfit that you’re wearing in this fantasy.

  Sam isn’t a dud. He could never be a dud. He’s just having some…issues. I really have nothing to complain about since I’m currently lying underneath him, in our bed, in the privacy of the home we share, with muscles that now feel like jelly after my recent orgasm. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the doubt, worries, insecurities, and chafing to set in.

  Fifteen minutes, to be exact.

  I smack both of my hands against his ass and help him move faster. I start nibbling on his neck. I whisper every dirty thing I can imagine into his ear. All the things that usually work and have him coming in record time. Not that I ever really want sex with Sam to end, but you know, sometimes a girl gets hungry, or she starts calculating how many hours of sleep she’ll be able to have if this thing can get wrapped up in five minutes or less, or maybe there’s an episode of The Real Housewives of New York on the DVR calling her name.

  Sadly, none of the tricks I have up my sleeve work. Just like they haven’t worked in the last six weeks. Sam keeps drilling into me, and I try my hardest not to look over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, or wince when each thrust feels like it’s going to start a small forest fire because all the wetness from my orgasm has long since fled the coop. The coop, in this instance, being my poor, dry, chafed vagina.

  “Shit, shit, shit, fuck,” Sam suddenly complains, collapsing on top of me and then quickly rolling away with a huff, throwing his arms over his eyes. “I had it. It was right there, and then I lost it.”

  Six weeks of me getting an orgasm every single time we have sex and Sam stopping when it starts to become a health hazard to both of us. He’s blamed it on the combination of being preoccupied with work and the stress of planning a wedding with my insane family. Both valid reasons, but all I can do is try not to freak the fuck out that maybe I don’t turn him on anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam says with a sigh, dropping his arms and rolling to face me.

  “I don’t know why you’re apologizing. In case you didn’t notice, I got mine. Sorry about your luck.”

  He laughs at my attempt to make a joke, but then the room is suddenly filled with awkward silence. I refuse to cry or beg him to tell me he still thinks I’m pretty. I already did that three other times, and I’ll be damned if I do it a fourth. This whole falling in love at the speed of light over Christmas, getting engaged on Valentine’s Day, moving in together immediately, and planning a wedding thing is stressful enough. Sam will never have another orgasm again if he has to keep watching me snot all over my pillow, crying about how I’m not sexy enough and let it slip that I only said, “Fuck me harder, big daddy,” because my best friend Scheva guaranteed it would work every time and he’d come like a freight train.

  Obviously it didn’t work, considering we’re going on week six with no Sam-orgasm and it made him snot all over his pillow and cry because it made him think of my father, which isn’t hot or sexy for anyone to think about, and I immediately regretted my decision of taking any kind of advice from my best friend.

  “I’m sure it’s stress. I swear I’ve never had this problem before,” Sam informs me.

  Great. Just what I want to hear. He’s only ever had this problem with me. Guys only stick their dick in your vagina for the sole purpose of having an orgasm and now I’ve broken him.

  “Is this my fault because of the whole toilet seat thing?” I ask hopefully. “I mean, in my defense, that’s rule number one of living with a woman and you had it coming.”

  He leans up on one elbow and glares at me.

  “Really? I had it coming? Having a toilet seat covered in piss chucked at my head at three o’clock in the morning was not necessary.”

  Grabbing the sheet tangled around my thighs, I angrily yank it up to my chest, refusing to let him stare at my boobs for one second longer if he’s going to be like this.

  “And I’m pretty sure I followed the rules,” he continues. “I never ONCE left the toilet seat up and you should be thanking me that I was so considerate!”

  I scoff at him, crossing my arms over my chest to hold the sheet in place.

  “Oh, I see how it is!” I fire back. “Just because I didn’t get an ass bath in the toilet bowl in the middle of the night, you think you deserve a medal. That’s not how this works. That’s not how ANY of this works!”

  I realize I’m picking a fight with him over something stupid that happened a month ago, but I can’t help it. Fighting about this is much better than screaming at him, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOUR PENIS CAN’T DO WHAT IT WAS PUT ON THIS EARTH TO DO!”.

  Moving into Sam’s house with him after we got engaged and learning how to cohabitate was surprisingly easy. He never left wet towels on the floor after his shower, he didn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, he always put a new roll of toilet paper on the holder when we ran out, and he didn’t squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube like some sort of terrorist. And fine, so he never left the toilet seat up after peeing, forcing me to stumble into the bathroom in the middle of the night half asleep and then fall down into the bowl. The first time I found out about his one little bad habit, I nicely asked him to stop doing it. After the fifth request, I started leaving him notes written on Post-its, stuck to the bathroom mirror so he’d see them when he got up before me for work. I will admit, the post-it notes escalated to an unhealthy level, but he STILL didn’t do what I asked, so he can’t blame me for anything that happened after.

  Good morning! Could you please remember to do what I asked? xo -Noel

  You did it again. PLEASE, for the love of GOD, stop. xo -Noel

  I swear to Christ, if you do it one more time, I will stab you in your sleep. –Noel

  Seriously? Again? Just for that, I used your toothbrush to untangle my pubic hairs. You’re welcome.

  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT? I poisoned something in the fridge. Good luck trying to figure out what it is.

  “I had nightmares about those Post-it notes for a week!” he yells back. “And I had to throw away all th
e food in the fridge!”

  “It’s not my fault you couldn’t listen to one simple direction!”

  I really wish I could stop the words that are coming out of my mouth, but again, it’s much better than the alternative. Sure, he doesn’t leave the toilet seat up, but what he does is soooooooo much worse. Granted, it probably wouldn’t have gotten to the level it did without a little help from me, but still.

  Sam, bless his heart, always puts the toilet seat down. Along with the TOILET SEAT COVER. Now, I’m sure you’re probably saying to yourself, “Awwww, what a sweet guy!”. You go right ahead and keep telling yourself that until the night you come stumbling into the bathroom half asleep, pull your underwear down, and flop your naked ass on top of the freezing cold toilet seat cover. Sure, it’s better than landing in the actual bowl, but nothing is better and everything sucks at three A.M.

  Deciding to pay him back, I returned the favor after I finished going to the bathroom, not even realizing that most men don’t sit down to pee. He didn’t get a cold shock of plastic toilet seat cover on his ass to jolt him awake, oh no. He just stood in the bathroom with the light off and proceeded to pee all over the cover, which meant when I went into the bathroom next, I flopped my ass down on top of a cold, toilet seat cover SPLATTERED WITH PEE.

  I did what any pissed off, half-asleep woman would do. I ripped the cover from the toilet, marched into the bedroom, and chucked it at his head. Really, it’s his fault for having such a shoddy toilet seat cover that was so easy to rip off.

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY IT’S SO HARD TO LIFT THE COVER BEFORE YOU PEE!” he shouts.

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU HAVE TO BE SUCH A TOILET-SEAT-COVER-PEEING STUPID PEEING HEADED PEE’ER!” I scream back, rolling angrily out of bed and yanking the sheet off of his body to take it with me. “NO SHEET FOR YOU, PISSY MCPISSERSON FROM THE CITY OF PISSVILLE IN THE STATE OF TOILET SEAT COVER PISS!”

  This is why I will never win any argument I ever have with someone, especially an argument I’m picking just to avoid the real problem. I don’t have the ability to say intelligent, though-provoking things to make my case. I will just word vomit stupid shit, thereby giving him the upper hand to assume he’s right.