After a moment, I let her pass me, she wouldn’t look at me.
“I’ll call you?” My head spun.
“Please don’t.” She stood tall, not budging on her stance.
Rebel shuffled past with her purse in tow. While exiting the front room she flipped Felicity the finger. Then the front door slammed shut, cracking what little strength I had. The scream escaped me and reverberated off the walls, my fist connected with the wall. The drywall broke, making dust fly. My stomach twisting until I felt nothing.
She’s gone.
“Later,” I finally said to Felicity. Her mouth hung open, probably from my outburst. I didn’t have a fuck to give her, and she left without another word.
12
Whores-R-Us
Author Dating Rule #46: Books are way better, you’ll never live up to the hype. But, feel free to try.
Rebel
“Frickity frack!” I bellowed. Tears of anger and abhorrence escaped me, betraying how fast I was once again falling for a man who I’d slipped into bed with too quickly. We didn’t wear protection.
I slammed my front door, falling to the tiled floor in a heap of emotions. It didn’t occur to me that Stace would experience my meltdown, but she did. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. Why did shitty things always happen to me?
“What happened, babe?” Stace’s calm question settled me a smidgen. For the moment, she grounded me. For that, I’d be forever grateful.
She was drinking a cup of chai tea while lounging on the couch, legs crossed and stretched out as far as they could go. The smell of cinnamon wafted in the air, burning my nose. Next would be coughing. For some odd reason, cinnamon made me choke up a lung and sneeze like no one’s business.
“She’s fucking pregnant.” My voice wavered, bringing up emotions I couldn’t understand. Jealousy, rage, and panic were my top three. Jealousies because I always wanted kids, and Carl didn’t. Rage since Coen hadn’t mention it, and panic, straightforward dread, that he’d pick her over me like Carl had.
“Who’s pregnant?” Stace’s unaffected quirk of her eyebrow drove me bonkers.
Obviously, I wasn’t speaking of some random chick with a bun in her toasting fucking oven. Why the hell would I care about that?
“Felicity.” My growl barely was audible through my clamped shut teeth.
“Carl’s gonna be a daddy?” She laughed. “He hates the cute little shits.” Her giggling continued until she noticed my unamused glare. “Fuck. Is it Coen’s?” How did she know about that? Conor.
Her eyes bugged out. She placed her coffee cup on the hardwood floors. Her hand hovered over her heart, and my stomach felt as if it were about to hurl from the emptiness.
“She claims it’s his,” I cried. He’d be a good father and be with her if that were the case. Coen was that kind of man.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” She kneeled down and held me, rubbing slow circles in my back.
Her chai breath about did me in. “You smell atrocious Stace, I hate cinnamon,” I coughed, pinching my nose in a fit of giggles.
“You love me!”
The slimy substance and the texture of her lick to my cheek was the worst squishy feeling ever, and her boisterous laughter filled my ears. She tried lightening the mood with her crazy town antics.
“You are one nasty whore, Stacy Babineaux!”
Just like that, the bad moment passed. Coen and I would get through this, right? I couldn’t give up on him again, love like this didn’t come easily. My heart ached, not wanting the sorrow that came with hard decisions. I was being a little bitch baby. That fucking chai!
“Damn straight! I know how to keep my girl happy. You should just marry me,” she insisted, poking my boobs.
“Ugh, never again.”
“We both know you’d marry Coen in a heartbeat.” I couldn’t respond to that. I didn’t know what I’d do at this point. Jumping into bed was vastly different than jumping into marriage again.
“I need to talk to Coen, Stace. After the cunt ruined our perfect morning, I practically jumped down his throat. Babe, I’ve never seen him look so defeated.” I palmed my forehead, drowning in sorrow.
My throat ached as I swallowed the dry and hallow air. I wished I’d acted as an adult and not an adolescent child. Hell, even when we were twelve and immature, I was nowhere near that juvenile. He shouldn’t blame me. My ex had just cheated on me and never wanted children. Not that Coen could know I wanted them. Fuck. Communication was key.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
After sitting there, thinking and clawing at the bits from the whole debacle, my mind set on lying down. Upon my arrival to my bed, my phone buzzed in my purse.
“I’m headed to nap, or to work on my book. Who the fuck knows,” I groaned.
I prayed for a text from Coen.
He’s mine, cunt!
Apparently bitch 2.0 got my number. Either she stole it, or Carl’s a vindictive piece of shit. I’d rather go with the former. As far as I knew, she didn’t know I was previously married to Carl.
Poor, Becky, that’s not what he was screaming last night. I could be wrong, but his cock seemed to have me all over it?
Yes. That was exactly what I texted back.
Your husband seemed to like me all over him too.
I laughed. I hope that baby is his. He hates children. Enjoy that!
I could be a petty bitch too. The feeling resonated inside of me. It was acceptable. She started it, and I finished it. Before another response rang through, I blocked her number and placed my phone on the charger. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
The embrace of the plush comforter on my amazing bed hugged me, feeling spongy and luxurious. The stitching felt intricate and swirly. I traced it with my fingertips, distracting my mind from heartbreak. It was early, and instead of writing, my body rested on the bed.
Reaching over to my nightstand, I grasped for the flip switch to the candle warmer to rid me of Stace’s nasty tea. My candle was a watermelon of some sort, fruity, crisp, and fresh. My nostrils flared. The watermelon wafting the air reminded me of bitchface’s perfume. Flicking the switch off, I ruffled through my drawer for another scent.
Watermelon would never be the same. That stupid girl ruined my life.
Instead of dwelling on the negative, I practically jumped out of bed for my laptop and desk. Rainbows and unicorns decorated my lap buddy as I liked to call it. The unicorns pooped rainbows and covered their big gobs with their hoofs, laughing with tears escaping their eyes. The shit I buy…
After opening my manuscript, I scanned over the words I’d written two days previous. Bo and Cara finally got down and dirty. The irony. Envisioning the replay of our encounter, my mind settled on his tattoos, the way his cock jutted forward in desire, and how he held me like a fucking champ while drilling into me relentlessly. He broke all misconceptions I had for chubby girls and hot strong men.
My fingers pattered over the keyboard, my words flowing easily and beautifully. I put all the emotion—raunchy or not it was included.
After thirty minutes, my absolute need to check Facebook burned at the back of my mind. It nagged at me, scratching and clawing its way through my conscious, and finally, I complied.