by K. S. Adkins
Like he is giving me a good morning wave.
His cock needs his own Facebook page.
I would be the first and only like. Taylor doesn’t share.
“Sleep well?” he asks when he catches my stare.
“I did,” I smile. “You’re naked, Van.”
“So I am.”
“Come here and be naked with me.”
“The next time we wake together it will be with my cock still inside you,” he vows and I shiver. “Unfortunately, I have to get to the field, but I want you to relax and walk down when you’re ready.”
I’m ready now, dammit, but I’m not going to show him pushy Taylor.
Kissing my forehead, he whispers, “All mine,” and walks out the door.
Wanting to be where he is, I don’t take time to relax. I make quick work of my morning ritual and find my way to Van.
I had territory to piss on and envy to collect.
It’s no secret women take no prisoners in the friend game.
We don’t welcome new blood into the pack easily. We put you through trials and make you work for that shit. Your odds of acceptance are 50/50 at best, and that’s only if you have something valuable to offer, like pills or Nordstrom discounts. Tribe rules are no joke. Seeing as I wasn’t here to make friends—because I had friends, great fucking friends—I make sure these vipers knew I give no shits. Plus, I guarantee you word spread about my performance last night. Good. I hope it had. These hoes could learn something about their men. And that is if you have a good man, want to keep said man happy, you use everything in your arsenal to do so.
Hands, mouth, porn…whatever does the trick.
You stand proud by his side and make a point to grab his crotch when no one is looking. Hell, if warranted you grab it while they’re looking and you do it smiling.
You dance with him, praise him, and reward him.
Hell, I’ve only been fake engaged a short time and even I know that.
Just as I know that I loved Van’s eyes on me.
I show him that I love it with my walk, my talk, and my cleavage.
He reciprocates in kind.
Even if my only goal was to make Van look good, my treatment from the unwelcoming committee is proof I succeeded.
Now here I am, flaunting it, and I found it wasn’t even a real game.
When Van said field, I was thinking soccer, rugby, or maybe even bad-mitten.
I couldn’t hide my confusion over croquet.
Seriously? We couldn’t find anything better to do?
The females are sipping champagne and watching their men compete in the silliest spoof of a sport known to man, on purpose. What am I doing? Mainlining vodka straight from the flask India bought me and sending the girls selfies. I also make it a point to wear tight cut off shorts, an even tighter tank top, and oops, no bra. My tits are eye turners and refuse to be bound. Especially on a weekend.
So, when Cruella asks me snottily, “Do you know croquet?”
I have to answer, “I’m not into needles, sorry.”
“Is she serious?” She asks her cronies.
“About needles?” I deadpan. “Absolutely.”
“I don’t know what Evander sees in you,” she sneers and I couldn’t help but notice her face didn’t move.
“Double Ds, a firm ass, and a strong wrist. What else you got?”
Grinning at her stunned botoxed face, I hand her my flask to keep, and make my way toward the field. Van is the first to make room for me and seeing how bored he is, I let my juggernaut out to play a little.
“Shirts versus skins?” I ask the group and only two men laughed. Van and Morris.
Honest to God, how did people live like this?
It’s like they lived inside a dark alcohol and sex-free cloud.
Shaking myself of it, I stretched and took the field.
Thirty minutes later, the game is called. When I look at Van, I ask innocently, “What’d I do?”
“I’m not sure,” he grins, then slaps my ass. “It might have been when you balled Christopher, or when you made it a full contact sport?” When I found out Christopher and Cruella are married, I made him a target. Or rather, made his balls a target. Needless to say, she isn’t happy.
“That’s fair,” I concede. “But did we at least win?”
“Is disqualification a win?”
“It is in my book.”
“Then we won,” he says, and there it was, the smile.
“We should celebrate!” I cheer. “Shots?”
“Lead the way.”
“You just want an excuse to stare at my ass.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“I love it when you use lawyer speak.”
Two shots in, Sugar started blowing up my phone, and I excused myself to call her back. Not since we were in eighth grade had her dad called her a dyke in front of her peers, had I ever heard her cry.
(PS: her dad is still an asshole, and I still hate the word.)
“Talk to me,” I beg her. “What happened?”
“I was played, Taylor.”
“By who, honey?”
“Amanda.”
I had no idea who Amanda was. “Okay, what did she do?”
“She—she is fucking married.”
“And?”
“And her fucking husband came home.”
“Fuck.”
“While my face was between her legs…”
Silent and pacing, I wait for her to compose herself long enough to tell me the rest. When she wouldn’t, I know something wasn’t just wrong, but seriously wrong. “Sugar, fill me in.”
“I didn’t know she was married,” she wails. “She didn’t act fucking married.”
“What happened when he came home?” Silence. “Sugar, what the fuck happened?”
“He came after me.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Taylor,” she sobs into the phone. “I tried fighting back.”
“He put his hands on you?”
“Yes,” she whimpers. Sugar was tiny and feisty, but was not equipped to fight a fucking man. None of us were.
“I’m calling Hillary to take you to the hospital –”
“No!” she whimpers. “I took some pain pills, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m on my way.”
“No!” she cries out. “You’re with Evander, I just needed to hear your voice.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can, and Sugar?”
“Taylor, please…”
“Be ready to give me full disclosure.”
Hanging up the phone, I whirl around and run straight into Van’s chest.
“We can be on the road in ten minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” I try. “I have to get to her. I’ll make it up to you –”
“Hey,” he says, hugging me tight. “She needs you. Let’s get you home.”
We made it back in record time with Van holding my hand the entire way.
Taylor has a way with easing people, which I saw firsthand when she crawled straight into bed with her friend.
Leary of my presence, Sugar held onto Taylor and is reluctant to discuss what happened in front of me. Attempting to excuse myself, Taylor makes it clear I stayed and after a tense moment of silence Sugar finally relented.
She also does as Taylor requested and gives her the details.
All of them.
Granted, the details are visible with the bruises covering her skin, but hearing about it was much worse.
And it is killing Taylor.
I don’t like seeing her upset.
I don’t like a man putting his hands on Sugar either.
But not just his hands. This man beat her.
From the door, I could feel Taylor holding on by a thread.
“—address, now,” Taylor was demanding.
“But—“ Sugar tries to protest.
“When you said, pain pills you left out the part where you should have been in the fucking emergency room
being treated. Now, give me the goddamn address, Sugar. I am not asking again.”
“I can’t because you’ll go over there and he could hurt –”
“I’m going with her,” I announce and see Sugar’s relief. “No harm will come to her, you have my word.”
Hanging her head, she mumbles the address and Taylor asks for a few minutes to tuck her in privately.
I’m waiting on the couch when she comes back out. “Sugar wants to speak with you.”
Nodding, I head back to her room and stand by the door.
“She’ll take it too far,” she whispers. “I know you think you can handle her, but you don’t understand what she’s capable of. She’ll tear him apart before you can blink. Please, don’t let her do anything –”
“I won’t, Sugar,” I say softly. “Taylor will be fine, I promise you.”
“I’m sorry I ruined your weekend.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I’m sorry I misjudged you, too.”
“You didn’t misjudge me Sugar. You only knew the man I wanted you to see. While we’re gone, you should rest.”
“Evander?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Letting Taylor be Taylor. You’re the first.”
And the last… but I keep that to myself.
“Ready?” Taylor asks when I round the corner, and I answered her with a nod. Taylor is full tilt and gearing up for destruction of epic proportions.
On the drive over she doesn’t speak and neither do I. But when we pull into the driveway I do say, “We need to assess the situation, it’s possible they have children –”
“You assess,” she says, throwing her door open and folding out. “I’m channeling my inner Holyfield. Mark my words, there’s a belt involved.”
Storming up the walk, taking the steps two at time, she is banging on the door as I stand to her right.
When the wife answers, she takes one look at Taylor’s stance and pales.
She knows.
“Your husband,” Taylor says eerily calm. “Get him, now.”
“Please,” the woman begs. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“You’re one of those,” Taylor whispers trying to contain her fury. “The kind of bitch who would cheat on her husband and stand by as he beats a defenseless woman. A woman who did not know you had a husband. A woman you used to take a walk on the wild side. A woman who is chewing on pills to ease the pain your bullshit caused. She is my sister.” Leaning in, Taylor growls. “No one hurts my sister.”
The woman is about to plead her case when Taylor asks, “Do you have children?”
“N-no –” she sputters.
“Good,” she says, delivering a punishing bitch slap that sent the woman to the hardwood floor. Hearing his wife’s cry of pain, the husband enters the foyer. But as Taylor jumps over her to attack him, I step in. Taking her by the shoulders, I make it clear she better let me handle this.
Torn and ready to fight, she narrows her eyes at me so I repeated, “Taylor, let me,” giving her no room to argue.
“Who the fuck are you? And what the fuck did you do to my wife?” the husband demands from a distance.
“The same thing I’m about to do to you,” she threatens.
“I’m calling the police,” he returns.
Squaring her shoulders and adjusting her stance, Taylor says, “Try it.”
Advancing on us, he is intent on Taylor when I put her behind me and rush him. Catching him off guard, plus being larger and stronger, I have the asshole bent backwards over his piano with my hand around his throat in seconds.
“Handle his bitch,” I advise Taylor.
I watched as she stood over the woman who was bawling her eyes out, wondering what she’d do. Kneeling down next to her, Taylor fists her hair and forcing her to look at her husband. “She has two black eyes, a busted lip, bruises on her arms and back, and her ribs hurt. It pains her to fucking breathe. Did she deserve that? Does he deserve the same treatment?”
When the woman cries in answer, Taylor nods at me and says, “I guess we’ll find out together.”
“She seduced my wife,” he coughs out meekly.
“He’s still talking, Van,” Taylor huffs. “Shut him up.”
“As you wish,” is my reply.
It matters not that I had never been in an actual fight because I am filled with so much fucking rage, I let instinct guide me and it guides me well. Through it all, Taylor never flinches or releases the woman. Instead, I feel her eyes locked on me as I deliver the punishment. Once he is down, I left him on the floor and focus on his wife. “Either of you call the police, I’ll have Sugar at the station reporting the assault. Before the ink dries, I’ll have you both in front of a judge showing him the evidence he left behind. I promise you this; you will lose your home, vehicles, jobs, and what little credibility you have. I will make it my mission to destroy your future. If you think our visit was painful, try me in the courtroom.” Standing up, I tell Taylor. “Release her and let’s go.”
Without hesitation, she does.
But when she goes for her waist I have to ask, “Why are you taking your pants off?”
“I’m not,” she says, wrapping her belt around her palm.
“Taylor –” Oh, fuck…
Standing over the man she asks him, “Ever been belted?”
“No, please!” the asshole pleads.
“Goodie!” she squeals in delight. “It’s a first for me, too!”
Letting the length fall between her fingers, the buckle is dangling, and then she started twirling it.
Jesus…she is going to…
“Taylor, I don’t think –” I try, but she isn’t listening to me. Just as Sugar predicted, she is going too far.
Snapping her wrist, she continues building momentum and announces, “There’s a lesson here. Which is, poodles shouldn’t fuck with pit bulls.”
“Oh God, please stop her!” he begs.
“PS: I’m the pit bull.”
With a loud thwack, she connects.
And then she does it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
She whips his back, legs, chest, stomach, and finally…yep…she goes for the kill shot.
When she’s finished, she glances to the wife, who was actually passed out cold, and down at the man who was fighting his own consciousness and says to me, “There, we can go. I feel better now.”
My manhood and I aren’t so sure how we felt.
He’s too busy hiding and I’m too busy ushering her outside before she goes back for seconds.
Last night, Van dropped me off and left me with a kiss on the cheek.
On my fucking cheek.
As far as weekends went, it is safe to say mine has been filled with highs and belt blows.
After the stunt I pulled, I have no doubt he’ll be contacting me to get his ring back. Then again, he is a corporate big shot, so he might have his secretary do it.
(It’s what I would do, less messy.)
Until that happens, I’m chewing on my nails hoping I misread him.
However, I’m not stupid.
Evander Church is elite in his field. His reputation is built on hard work and successful cases. He comes from a family of attorneys who have done the same. Evander lives a calculated life, a structured life, a prominent one.
His name means something.
Yet, last night, at my side, he trespassed and assaulted a man who had not wronged him in any way. He came along to make sure nothing happened to me. Then I forced him to watch me beat a guy’s ass with my Betsy Johnson belt from Von Maur.
So yeah, he’ll want his ring back.
And he might slap me with a restraining order, too.
Thing is, even if I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Because when it came to my friends, lines, and judgement
calls don’t exist.
To wrong them is to wrong me.
To hurt them is to hurt me.
All I do is act accordingly.
“—us to believe you kicked your own ass?” Hillary is asking Sugar, who’s refusing to divulge. “Seriously,” she presses on because Hillary is no dummy. She knows something is up. “My God, your face! Have you looked at it? You bear a strong resemblance to Sloth from the Goonies right now. Hey, you guys—”
“Hillary,” India says, closing her eyes in frustration. “Let it go.”
“I’m not letting this go,” she argues. “I want to know how she ended up being a personal punching bag. Plus, that was a killer impression, not that any of you noticed.” Glancing up at Sugar, I see she is close to losing it and bailing on brunch. Never one to shut up, Hillary snaps, “We’re the Shit, therefore we don’t –”
“For fuck’s sake, Hillary!” I slam my palm down. “We went to the bar last night and I drank too much, all right? I hit on a guy I shouldn’t have, and while I was outside with him, his girlfriend attacked Sugar as payback. I feel bad enough as it is, so can we please just drop it?”
“She got her ass beat so you could get laid? Typical.”
By the way, it was not typical. In fact, it never happened before.
“I took care of it,” I ground out in irritation.
“It’s your fault she got hurt, Taylor,” she mumbles then takes Sugar’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she whispers. “Trust me, she looks worse than I do.”
“Really?” Hillary asks me skeptically.
“I said I took care of it, and I did,” I glance at Sugar who looks relieved her secret is still safe.
“Tell us about your weekend with Evander,” India suggests and reluctantly I share. And I’m tired of the looks Hillary is throwing my way, so I turn the tables on her.
“Did you take that second date yet?” I ask.
“No,” she says, turning red.
“Why not?” India asks.
“Nolan showed up this weekend, so I cancelled.”
We might not be perfect; we might make epic mistakes, but we never lied about them. We talk it out, kick, and scream, too—but then we move on. We support each other, we rally.
“Hillary,” Sugar sighs.
“He just showed up?” I push because that doesn’t sound like Nolan.
