Why Does 'There'S A Hole In My Bucket' Have That Title?

“I know four men who will be the perfect men to help you complete the tasks on your list.” It was that sentence that started everything. Or maybe it was my sudden need for adventure or the fact that my life was falling apart. I’m a baker. I love my bakery, but my feelings got all mixed up when my best friend died in a freak accident. In order to honour my best friend, I decided to complete her bucket list. I never expected to fall in love with four strangers. A relationship with different men will never work, right? Trigger Warning: Contains MM & The Mention of SA and Suicide (not detailed, just mentioned briefly)

The carousel malfunctioned unexpectedly. My daughter was pulled into the machinery and died on the spot. I survived by sheer luck, but my groin was crushed beyond repair. My wife, Jody Parker, tore apart the entire amusement park. After refusing any settlement, she dragged dozens of staff members who had mishandled the equipment to court. She even dug our daughter's grave with her bare hands and nearly cried herself blind from grief. To help me recover from both emotional and physical trauma, she spent a fortune hiring a well-educated male nurse to care for me. Six months later, I was discharged early, hoping to move on from the past—only to accidentally find her and the male nurse naked together on a swing. "Jody, you crushed your husband's manhood and forsook your daughter's life. Am I really that important to you?" "Of course. Only with her dead and Sam crippled will he love our child without limits. Once our baby is born, Sam can take care of it. He's so gentle and attentive—he'll raise our little one to be perfectly well-behaved." My mind went blank. My blood ran cold. My daughter's death. The nightmares that tormented me every night. All of it had been orchestrated by Jody. Since she hated my existence so much, I would make sure she never saw me again.

In the seventh year of singing on the streets for a living, I finally save enough money for my boyfriend, Charlie Bond, to pay for our wedding and marry me. Late at night, a young woman suddenly walks up to me and requests a song just as I'm about to pack up. She says, "I'm in a bad mood. Just sing a couple of songs for me." When she notices my disabled leg, she transfers 5,000 dollars to me right away. She adds, "I'm sorry for bothering you when it's already so late. I'm just really upset. Please take pity on me and keep me company for a while." Looking at the payment notification, I nod. With this money, Charlie won't have to struggle so much when it comes to paying rent. He won't need to deliver food in the middle of rainstorms just to make ends meet. The young woman begins pouring her heart out to me. "My husband and I have been married for five years. Today, I found out that I'm pregnant. I wanted to share the good news with him, but then I found a diamond ring in his pocket! "No matter how much I question him, he refuses to say anything. I got so angry at him that I ran out of my home. Do you think he's cheating on me?" I hesitate and am just about to comfort her when her phone suddenly rings. A man's voice comes through the speaker. It sounds helpless yet affectionate. He says, "You're so silly. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. The ring is a custom-made gift for you. I wanted it to be a surprise, but you found it before I could give it to you. Where are you? I'll come pick you up." The moment I hear that familiar voice, a chill runs down my spine. The name displayed on her phone is the exact same name as my boyfriend's—Charlie Bond.

The day I was awarded the highest service medal, I got a call that my grandfather had died. My superiors approved emergency leave, and I rushed straight back to the family estate without stopping. The moment I reached the hillside cemetery behind the house, what I saw snapped something inside me. Our family burial ground had been completely leveled. My parents' graves had been dug open. Their urns had been turned into flower pot bases, with dark-red roses planted right on top of them. My grandfather's coffin had been split apart. His body was left exposed in the dirt, already starting to rot. And my younger brother, Jerry Horton, who was on the autism spectrum, was being ordered around like a laborer by my husband's assistant, Digby Wolfe, hauling construction materials back and forth. I lost it. I grabbed Digby and slammed him into the ground with a hard shoulder throw. "You touched my family's graves and made my brother do manual labor. Are you trying to get buried here with them?" Digby coughed up blood as he struggled to his feet, sneering at me. "This was Mr. Gray's decision. He said your family plot is in a good location, with plenty of space. It's perfect for building a golf course for the future Mrs. Gray. In Joule, Mr. Gray is the law." His tone was icy. "And who do you think you are?" I swallowed my rage and called Marshall Gray. "I hear you run Joule," I said. "Well, I'm about to change that."

As soon as I get off the surgical table after my miscarriage, my husband, Presley Quinn, sends me a text message. "You were ten cents short when you paid your share of the power bill this month. Transfer the money to me immediately." I can only sit on the cold bench in the hospital on my own. The anesthesia has yet to wear out, but my belly is already hurting so much that I can practically feel it constricting on itself. The next thing I know, a new post appears on my social media homepage. It's a post made by Vivienne Ashford, the intern Presley is in charge of tutoring. In the photo, Vivienne can be seen holding a bouquet of flowers folded from money bills. A bright and radiant smile blooms on her face. The four-leaf clover necklace adorning her neck is the same necklace I've seen in Presley's purchase history two days ago. The caption of the photo writes, "I don't want a lot of money. I want a ton of love instead." Only then do I remember that today is Valentine's Day as well as my fifth-year anniversary with Presley. Over the past five years, Presley and I have been splitting every single bill, down to two decimal places. If I take a shower for more than 20 minutes, Presley demands that I pay extra for the water heater's power bill. When I cook myself some supper in the middle of the night, Presley wants me to split the gas bill generated by the stove. Even when my mom is hospitalized due to kidney failure and is waiting for her surgical bills to be settled, Presley refuses to lend me a single cent. Instead, he sends me a few links leading to web loans. As I stare at the social media feed, I chuckle all of a sudden. It turns out that Presley does know how to spend money. It's just that he doesn't have the heart to spend it on me. I smile once again as I leave a like on the post. Then, I transfer the ten cents to Presley. From now on, I don't owe him any single penny.

Lonely, sex-deprived, and horny could pretty much sum up the lives of Preshy. Preshy desired to be licked in places guys never knew existed. Preshy wanted all of her misery to be sexed away, while Liz was a girl that wanted to have fun. Mike is nothing more than a vivid fantasy that comes equipped when answering the calls of sex – starved, lonesome bodies needing attention.