Elvis and the Death by Wedding: A Big Hunk O' Love Story

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning was quiet and without expectations and sunny and warm and beautiful. Tim tucked himself in behind her right shoulder, slid a hand along her lower back and slipped it around her waist at the side, careful not to disturb her. She hummed a note, contentment, and pulled the trigger. This time it hit its mark, catching the dress at the bottom and off to the right. He watched it dig into the taffeta through his spotter's scope, then pulled off his hearing protection, tapped her on the shoulder and pulled hers off too.

"Do you know what you did wrong?"

She turned her head to glare at him. "Wrong? I hit it!"

"Uh, yeah, I guess that counts. Try it again." He reached up and worked the bolt to chamber another round and described what he did when he was shooting. "Clear your head, squeeze that trigger and hold it, follow straight through on the action like you do when you throw a baseball."

"I can't. The trigger won't move back any farther."

"Mentally, I mean – you gotta picture doing it, not actually do it. And breathe before, not after. A body doesn't work well without oxygen."

"You distracted me with that hand."

"Oh, yeah? Try doing this with someone shooting back."

"Oh, it's always harder for you." She couldn't keep up the pretend argument, started giggling.

"Let me show you," he said, took her place behind the rifle and she dropped herself on top of him, along his back.

"That's not where the spotter sits," he growled.

She slid off and settled beside him, giggling again, but he was already focusing, all his awareness on the target and the path between it and his bullet, and she waited until he took a breath and then she slipped her hand under his shirt and lightly dragged her fingernails across the bare skin of his back and down toward his hips as he fired.

"That's how you do it," he said, nodded downrange so she could admire the perfect hole centered in the breast of the dress.

Her shoulders sagged and he grinned and flicked on the safety and rolled over pulling her on top of him. "Nice try, by the way. Do your worst. I can take it. I'm a professional."

"Apparently, you have no feeling."

"I'm a Buddhist master behind this rifle."

"You're a Buddhist asshole behind this rifle. Can I try again?"

"Yep. Do I get to distract you?" He tucked his fingers under the waist of her jeans and wiggled them down to some softer flesh.

"Get a room!" carried over from the door of the shooting range trailer.

Miljana hung the dress on a nail on the porch so that Steve could admire her skills.

"That was a nice shot," he said, pointing to the one dead center.

"Gah!" She stomped into the house.

Tim was relaxed, slouching in his favorite chair with a smirk for Steve. "Nice one, asshole. That was my shot."

"I should've guessed."

The day had only gotten better, hot and nowhere to be on a sun-baked Sunday afternoon, a perfect opportunity for a cold beer and the shade of a covered porch. A few more weeks left of summer and then the haze would lift and the air would cool noticeably in the evenings and Tim was looking forward to it, more snuggling opportunities.

Miljana came back with some ice tea. Tim and Steve complained loudly but she wasn't having any of it. "It's not even two o'clock yet. I'm not getting drunk this early. You two go ahead if you want to. You know where the fridge is."

They drank the ice tea despite their moaning and it tasted good then Tim got up and got them some beer chasers.

Miljana was in her bare feet, one hooked up on her knee and she was rubbing at it.

"Your foot okay?" asked Tim.

"I got a blister from those damn shoes," she said, showed him.

He slid his chair closer, set his drink down and pulled her foot onto his lap. "Aw, baby. You want me to kiss it better?"

"No, I want you to make it go away."

Tim pulled his knife out of his pocket and thumbed it open.

"No, no, that's not what I meant!"

She tried to snatch her foot back but he held her ankle tightly. "Don't be a wimp."

"That's not even sterile."

"You got a lighter, Steve?"

"Yes, actually," he said, presented a handsome silver lighter with a flourish.

"Why do you have such a fancy lighter? You don't even smoke."

Steve chuckled, coaxed a small flame out of it and leaned over, gazed into Tim's eyes. "Need a light?" he said, smooth and suggestive.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Tim jabbed the knife blade into the flame. "You probably have a hankie too with your phone number on it."

Another grand gesture and Steve passed over a clean, pressed white handkerchief, monogrammed but no digits.

Tim snatched it. "You are so predictable."

"And how did I know you'd have a knife in your pocket?"

Raising his eyebrows in response, Tim shrugged and turned and focused on the wounded foot.

"Point, me," said Steve, drawing a 'one' in the air. "You're not really going to…?"

But Tim already had.

"Shit!" Miljana wriggled and grimaced. "Shit, shit, shit. That hurts!"

Tim pinned her foot, keeping it still, wiped at the pus with Steve's clean hankie.

"You can keep that one, dear."

"Shit, shit, shit."

"You're language has declined terribly since you moved in with him."

"Shut up or I'll staple you to the target next time."

Steve turned his head to look at the bullet holes in the dress. "Not much of a threat, darling."

"God, I hate you two."

Tim lifted her foot and kissed her toes, set it back on his lap and tied a makeshift bandage with the hankie. Miljana rolled her eyes when Steve squeaked out an "ew" then they picked up where they'd left off with the topic of choice for the afternoon – the logistics of keeping two wives, let alone one, or three.

The discussion meandered past bigamy to current and historic cultures that embrace polygamy and their reasons for it. Tim was content to listen, eyes moving between his friends, following their dialogue, occasionally drifting beyond the porch if a car drove past. A flatbed pulled onto their street and he gave it the requisite glance but something about it kept his focus on it. He set down the foot in his possession and stood and walked to the railing and looked carefully at the truck's load.

"Holy shit. Guys, look. That's…that's... Oh, that's better than porn." He grinned and gestured at the old motorcycle strapped on the back. It was dented and rusted and looked like it belonged in a junkyard. "That looks like somebody's barn find."

Steve looked over. "What is it – a Harley?"

"Wash your mouth out with soap, you blasphemer. Look at it – the extra deep fenders, the clutch on the left side handlebar… That, my friend, is an Indian Chief – 1950s, I'd guess. Needs work, but…shit." He drew the word out expressively. "I'm lusting."

The truck backed in behind Tim's in the driveway and stopped.

"I gotta go have a closer look." He skipped down the steps and walked quickly over to talk to the driver before he could finish turning his truck around.

Steve and Miljana shared a smile and stood up to watch, leaning on the rail and grinning stupidly at the expression on Tim's face when the driver climbed out and offered Tim an invoice to sign while another man hopped up onto the truck bed and started undoing the straps. The driver had to reach over and lift Tim's hand up to give him the ownership papers. He stuffed them unceremoniously into Tim's palm then helped roll the bike down using some plywood and left it leaning on its kickstand in the driveway and drove off. Tim glanced back at the house and Miljana waved to him. He pointed at the motorcycle, his face like a four-year-old. She beamed, shrugged, nodded. He plunked cross-legged onto the asphalt beside his new toy.

Miljana walked up behind him and pushed her knees into his back. "You like it? It looks pretty beat up."

"It's fucking gorgeous. It's mine?"

"Mm-hm. Steve knows a guy who runs a motorcycle shop. He heard about it and made some calls and helped me get it. He said he'd help you find parts. It's okay?"

"How much did this cost you?"

"Less than a wedding. It's our honeymoon money, actually. Get it working and licensed and insured and then you can take me on a trip."

"But that'll be a while. Next summer maybe."

"I hope it's okay. I didn't think you'd want a new one."

His mind was already working on what to do first; he missed what she said. "I'm going to keep it in the garage in the back. It's got a lock. I'll get a better one, though. I'll clear a work space this afternoon, start tearing it apart." He reached out and touched it reverently. "Holy shit, I can't believe it. I always wanted one of these."

"I know." She bent over and put her hands under his chin and kissed the top of his head. "You earned it. I owe you for almost killing you with this stupid wedding."

He looked up at her. "Is Marissa getting married? I'd love my own Barrett."

"A bit mercenary, that."

"Better believe it."

"I don't think I'd be invited, Tim. And for sure you wouldn't."

He stood up and wrapped her up and squeezed. "Thank you. It's awesome. It's better than awesome."

Steve was standing a little apart, interrupted, "Honeymoon money? Are you two getting married?"

Miljana looked back at him, caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "We already are." She put a finger on her lip, "Shhh."

Steve gaped then barked out a laugh. "When were you going to tell me? And why wasn't I invited? Oh my God – I'm shocked. Okay, I need something stronger than beer."

"Get him some of your dad's gut-rot." Tim turned and ran his fingers along the handlebars then carefully straightened the bike and slipped off the kickstand. "Then come join me in the garage. I got work to do."

"Your dad's gut-rot?"

"Plum slivovitz," Miljana explained. "Someone always brings him a bottle when they visit from home."

"He got me plastered on the stuff the day we showed up and said we were married."

"I think he was pleased," she said.

"Tim or your dad?"

Miljana grinned happily watching Tim push the bike up the driveway.

"Tim," Raylan called over as he walked out of Art's office. "You busy this morning?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On why you're asking."

"I'm asking as a favor."

"Then yes, I'm busy."

Raylan ignored him, kept talking while he turned in a circle back at his desk, collecting things, a hat, keys, jacket. "I'm heading down to see old Ms. Flynn, thought I'd do her a courtesy, let her know about Elvis."

Tim stopped what he was doing, hooked. He swiveled in his chair so he could see Raylan better. "What are you going to tell her?"

"I'm going to tell her that Elvis married his beautiful Belarusian bride and they rode happily off into the sunset, headed down to Mexico with the money."

It took a minute for Tim to digest what Raylan was saying. "You're gonna lie to her?"

"That's right, unless you think I should tell her the truth, that her sweet but rather pathetic second or third or fourth cousin took a bullet trying to talk reason to the mob."

"So, this is your second good deed for the year? You going for a record?"

"It's my third," said Raylan. "I stopped your girl's friend from marrying that sleazy, lying, stealing sonofabitch, Edward Pritchard."

"Ex-friend, I think."

"Well, ex-friend, whatever. You coming? I figured it might come across more believable with two of us there."

"Yeah, okay." Tim threw a few things into a knapsack and followed.

He turned on the radio as soon as they got on the road south out of Lexington – neither of them felt much like talking. The first station was playing an Elvis tune and both men groaned.

"For fuck's sake," said Tim. "Seriously? Heartbreak Hotel? I feel like we're being haunted. I've had enough of dead singers." He fished through his bag and pulled out a CD, a collection of some of his favorites for a road trip, and slipped it into the player on the dash, hit shuffle. Jimi Hendrix blasted out of the speakers, Manic Depression.

"He's dead," Raylan pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it." Tim skipped the song; the next was Stevie Ray Vaughan, The Sky is Crying.

"Tim…"

"Okay, okay, I'm sure I've got a live one on here somewhere."

Then The Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia wailing out, Touch of Grey.

"I like your collection, Tim, but are any of them still breathing?"

"Just hold on."

Marvin Gaye, Mercy, Mercy Me.

"Fuck!"

Peter Tosh, Fools Die.

"Uh, that one's Miljana's."

Raylan ejected the disk, rolled down his window and tossed it out. "Let's talk about guns, shall we?"

The End

Author's note: There, happy ending. That's it for the silliness. I missed a lot of dead singers, I know. Thanks for reading. Thanks for reviewing. Not too long now till spring.

I looked up tragicomedy, for the literary definition - curious. It's a tragedy that ends happily or a tragedy with enough comedic elements to lighten the tone. Et voilà! Now we all have one more useless fact in our brains.