3 Grams: An Addictive Novella

by Krihstin Zink

“Which one’s yours, love?” She gave me a lopsided smile and glanced from my face to the matching purple towels that hung next to the shower.

  “Ha. I think we need new towels.” I gave her ass a squeeze; then she giggled and shook her head.

  “Well, I guess take this one.” She offered the closest towel, and then wrapped the other one around herself. Lena could have been sick, and she would have still put my needs before hers. Some days I felt selfish because she deserved someone better than me.

  “Now, seriously—we have to leave or we’ll be late. I don’t want to miss out on a good pole.” Before she could go too far, I grabbed her arm, pulled her in close and covered her face with kisses.

  “Maybe we should call in—and just have a sensual day.” I suggestively wiggled my eyebrows at her.

  “Come on, O—I love you, but I need my money. Time is ticking and we need to head into work. ASAP.” She stepped away; but then glanced over her shoulder and gave me a wink and a perfect view of her perky ass.

  I waved her out of my bathroom, and huffed, “All right—all right, I’ll hurry up.” As she stepped into the hallway, I reached out and gave her ass a smack.

  “I bet I’ll be done before you,” she hollered from her bathroom.

  “Ha. We’ll see.” I rushed to my bottle of lotion and then generously pumped and applied it to my tats. My left arm homed Gangster Alice and the Cheshire Cat, toking on a hookah. On my right arm, Bella and Mulan smoked blunts on a fluffed-up pillow. Then I had a kaleidoscope of various-colored stars, flowers, and birds that covered my legs and thighs. My back had always been difficult to reach, so I usually had to watch myself in the mirror while I moisturized Ariel on her rock. Some girls wanted to grow up to be Disney princesses, but I wanted to kiss them.

  “Are you almost ready? We’re scheduled to work at two and it’s almost one,” Lena shrieked from her bathroom.

  Since I needed time to set up my deejay equipment, we usually arrived at 1:30ish. Hauling and installing my setup—every damn time—had become a pain in the ass. Yet, I had no choice, especially after some drunken asshole had tried to five-finger my laptop. After that incident, Lena and I had agreed that I’d have to lug my equipment to-and-fro.

  “Shiiit—ahhh.” Huffs of frustration echoed in the hallway.

  “What?” I peeked out and watched as she slipped into her lavender bra and thong set, jean shorts, and then black tank top.

  “I just hope Klyde can act like a damn manager—and keep his pervy hands to himself,” she grunted, shoving her feet into her black Toms.

  “Eww. He better not rub his fat cock all over my ass. Again.” Creases formed around her eyes as she shook her head from side-to-side.

  The Clubhouse’s manager, Klyde, could be cool—when he felt like it. But he had a strong case of pervy tendencies. Fifty-something, but stacked; and he had pretty much fucked, licked, or fingered every straight female TCH employee. Lucky for him, he had never tried that shit with me.

  “You always wear the same thing, babe.” A smirk spread and reached Lena’s eyes as she held back a laugh.

  For the most part, I dressed casual: I rarely wore makeup, and enjoyed the sports-bra-and-loose-pants look. “What? I like to be comfortable, especially when I’m laying down my tight beats.” I shrugged and then lazily strolled towards my room.

  “Have you seen my cell phone and keys? Since last night, I’ve searched my dresser, nightstand, and even my closet. I feel as if I may have lost them.” A frustrated sigh deflated my mood as I searched my disheveled room. It could have been cleaner, but it felt tidy to me.

  “Damn. You need to organize in here.” She complained, tugging the sheets across my bed. She bent over to collect my scattered clothes, and gave me a foxy view of her barely covered ass.

  “You should pay me for keeping this apartment clean.” Her hair fell and feathered at her face when she became my glowing baller as she tossed my worn clothes into my hamper.

  “Thank you, Foxy. We should just call-in and make this a thank-you day.” I wiggled my eyebrows and blew kisses at her.

  “You know? I’ll thank you—over and over again.” I palmed her ass, pressing her closer against me as I teased my lips against hers.

  We held our connection until I pulled away and scattered kisses all over her face. She grinned and gazed into my eyes. “I guess that’s as close to an I love you as I’ll ever get, huh?” I had no reply because I couldn’t say what she wanted to hear.

  As time passed, her smile faded. Unlike her usual dramatics, she detached from my grip and continued to search my cluttered dresser for my cell phone and wallet. From the dresser mirror, I noticed annoyance creased at her eyes and lips.

  “You gonna dance for Taaan-dy, tonight?” Jealously sprang from her words. I felt sick remembering the unwanted-dance request from Tandy, The Clubhouse’s owner. That hag, Tandy, begged that I’d show her my pole moves. Since I shared my home—and sometimes bed—with Lena: Tandy, had assumed I would’ve slept with her.

  “Why did you remind me of that shit?” I huffed, rolling my eyes at our mirror reflections. I had zero interest in Tandy’s wrinkled, over-processed pussy. Of course, Tandy followed a different set of rules: she had touched and fondled me—every damn chance she had.

  “Come on, O—show me what you got.” Tandy’s smoker voice croaked in my mind.

  The previous Friday night had been my last work day with Tandy. “Let’s do this—let’s plan this list.” She tugged at my arm and lured me into her office with the lie of planning my music for the following night. “Cool.” I should have left early that day, but I obliged since she had been my boss of many years.

  “Ophelia, you do things to me that I never thought I could feel—why is it that only Lena gets to have you?” From the moment my ass hit the chair, which faced her desk, my boss had rubbed and stroked at my arm tats—until I had finally shrugged away from her. “Look, Tandy: I have no interest in this.” I waved my hand between us and then hurried toward her office door. As I escaped Tandy’s cougar seduction, of course, I collided into . . . Lena. “Seriously, O?”

  She’d gripped at her hip, as her manicured, vengeful finger pointed at me while tears smudged up her makeup. “With Taaandy?” Her face had wrinkled like an old lemon, and she crossed her arms over her seductress body suit. I’d yet to see her this upset, especially over a misunderstanding. “I must be mistaken, right? Right?” She’d tapped her glitter, stripper stacks with such velocity that she could have stomped a hole in TCH’s floor.

  “Well, you gonna tell me why the hell you were alone . . .with her?” Fury had burned from her fawn-colored eyes, and I had no restrain. “Fuck. You’re so damn hot when you’re angry.” I tugged at her hips and pulled her closer to me. “Lena, quit it with that jealous girlfriend bullshit. I told you,” I pressed us firmly into a dark corner, “I only have fun with you—I only want to do what we do . . . with you.” My touch lingered and roamed her exposed skin as I nuzzled and licked at her neck. “We good? Or do I need to show—” She’d stopped me with her passionate lips, urging me to explore her tight entrance, but her lust didn’t last long. When she remembered what had happened—she turned her face away from my lips. “No, you don’t get to just distract me with your lust, O. Why the hell were you alone with her?”

  She pushed away from me. “Chill. Come on—let’s go.” I grabbed her hand and rushed us towards our work bags. My efforts to pacify her rage had been pointless, especially since the misunderstanding had exploded and barreled us straight into Drama Land.

  Lena had bitched at me from TCH and then all the way to our apartment’s parking lot. I’m surprised we didn’t wreck on the drive home. After we rushed up our apartment stairs, the drama continued in our living room.

  “Why can’t you just take us seriously?” She’d cried and pleaded, like one of those stage-five clingers that should be feared. “Pleeease. Just tell me why? What can I change? What should I do?” While ne
xt to our leather sofa, she’d flung herself at me and wouldn’t back off or comprehend that I needed some space. “Come on, now—just chill; we’re supposed to be a mellow, fun couple. Why does everything have to be so serious with you?” I stepped closer and wrapped her in my arms, and with my chin on her head I asked, “What’s wrong with you, Foxy? You’re never this tearful.”

  I lacked emotional sensitivity, but she’d become much stranger than I’d ever seen her. Maybe I had adhered, too well, to my role as the dominate partner. “Please, let’s just move on from this and have some fun tonight.” Honestly, my offer had been useless.

  Unlike Lena, I had rarely ever cried over anything. Life had taught me that crying over shit would only cause distressed hearts and puffy eyes. If I had wanted puffy eyes, I would have rolled up some good-good and then blazed the fuck up.

  “I can’t take this shit, right now.” When I had felt fed-up of Lena’s telenovela crying, I’d stormed toward the front door. “Where are you going? We’re not done!” She marched towards me, but I had stepped out and slammed the door before she could reach the doorframe.

  “Fuck.” I held my shivering arms, and realized that I should’ve planned better because I’d stepped out without any shoes or my cellular. It had to have been well past 3:00 AM, and my see-through tank and boxer briefs lacked any type of warmth. It felt too damn chilly and lonely—until I spotted Ryan, our neighbor, and his electric-blue Mohawk, bobbing up the staircase.

  “Agaaain?” he’d spat out as he choked on a sip of his Quick-Trip Slurpee. After Ryan clocked out from his shift as a mixologist at The Round-up Saloon & Dance Hall, he had a habit of buying a quick sugar rush.

  He could’ve been a gym model: massively built, like a men’s magazine—chiseled and fake-baked. At a glance, any girl would’ve wanted him, but those fabulously fake, exaggerated lashes had made him too fucking sexy . . . like sinfully sexy.

  “Come hang until she cools off.” His Mohawk shook as he’d opened his front door.

  Ryan stayed single and had been smart about it. He had a two-bedroom apartment, and each room had been used regularly.

  “One room is for fucking and the other is for sleeping,” he’d once mentioned. Ryan had brought home all genders and all flavors of the rainbow. “I’m just motherfucking sexual, sugar!” His shoulders shimmied every time he’d bragged about his fluid sexuality.

  He’d been one of the only well-built men I had known, except he had a true infatuation for fucking-fabulous lashes: the longer the better. And not the cheap kind either, but the excessively expensive—one-month-worth-of-rent type of lashes.

  The night of my blow-out drama with Lena, I had slept on Ryan’s sofa until Lena startled us awake with her repetitive door knocking.

  “I’m sorry . . . I must’ve had one too many Roxies,” she blurted out the moment Ryan opened the door. “O, can we have a good day?” Her swollen eyes filled with tears. I stepped out of Ryan’s apartment, but before I reached Lena—she jumped and wrapped her legs around my waist. “I’m sorry, babe, I promise I’ll do better.” I held her close as we closed the distance to our apartment door.

  “Thanks, Ryan,” I shot over my shoulder as our doors sealed shut. “Forgive me?” she pouted. Her plumps lips revealed hours of crying; and I couldn’t stay upset with her. “Of course, Foxy.” We’d made up, but didn’t make it to the bed—and ended up all over the living room sofa.

  “Oh, your phone and keys are in my car,” Lena mentioned, snapping me out of my daze. A soft smirk formed on her plump lips when she intertwined her fingers with mine. I felt at peace while we held hands and walked out of my room and towards the front door.

  We stopped next to our work bags and a pile of shoes. “I feel as if we’ve forgotten something.” Her eyes squinted as she stared at the door frame. My gaze drifted toward our mildly decorated living room and kitchen, which homed the usual items: sofa, TV, and kitchen appliances. I squatted and yanked our work bags over my shoulders.

  “Thank you, sweetness.” She propped up on her toes and gave me a quick kiss.

  “Ready? I really hope we’re not forgetting something. Well—here we go.” She reached and turned the round door handle and then opened it, and I stepped out while she held it open for me.

  Once we stood outside, she spun and locked our apartment. Dallas’s summer heat burned at my face while we ascended the staircase.

  “Shiiit. It was pointless to even fucking shower!” Lena complained as her long satin hair stuck to her arms. “Damn it! I hate being this fucking hot.” She huffed-and-puffed until we finally reached her violet Toyota Celica.

  “Let me turn this bitch on . . . fucking leather seats—in Texas.” She unlocked and swung her door open, then cranked her car to life.

  “Hurry, baby—put them bags in the car.” Heat exhaustion and my buzz had me dazed.

  “All right.” I nodded and grabbed for the door handle.

  “Gah—fuck! That’s hot.” I recoiled and inspected my burnt hand as a wall of hotness caused more sweat to seep from my pours. Heat waves burned at my face when I tossed our bags onto the backseat.

  “That side always gets hotter. Maybe shutting the doors will help it cool?” She smirked as we simultaneously shut the doors.

  “O and Lena! Sup, ladies?” Ryan waved and drove by in his cooled down Supra. As if on cue, more sweat glistened on our recently washed skin.

  “This is taking too long,” I huffed out while more cooled cars drove past us.

  After a strenuous five-minute wait, under the scorching sun, Lena blurted out, “I can’t take this damn heat—hurry, babe.” Impatient as usual, she swung the car door open and hopped inside.

  “Come on in, O.” She grinned and waved at me.

  Sweat droplets continued to submerge from my forehead and neck as I hustled and followed her into her chilled car.

  “It’s not even 1PM and it already feels like it’s 100 degrees,” she complained, inserting her aux-cord into her cellular.

  “Do you care what I play?” she questioned, tapping and then blasting Rihanna through the car speakers.

  “This is good.” I traced hearts of pleasure on her thigh while we cruised out of The Parks at Walnut Apartment Complex; and eventually, we merged onto I635-W. It had been earlier in the day, so traffic moved at a steady pace. For a moment, my mind wandered to how I had ended up there: a bud-head deejay with a stripper lover.

  “. . . So what we smoke weed? We’re just having fun. We don’t care who sees . . .” Wiz Khalifa’s words boomed through the speakers while we cruised down the highway.

  Wiz accurately depicted my twenties: marijuana, weed, pot, grass, bud—whatever name used, it all did the same thing.

  Right?

  Nope.

  True smokers knew that just a whiff from a blessed strand would guarantee tantalized senses. That sticky shit that felt like sap on my fingertips . . . Ooo, and the high, that mellow, light-weight feeling that I had to keep or else everything seemed meek. My buzz had become a brief bliss: one that constantly needed to be replenished.

  “All you care about is fucking weed, Ophelia. You’re putting the Santos name to shame.” My father’s words rang in my mind; they had stung back then, and would always hurt.

  I never pictured my life as one that orbited around weed. Long ago, I had focused on my goals; but during my teen years and well into my twenties, I had become that cliché: “You are the company you keep.”

  My intense addiction had started with my childhood best friend and gateway mentor, Kendra Solis. “You have to make sure the blunt is tight enough to hold the bud, but not too tight or you’ll waste it. It has to be—just right, O.” Kendra’s coffee-colored eyes and latte complexion flashed in my mind. She’d always kept her golden-chocolate hair up tight in a messy bun. Kendra had a true infatuation for short-shorts, tank-tops, and flip-flops, which all fit well on her thick frame. She taught me how to love and how to roll an exquisite blun
t.

  I gazed out the window, remembering the first time I had smoked bud . . . In her bedroom, Kendra had traced shapes onto my exposed legs while I studied a freshly rolled cigar. “What do I do, is it like a cigarette?” I drew it to my lips, and her eyes lit-up like a bright summer day. “Just take in a slow-and-deep inhale, then hold it in until you can’t anymore.” She pressed her hands into the mattress, and her dark eyes had widened with delight as I inhaled my first puff. When we had finished smoking, I had felt as high as any airplane, flying through the sky. At one point, I thought the room had spun while she explored and pleased my body.

  Bud had become a comfort substance, and I never strayed from it. However, at twenty-nine years old, I should have known better than to constantly stay high. During my early twenties, I had no familiarity with sobriety. Of course, my twenty-one-year-old infatuation had never discouraged my need to smoke the best bud I could find.

  “I wish I could roll as good as you—you make it look so fucking easy.” Foxy Lena flicked my tight-and-just right, bubble-berry blunt ashes out the car window and then brought it back to her plump lips. She’d become my walking contradiction: a timid but ticking-drama bomb.

  “Be gentle or you’ll cause a rip.” My fingers lingered from her petal-smooth knee to her tight-shorts. I recognized her love as that extra gram of weed, which I knew I shouldn’t have bought . . . and yet, I did every time.

  We knew that we shouldn’t have been together because our relationship would have never been accepted by our families. Through it all, she loved me—all of me: from my hang-ups over Kendra’s premature death to my insistent need to stay high. Lena became my central love force; and I adored her for it, especially since my family had disowned me.

  “Look at yourself, Ophelia. How can you just stand there, high as usual and covered with tattoos—lacking any desire to even try to make something of yourself? Where did we go wrong with you? Did we love you too much? Just because you’re the youngest, doesn’t mean you get to act out for the rest of your life. We wasted thousands of dollars for you to—what?” My parents’ judgmental words effed up my vibe as I inhaled a deeper than usual puff.