Sundays are for Hangovers

by J. D. Hollyfield

  “Why are you so mean?” She bites on her bottom lip, looking innocent as hell, and it does me in.

  I push her away slightly but don’t release her hips. Now that I have a hold of her curves, my fingers aren’t so eager to let them go. “You need to get this toweled up soon or it’ll ruin the hardwood,” I murmur.

  She regards me silently for a moment. “Right. Okay, Willy.”

  Irritation has my spine straightening with resolve. I reluctantly remove my hands from her body and step away. With her clothes molded to her tight little body, I physically react to her. Again. My cock thickens and that’s my cue to leave. “I’m filing an official report with the HOA,” I inform her as I sidestep the broken pottery on the porch.

  “I’ll be doing the same, wise guy.”

  I jerk around and glare at her. “You’re the one who destroyed my lawn.”

  She motions to her soaked entryway. “And you soaked my house. Perhaps I should also file a report with the Morristown PD. Breaking and entering is a serious charge, Wonka. Really serious. Like they may even remove your Yard of the Month sign as punishment,” she taunts. “Oh, the horror.”

  “Try it,” I snarl, my chest heaving with fury. “Just fucking try it, demon.”

  She snorts. “Demon?”

  “All I’m saying is stay the hell away from me and my grass.”

  Her eyes narrow at me. “Should I tell the cops you’re also growing the ganja?”

  “The what?”

  “Weed, man. Grass. You’re not helping your case the more you talk. It’s like your lips are moving and a whole lot of lalalalalalalala comes out, but nobody understands what kind of bullshit you’re speaking!”

  “Hamilton,” I warn.

  “I’m serious, Willnotlightenthefuckup.”

  I open my mouth but snap it closed. Arguing with her is a moot point.

  “That’s the best thing you’ve said all day.” She smirks before slamming the door.

  When I walk into work, I’m on a rampage. It’d been on this month’s agenda to audit the lending department and now I’m making it my priority. I stalk to my office and grab my clipboard. The clipboard. The thing that makes all these motherfuckers around here quiver in their damn loafers. I may not be the damn CEO, but I decide their fate. If they screw up, I’ll find out about it. If they steal, I’ll bring them to their knees. Not one figure or detail goes unnoticed.

  “Drinks after work?” Joe Campbell, a customer service rep, questions as I pass his desk to the lending department.

  Drinks and a bar fly.

  Don’t mind if I do.

  Anything to get my mind off my crazy-ass neighbor and her bangin’ body.

  “Six sharp. The Voodoo Lounge. Find a tie or don’t bother coming,” I bark, barely sparing him a glance.

  He laughs. “Can I borrow one of your bowties?”

  I screech to a halt and glare at him. One of my only friends at this bank that is nonplussed at my furious reaction. He simply flashes his million-dollar smile that has made him the top performer in his department and shrugs. I roll my eyes at him and he snorts.

  “Nobody can rock a bowtie like I can,” I grumble as I straighten mine. Today it’s red. Like Lilith-Daughter-of-the-Devil-Hamilton’s dick sucking lips.

  “Touché, man.”

  I pivot on my heel and storm past the teller line. The girls who work the windows are all young, around nineteen or so. I don’t miss the way they regard me with equal parts fear and unhidden interest.

  Nobody can rock a bowtie like I can.

  I strut past them into Morgan Stewart’s office. He’s pushing eighty, but he’s this bank’s highest producing lender. Corporate loans are his niche. Sometimes I wonder what it is ol’ Stewart does to make him so damn successful. Which is exactly why he’s my first target today.

  “Aww, shit,” he mutters under his breath and leans back in his chair. “I thought audits for our department were later this month.”

  I stand near the edge of his desk, glowering down at him, and shake my head. I’m the sheriff of this town and they’re all going to step in line or get out. I motion for the door with my thumb. “Go make loans.”

  He grunts as he rises from his chair and collects his coat. As soon as he’s gone, I sit at his desk and start pulling out his files. From his computer, I log in to my profile and pull up my spreadsheet for his loans so I can begin my process of checking for inaccuracies. For the first time in days, I feel at peace.

  “I fucked Tammy from the teller line,” Joe tells me as he shoves a fresh bottle of beer across the table to me.

  I’m not one to drink often, but Lilith is driving me straight to the bottle. I need to unwind and not think about her terrorizing my life.

  “And what does HR think about you banging Tammy?” I ask, my tone dry.

  He snorts. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. What’s got you in such a pissy mood anyway?”

  I’m about to open my mouth to explain when I hear her laugh. Loud and airy and genuinely happy. This morning she was throwing vases at me and whipping me with insults, yet now she’s in my favorite lounge acting as though she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  “Her,” I growl and lean out of the booth to catch a glimpse of my little nightmare across the bar.

  Joe follows my gaze and hisses. “Hot damn. Is she your girl?”

  “What? Fuck no,” I snap. “She’s my annoying-ass neighbor.”

  “More like I want to tap that ass neighbor. Seriously, Will. How can you live next door to that and not want to hit it?”

  She’s wearing a dress you’d see on a fifties pinup. Black with white polka dots and the tallest blood-red fuck me heels I’ve ever seen. The dress is short and every time she bends down to pat some big guy on the shoulder, she gives Joe and me a great view of her tanned thighs. My cock thickens in my work slacks and I groan.

  “Stop looking at her ass,” I grumble. “She’s the devil.”

  “I’d fuck the devil if she came with a pair of heels like that.”

  My blood boils, mostly because I don’t want him checking out her ass. I want him to agree with me she’s a psycho who lives to drive me fucking crazy.

  Just then, she turns and our eyes collide. I’m caught staring her down. Her eyes widen for a moment and her pouty red lips are parted in surprise. My gaze travels down her low-cut dress. Her cleavage is perky and on full display for everyone to see. Joe needs to put his fucking tongue back in his mouth before I yank it out and stomp on it.

  “Wonka, what are you doing here?” she demands, her hands going to her waist. The same waist I had my own hands on earlier today.

  “Wonka?” Joe asks in confusion.

  “Forget it,” I growl at him. I pin her with a harsh stare. “This is my bar.”

  She frowns. “I thought Eddie Chambers owned it.” She yells over her shoulder, “Eddie? You sell this joint and forget to tell your favorite customer?”

  “No, Lil,” he calls back from behind the bar. “She’s all mine.”

  Her lips purse together and she winks at me. “I must have misheard.” She waltzes over to our booth, her tits bouncing with her movement. When she reaches me, she tugs at my bowtie. “This is my bar, Willy.”

  I grip her wrist and pull her hand away from me, but I can’t let her go for some reason. “Well, on Wednesdays, it’s my bar now. You can have the other days of the week.”

  “Is hot Peewee Herman giving you trouble?” the big guy sitting at her table questions.

  “Nah, D, I’ve got him.” Her brown eyes sear into mine and she licks her lips. “You should go. You’re not wanted here.”

  I tug her until she’s forced to sit beside me. The scent of tequila and salsa is gone. Now, she smells sweet. Like fucking wisteria. It’s fitting since she’s an invasive species—one that plants her roots, overtakes, and chokes out the neighboring plants.

  My cock disagrees.

  My cock thinks she’s hot as sin and he wants to play in
her garden, even if she’s a little poisonous.

  “You’re walking on thin ice, woman,” I utter low enough for only her to hear. My eyes, against my wishes, flit down to her exposed cleavage and I suppress a groan. I bet they taste like heaven. But all the things that’ll kill you in the end always do.

  “Good thing I took figure skating in college,” she bites back.

  My brows scrunch together as I search her eyes. “Wait? Seriously?”

  She smiles broadly at me and for a moment, I’m stunned by how fucking innocent she looks. “It was only a few lessons because I had it bad for the instructor. A few falls on my ass and a broken tailbone later, I decided it didn’t matter how cute he was…my ass was cuter. Would you know I had bruises for weeks?”

  “And that’s my cue to get us something stronger,” Joe says, amusement in his voice as he vacates the booth.

  Thoughts of her tanned ass littered with bruises do not help the state of my cock. What I wouldn’t give to bend her over my knee and spank her disobedient ass.

  “You’re the only man I know who can pull off a bowtie,” she says, her voice soft.

  I stare at her, searching for malice in her words. She’s being truthful. It’s then I realize my thumb is rubbing circles on her wrist. I jerk my hand away and pick up my beer.

  “You stay to your half of the bar and I’ll stay to mine,” I grumble.

  She lets out a huff and mutters that I’m an asshole.

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  An hour flies by and I can’t keep my eyes off her. She works the room like she was born to do it. Several guys are sitting at her table and I recognize one from television. Joe later points out he’s the singer for Novahope, a band in town for a concert tomorrow. Stake is his name. Who the fuck names their kid Stake?

  And Stake is staking his claim on my neighbor.

  As she drinks like she’s one of the boys, he gets more flirty and handsy with her. I’ve barely touched my first beer and I’m about to drain it so I can knock it over that emo fucker’s head. What kind of asshole wears skinny jeans and a fauxhawk and thinks he can land a girl like Lilith? She’s a classic beauty. A Natalie Woods from the sixties’ West Side Story type of beauty. Voluptuous and unattainable by the likes of assholes named Stake.

  He teases her by trying to pull the front of her dress down and peek at her tits. Over my dead fucking body. I slide out of the booth and stalk over to their table. Towering over Stake, I push his hand away from her and glare at him.

  “She’s taken,” I growl. I’m irritated that I have to save her from herself and these idiots who clearly want to take advantage of her.

  His eyes are wide. I could snap a little pre-pubescent turd like him in six seconds. You don’t work out like it’s your damn job not to be able to figuratively throw your weight around when the time arises. I have muscles this prick only dreams of having when he grows up one day. “What?”

  “Will,” she bites out, shaking her head. “No.”

  Ignoring her, I walk around to where she’s sitting and haul her to her feet. She sways, the alcohol overtaking her, and I do what I should have done an hour ago. I squat and toss her over my shoulder.

  “WILL!” she screeches.

  I eyeball every motherfucker at her table, including the big guy who’s laughing, and spit out, “I’m taking her home.”

  Some bar patrons cheer as I storm out with a furious pinup girl over my shoulder. She beats on my back but eventually gives up. It isn’t until we’re outside and the warm summer night air breezes past us that I set her on her feet. She’s still unsteady on her feet, so I clutch onto her hips again. Fuck, I love her hips.

  “You embarrassed me,” she says, her bottom lip trembling. Tears well in her eyes and I feel like the biggest dick on the planet.

  I blow out a huff of air, releasing the tension from my shoulders. I reach up and tuck a brown strand of her hair behind her ear. It’s silky and I could spend hours stroking it. The thought is alarming.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I just didn’t like that guy. He was touching you.”

  She lifts her chin in defiance. “And why is that your problem?”

  My palm cups the side of her jaw and I run my thumb over her fat bottom lip. I pull it down and pinch it between my thumb and finger. “It just is, Lilith. It just fucking is.”

  Thursdays are for Revenge

  I sleep like the dead.

  Or I should be since Thursdays are my day off.

  My phone has been beeping all morning and I want to throw it out the window. I’ve spent the last hour tossing and turning, trying to fight the rage building inside me at what my damn neighbor pulled last night. I’m not going to be shocked when I look at my messages and see the station bitching me out for what happened. I was supposed to be entertaining Novahope until super freak next door insulted Stake and threw me over his shoulder.

  I should have told him to go suck it then and there, gone back inside and done damage control for me and the station, but instead I let my shitty day and the booze catch up to me which had me feeling emotional. It didn’t help that just before he came barging in my house I had just gotten off the phone with my pesky mother with her tacky threats about me going home or my father coming and dragging me home.

  In every call, she’s made remarks about visiting me and that scares me even more. My mother would drop dead if she saw how I was living—a regular home in a regular non-gated subdivision. She knows nothing outside of her royal castle. Not to mention, when I had Daddy write the check for the house, I may have sent him a photo of some fancy place I had pinned on Pinterest, instead of the small little bungalow I’m currently living in. It’s not that I wanted to lie, but my parents don’t understand. My mother would have me sleeping in my pearls if she had a say. The way I dress would be unacceptable and she’d have her tailor over here in a flash, measuring me for chiffon gowns and organza suits. I just want to be me. And not them.

  My day got even worse when I got to work and Daryl told me someone was trying to buy the station. When I asked who, and the name of my father’s investment company rang through the air, I wanted to murder someone. There was nothing I could do without my father having a hand in it. Going as far as purchasing the place I work shouldn’t even surprise me. I’m sure if the sale goes through he’d just shut the entire station down, giving me one more push to come home.

  And to top it off, my neighbor thought he could jump in and tell me how I should let people handle me. Talk about not minding his own damn business. I wanted to smack the narcissistic smile right off him.

  Who cares if he was kind on the way home? Even though the silent game isn’t really considered being kind, but in this case, him not talking was doing a good justice for me.

  I spent the ride repeating to myself that I had no interest in him whatsoever. Even if my body was still tingling at the way his hands were gripping my hips, his fingers brushing against my lower lip. There was only one way to explain the weird vibes my body was sending it.

  And it was that I had lost it.

  When we finally made it home, I jumped out of his car, which still smelled like—no shocker—a new car, and stormed off. I opened my door, slammed it shut for dramatics, and then slipped on the still wet rug from earlier. If I wasn’t so damn butt hurt, literally, at how he got me back from the taco incident, I would’ve stormed right back over and laid into him. But I knew I had bigger plans of revenge for him.

  My phone beeps again, making it the billionth and one time it’s gone off. A loud, overdramatic grunt sounds up my throat. “Lord help me, because I don’t look good in stripes.” I throw myself across my Egyptian cotton, Serbian goose, down comforter. The fluffiest comforter known to man. I take a moment to snuggle my face into my best friend, then reach over and grab my phone. With one eye open, I start to scan through my missed texts.

  Big D: You swipe right with your neighbor last night? Call me.

  Big D: Girl, you better rein in y
our neighbor. You lying naked next to him still? He needs to back off. He called the station and put in a complaint.

  “What the fuck?” I fly forward, sitting up in bed.

  Bossman: Call me RIGHT NOW!

  Big D: You’re lucky I love you for all the fires I’m putting out for you.

  Big D: Girl, your boytoy’s gotta get checked. He be claimin’ sexual harassment and

  B-man ain’t happy. Might wanna have a chat about that before you do the walk of shame home.

  Big D: Novahope is still doing the concert and the pre-show interview. You’re welcome.

  Bossman: You better have a good reason for what went down last night.

  Big D: Don’t hate on me, but I did what I had to do. Love you, girl.

  Bossman: Daryl told me about your womanly issues. Take the time you need.

  Womanly issues?

  Sexual harassment?

  I’m going to KILL WILL!

  I throw myself out of bed. A calmer person may put on pants before storming outside and across the lawn, but not me. I am livid!

  Taking my closed fist, I bang on his door until I hear movement inside. My mind is flooding with every single threat and insult when the door opens.

  “You fucking jerk! Who do you think you are? You called my work and placed a sexual harassment complaint?” I’m seeing red. And through those red shades my eyes see a man, covered in muscle. And the reason why I see all this muscle is because he’s standing in front of me in only a pair of black boxers.

  “That’s all you have to say to me? Not a thank you for saving you from a creep who was practically molesting you in public?”

  My red shade turns to a deep maroon. We’re talking like blood red. Exactly what is about to be spilled when I rip his head off. “That creep was my client. It’s my job to flirt with him. Show him a good time!”

  He folds his arms over his sculpted chest. “So, it’s your job to be assaulted?”

  Oh my God!

  This guy is off his rocker.

  “I wasn’t being assaulted, and for the record, no one asked you to get involved.” My foot is tapping like a madman. I don’t know what to do with my own hands. I go from crossing them over my chest to fighting not to lock ‘em into his hair, tug him out of his house, and kick his ass on his own damn lawn.