OMG! I Married the Devil

By Robbie Cole

OMG! I Married the Devil is engaging, funny, thoughtful, and one of the goofiest books I've read (that's a good thing!) — J. Lloyd Morgan, author of The Night the Port-A-Potty Burned Down

 

Jill will do just about anything to avoid getting labeled her block's cat lady. And she has a "hope chest" containing all her heart's desires to prove it.

She longs for a masculine, wood-chopping, Speedo-clad muscle man who glistens from sweat in the sunshine. But when she meets Jack, a happy-go-lucky schizophrenic former sanitation worker who's convinced he's the devil, she learns that every nobody is someone's somebody.

 

Jill knows that no one's perfect. And because Jack pales in comparison to the long list of losers she's dated, she's willing to overlook his quirks, but his growing supernatural powers leave her questioning her beliefs. Her desperate attempts to avoid becoming the cat lady while retaining her sanity leads her to hire an inept exorcist and a Voodoo Priest, proving love has no bounds — even if it lands her in hell.

 

OMG! I Married the Devil, a wickedly hilarious, laugh-out-loud, heartwarming romantic comedy, explores the ups and downs of the dating scene, serving as a user's guide for loving the supernaturally challenged. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robbie Cole
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223918547

Robbie Cole

Robbie was born and raised in Texas but now resides a stone's throw from the shore of Lake Superior, on the last speck of water, at the Northwestern tip of Wisconsin. He writes comic fantasy romance and paranormal/historical romance novels.  When not lost in a fictional world, he enjoys camping, fishing, and playing the Frog King at his granddaughters' pretty pretty princess tea parties.

Book preview

Foreword

There are always two sides to every story. Nothing can change that. After I wrote Honey, I Think I’m the Devil—The Wackiest Love Story Ever Told, I felt that Jill was underrepresented.  The book you are about to read is Jill’s story, in her own words, complete with full scenes that were only hinted at in the first book. I don’t think she planned for it to be a guide for loving the supernaturally challenged, such side effects being rare, but if it enriches your life, she will be pleased.

CHAPTER ONE

Inever wanted to marry the devil. I never asked for it. And never in my wildest dreams did I want to be the Queen of Hell. Call me crazy, but I never wanted to be anything more than a loving wife, mother, and successful fast-food restaurant manager. I know. People rarely get what they want from life. Okay, they get some version of their ideal bliss. But my story closely resembles the saying, Be careful what you wish for.

My problem stems from a deep-seated fear of being alone. I was never the most social of people, so meeting men was hard. Still, I never stopped believing the man of my dreams would one day fall into my arms, and together, we’d live in wedded bliss for eternity, or at least until one of us died.

Dr. Jones, my therapist, blamed my optimism on being a classic red personality and thriving on logic and determination. I’m not sure about any of that. And I don’t know why my being overly optimistic, as she described it, was a problem.

Because young me was sooo convinced I’d someday find my knight in shining armor, Mother had purchased a hope chest to keep my future happiness safe. Throughout my teens and early twenties, that same receptacle of wedding wishes containing all my heart’s desires never moved from the foot of my bed despite my lack of success in love, so the hinges became a tad rusty and harder to open—just like my heart.

I had never lost hope, though it waned when I moved the chest last week after stubbing my toe on its corner, then moved it back when I discovered the carpet looked new under it, and I wasn’t sure the rest would match if I steam-cleaned it.

Now, as I sat in my fast-food establishment, I just knew my dreams of finding a timeless love would soon be realized because a dating app promised to deliver my perfect man to my email inbox for an affordable monthly fee. All I had to do was set up my profile page and then go buy the wedding dress. How joyous would everyone’s life be if everything were so easy?

Mentally prepared to begin love’s journey, I clicked on the first question: What is love?

Wide-eyed, I reread the rather vague inquiry with my elbows on the table, my cheeks resting between my hands, and a bead of sweat dripping from my nose. I eased back against the seat with my red-tipped index finger covering my chin and lips in deep contemplation. "How do people describe love?" I asked the blinking cursor in the empty answer box that glared like an impatient teacher squinting over glasses placed atop the tip of her nose while waiting for her nervous student’s response. Nothing came to mind. Which highlighted my inexperience.

I focused my thoughts, squeezing my spongy brain for all the phrases I remembered from history’s brightest thinkers; words of wisdom that explained the most subjective of human emotions in simple terms. Then I typed such nonsense as it is a blessing, it is blind. It is retarded, tender, painful... even cruel, fantastic, or blissful. Maybe it’s all you need. "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah," I said and sighed so hard my napkin flew from the table and absorbed some of the slimy mop water.

Anyway, I knew none of those responses would lure anyone a perfect mate. Not even close. Having already fished in waters where none but losers swam, I knew my best chance of attracting the best possible mate would be to compose something Shakespearean; something that flowed with a poetic measure, encompassing every metaphor, every simile, and all the imagery needed to create the perfect world in which our perfect love would grow. However, my knowledge of Shakespeare comprised watching Romeo and Juliette at a local cinema on a high school field trip where I slept through most of the performance and later cursed myself for having missed Romeo’s naked butt scene.

"Okay, I’ll finish that question later. Moving on to question 2."

I frowned as they had packed question two with as much trouble as question one. In twenty words or less, describe your perfect mate. Wtf?

That’s just great, I thought. Like I’m supposed to write my fantasy man as a masculine, sweat-glistening, wood-chopping muscle man who could survive off a fast-food diet. No, that sounds stupid. So now I was at a loss. My mind erased itself. And the blinking cursor blinked like a ticking bomb, counting down to my love life’s extinction.

Massaging my temples, I yelled, Oooh! Just tell me how to find my perfect guy without this stupid website! To which the puzzled customers and employees gazed as though I were a lunatic. I wanted to assure them I wasn’t crazy, but my knowledge gained in an online introductory to psychology class at Mountain View College, one of Dallas, Texas’s fine community colleges, taught me that having to do so meant I probably was crazy.

After pounding the table, I glanced up as the last of sunlight’s deadly heat magnified through the hamburger-scented fast-food restaurant’s western-facing windows. Its radiance further crisped the fries resting in a basket beside the deep fryer and ensured the couple in the booth near the entrance were as warm as their meal.

Timmy, a slim, 40-something male dressed in a poop-brown uniform, stood over the grill, flipping beef patties, and adding salt, not from a shaker, but from the sweat that rolled from under his mesh, boat-shaped hat and crept over his brow toward the tip of his nose, then dripped in a steady stream. Eww! More wasted product to write off.

Darcy, the cashier, leaned against the coveted ice cream machine, fanning herself with a tannish to-go order sack that proudly displayed golden arches while drinking her cup of once-frozen, coned-shaped dessert cooling aid disguised as vanilla ice cream.

Fred, the janitor, whose advanced age didn’t fare well in the hot weather, worked on the shaded, cooler floors before the Eastern doors, creating diarrhea-looking art from a bucket brimming with bacteria. Those smooth strokes are impressive. But I’ll have to remind him to change out the water—again! Oh, there’s sooo much I need to tend to... after I finish filling out this stupid questionnaire.

I couldn’t take the afternoon heat anymore, so I grabbed my laptop and walked lightly across the slippery floor to the shady side, where I plopped down in the last booth before the restrooms. Jennifer, my eighteen-year-old assistant manager who doubled as a high school senior with three unruly kids, slipped onto the opposite bench while she wiped a wet paper towel over her face.

Whatcha doin’? she asked.

They’re all losers, I said and glanced out the window to the almost empty parking lot. I’m gonna be alone forever.

Jennifer ran the sweat-saturated rag along her forehead and dropped it near the edge of the table. Have you finished your list of cat names?

I was about to give her a mean glare but was stopped in my tracks, silently cringing at my protégé’s new multicolored hair tied in multiple-sized pigtails. Then I noticed that each of her self-manicured fingers wore a different colored nail polish... and oh, for the love of God, a small chain connected a piercing through her nose and mouth. I better tweak the dress code, I thought.

Jennifer chuckled. "There’s gotta be someone acceptable on there. Lemme see."

I sighed and shoved the laptop at her. "Acceptable? Is that what love means?"

Now I had it! The answer to the question that the impatient empty box with the blinking cursor required. All I had to do was type in that one simple word—acceptable—and poof! no more incessant loneliness. No more awful dates with awful men who only wanted to get me naked and perform an awful attempt at the action required to make tiny versions of awful people. No more lonely nights crying myself to sleep on my second pillow—the one I had purchased in hopes my true love’s shiny locks would forever rest there in love’s blissful embrace. Just type a-c-c-e-p-t-a-b-l-e—the word that now seemed more magical than abracadabra—and my search for true love would end.

But my inner smile broke when Jennifer mildly slapped me with a hefty dose of reality. Sweetie, that smile of yours could melt butter in a blizzard... but it hasn’t produced a ring.

As I watched in horror while she scrolled through the pictures, frowning at some, grimacing at others, and sometimes pretending to gag, I realized that acceptable wouldn’t do. So I decided that instead of using the eeny meeny miney moe method, lowering my standards might be the answer, which circled me back to feeling desperate. "Why don’t they just call the site ‘date me, please’? I asked. Then my protégé’s eyes widened as she covered her mouth, stifling a laugh as she tapped the mouse pad. You found a nice guy, right?"

She peeked over the screen and squinted. "Yeah, I got knocked up by Prince Charming. And if he ever gets a divorce, he might marry me."

I felt my eyes widen. Jennifer’s revelation couldn’t have shocked me more if delivered with the cold slap of a wet linguine noodle. He’s married? But y’all have three kids.

"And he wants to move us and his wife to Utah and go be Mormons."

Oh, for the love of... I thought and shivered at the image of being surrounded by sister wives and sharing hundreds of crying, screaming, poop-filled-diapered children. Nope. Never gonna happen! I guess it won’t hurt to have another look. I spun the laptop and pulled it to me. "I know nobody’s perfect. But there has to be someone sweet who won’t cheat."

I clicked on several pictures before one caught my attention. And not in a good way. There was something strangely familiar about him that sparked a memory of prophetic proportions—his goofy grin