Evolve Series (Complete Box Set)

by S. E. Hall

  Personally, I think that pretty much covers it, but again with the dickheads in my Crew… all still running at their sucks about how I'm being unrealistic. May I just point out, that of these buddies of mine:

  One has no kids.

  One has no daughter.

  And the last one — secretly agrees with every word I’m saying but gets his panties bunched up anytime I speak out loud, or in this case, write it down. And, bastard hasn’t had to deal with the burden that is you in real life, because his oldest daughter married a man we all helped raise, the right way, and he’s actually convinced himself that his youngest is only aware of men that exist in her family, her books, or are umping a softball game.

  They have no idea what I’m going through.

  Just sayin'.

  But, in the interest of… yeah, I got nothing… I really just want them to shut the hell up — here's a more detailed description of what's acceptable and what's a death wish for you.

  *Hand Holding. I'm okay with this; how much damage could you possibly do by holding her hand? Now say “thank you,” and don’t abuse the privilege, because this is the only thing your fingers are to be used for and I’m being very generous here. I’m not even close to playin’ with you when I say, I will slice them off, one at a time, if they wander.

  *Kissing. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I'm okay with this too. Slow your roll there, hornball, this only applies to her hand or mouth. No slippin’ over to the neck or ear. As far as you’re concerned, my child has no neck or ears. And if you have Herpes Simplex any damn number or Mono, then don't touch her at all, not even the hand-holding. You're a disease infested vermin and need to be quarantined.

  *Any State of Undress. Just. Fuck. No. I'm not even gonna explain far enough to have to say “naked,” because that's no longer a word in your vocabulary. I'm talking like ten steps back from the aforementioned word you dare not think. There is nothing under her shirt, pants, shorts, tank top, skirt, leggings, jeggings, sweater, or any other article of top layer clothing I might’ve forgotten to mention, that she needs you to “check on” for ANY reason. Nothing.

  She's been dressing and undressing herself for a long ass time, so she's more than capable of managing the perils of snaps, zippers and buttons. She doesn't need your “help” with any of it. Should she somehow find herself “trapped” inside her clothes, she knows how to dial 911, so no need for you to worry.

  And the same goes for you — if you don't know how to dress and undress yourself by now, you're a fucking moron. Get gone before I help ya.

  *Four on the Floor. I'm referring to each of your two feet — try to follow along now — 2 (her feet) + 2 (your feet) = 4. Keep ‘em on the damn floor. What's the point of this, you ask? More than happy to tell ya! With all feet on the floor, it's damn near impossible to assume a compromising position. This eliminates any lying on backs, climbing on top of each other or straddling. Even leaning too far over a console, one foot's bound to come up… and you're now in direct violation of Rule 5, Section Four. There are several other scenarios this prohibits, but the mere thought of describing them makes me want to tear off your head and shit down your neck, so — just keep yourself in check.

  *Sex. Do you want to die?

  I think now would be an excellent time for a review, a step back to look at the whole picture in one big bang. (Coincidentally, “bang” is the sound a gun makes… just sayin’.)

  At this point, you're only on Rule 5 and so far, here's what you're facing:

  *You have to come to my house, get past the handshake in which I crush your metacarpals, then sit down across from me and look me in the eye as I lay out for you everything I have, by that point, dug up in your background and dissected like a blood-thirsty forensic scientist.

  And then, you have to explain, in your big boy voice, anything I found and/or have questions about. And let's not forget — dependent on my findings — I may be taking you out for a driving lesson!

  On the off-chance you don't run out crying in your piss-soaked pants by this point, you have to be asking yourself… is the rest really worth it?

  You must have my princess home by midnight, and you don't get to stay. When you take her out, you must act more as a bodyguard than date, dance like an idiot if needed, and spring for valet service, all while holding your urine.

  You might've had to “rehome” your pot plants and find a new job… and you only get to hold her hand or kiss her.

  Think about it — you're now facing a life of being a sober, overworked, paranoid, unlaid asshat, being constantly watched by the father of an only female child, who's never going to like you.

  If you can't fully comprehend what a grim outlook this is, lemme clear it up for you — it’s gonna fucking suck!

  No lie — if you actually turn the page, I’ll be forced to ask myself — is this kid really as stupid as I’ve assumed all along, some sort of masochist who wants his ass beat… or could it be possible I need back-up?

  I did it, I called in back-up. Let's face it, they would've “inserted” themselves into the investigation anyway, so why not make it seem like my idea?

  Thing is — when you get close to P, you unknowingly just got close with her whole family. Lemme guess, you thought she just had two parents and no siblings, easy, right?

  Wrong.

  Surprise, shitsack! My girl's got a whole Crew and Squad of badasses who love and always stand beside her. And conveniently, can also sniff out mediocrity like bloodhounds. And the best part? Now that I’ve officially enlisted their help, not only do you have to worry about me, but you have to endure the scrutiny of NINE of them. Nine, hand-selected family members who each bring a different, hella appreciated, card of expertise to the table.

  I'm actually a lil' scared for you, so we'll start ya out slow and build up to the heavy-hitters. No really… one of them is literally going to bring a bat. But don't worry, she's “softened” with age.

  Interview 1&2: Will be conducted by… I can't use real names, so we'll just call them “Shorty” and “Songbird.” These two will, by far, be your easiest interviews, and I’ve rolled them into one, because honestly, together or apart, they're both about as scary as baby kittens dressed in lil' pink coats. I have to give them a turn though or I'll never hear the end of it, so I suggest you use this time to try to win them over. They're not mean, but they are picky, so not a total cakewalk.

  If they decide you deserve a chance, which short of you announcing you worship Satan or flashing a Swastika tattoo, they will — you may proceed to your next interrogation.

  Interview 3&4: I'm also sending these two men in together, in the interest of efficiency, because they're basically the exact same person… the father/son tag team of “gentlemen at their finest.” You won't be drilled with questions in this session either. No, the purpose here is for them to tell you how a lady should be treated. The younger guy, a Crew baby himself, just married another Crew baby, so if anyone knows the expectations of being a part of the life of one of our own — it's him. Soak up every sappy word they say, remember it, apply it… because they can teach you all that sweet shit that never even crosses my mind, and my daughter deserves the sweet shit.

  Interview 5: Uncle Z. You're damn lucky you've got your eye on Princess P or you'd be in serious danger right about now. Z loves my child like his own, but everyone knows what he thinks is his secret — his real “soft spot” belongs to the very youngest Crew baby girl… and if it was her you were after, well, the big behemoth staring at you now would be maiming you. This guy will be very blunt and diplomatic with you. He'll tell you what he expects and you'll either agree or be excused. He'll ask you a bunch of questions, cool and calm as can be, that you'll either answer correctly or you won't.

  I absolutely trust his opinion and if you're a “no” for him, you're a fucking no.

  But, considering P’s age and this particular uncle’s annoying habit of rationalization, you’ll probably make it through.

 
Interview 6: Consider this your “warm-up” spar to the big fight, ‘cause it’s an uphill climb to the Terror Dome from here out. This kid is one of my favorite people in the world, because he reminds me so much of myself, but more so… he reminds me of his dad (who you'll meet next and that will not go well for you.) J here will joke with ya, lure you in 'til you feel safe, like you’re just talking to “one of the guys,” then HOLY SHITSTORM — he'll throttle you into a big ole’ pile of pussy if you say one disrespectful or questionable thing about his Squad sister. Kid's a player himself, probably not a “Dad Favorite,” so I'm really just sending him in to fuck with ya.

  Interview 7: And I slowly lower the boom. You think I'm overprotective? Welcome to the Asylum, dickstick. Mr. K here is gonna make you question everything you thought I'd already covered. For instance, when I grazed upon what kind of car you drove, and it not being too small and dangerous? This fucker is literally going to go check the pressure in your tires and call the dealership to ask about your airbags. He's going to make you demonstrate how to swing open a door — after all, it was his wife that taught us all the trick in the first place. Don't be surprised if he hands you a map, with the places he does and does not deem safe for a date clearly marked. He may very well bring in a doctor, or two, to draw blood, and urine samples, as well as test your IQ. And that machine you're strapped to? Yep, that is indeed a polygraph, and he’s having the results read as you speak. Barely able to swallow down that lump of “what the hell did I get myself into” clogging your throat? We'll buckle up, Buttercup… 'cause you're not done.

  Interview 8&9: You are so fucked. There's not even a word for the level of fuckedness you've just entered. I sent in #8, the redhead, for your protection, because #9, the blonde carrying the bat… say hello to my heaviest hitter. Leaving you alone with Gidget just wouldn't be fair, so, you're welcome. I’m not a complete asshole.

  Red's pretty reasonable now that's she's, never mind, none of your business. Quit pryin', punk! Anyway, the ginger’s gonna be searching for the good in you, probably “reading your aura” or some shit, but her main purpose is to counter-balance Mama Crew, who I'm guessin' is tapping her bat against her palm, circling you like a vulture right about now.

  God help you if you don't have at least a basic knowledge of at least one sport, or haven’t played one at some point in your life. Even Pee-Wee t-ball, and you were the bat boy, anything… I’d speak up.

  She'll let ya slide on the Disney trivia, 'cause you're a guy, but she'll still ask. Any answer you can pop out might score you a bonus point. And if by some miracle you can take any one of the classics (her words, not mine) and speak on the “life lesson” it taught… it’d be a game changer for ya. It might persuade her to set down the bat, no shit.

  Then there’s music. You better pray your musical appreciation extends beyond today's Top 40 or death metal. If you can play an instrument, I'd advise you to demonstrate immediately. And any old songs or bands your parents taught you, I’d start spitting into the conversation as quickly as possible.

  Oh, and the smartass quips she keeps throwin' out? You stand a 50/50 chance here; truly, you're walking an invisible line between being witty enough to keep up or being a disrespectful bastard with an attitude.

  Ah fuck. I'm laughing just picturing it. She's “shit your pants” scary, right? That's why we all love her. You mess with what's hers, which P is, and you'll wish you were never born. The real kicker? She's married to the crazed psycho who tortured you in interview seven, and he worships the ground she walks on, so if you offend her in any way… yeah, they won't print the book if I tell you what will happen.

  Now how much fuckin' fun was THAT? I know I had a great time, and I wasn’t even there.

  If, after I consult with my comrades and they green light me to proceed, and you haven't already gone into hiding, in another country… we move on to Rule Seven.

  My favorite number…

  Seven is my number, it's always been my number, and I was ready to really lay into you on this one. I had a final list of really important things we still needed to hit upon, like how pulling up with your music blaring, or God help you, honking to beckon my daughter's attention, would not be in your best interest. Or the way you dress. As in, if I can see your underwear because your jeans sag, I'm using the waistband of them to lift and hurl you through the air by. And that's just the beginning; my list was long. I'll never stop adding to my list.

  But then, during what I can only assume was the early onset of a stroke, “they” actually convinced me to give you a chance. I can’t be sure, it all happened so fast, lots of bull-headed females all squawking at once, my boys laughing at me… utter chaos ensued and here we are. The one thing I did hear loud and clear? The woman whose body I like having full access to said, “Enough. My turn to talk.” I'd translate what that really means, but I don't wanna put any ideas of that nature in your head.

  So Rule Seven has now become my best attempt at translating, and conveying to you, all the frilly, girly feedback that I was persuaded to add, 'cause apparently the Ovarian Council has spoken and the consensus is: you're gonna be around a while. And the following items are as, if not more, important than everything I covered.

  So says the Council anyway.

  *She is right. Guess I figured you already knew this; P wouldn't be lookin' at you twice if she didn't already get the vibe that you subscribe to this philosophy. But I learned long ago that my woman is always right… and she told me to add it. So there ya go.

  Women can live without us a lot easier than we can live without them. If they get mad, they can call a girlfriend and tell them all about how bad we hurt them, what insensitive jerks we are, how we don't understand them, blah, blah, blah. But we don't have that option, 'cause no man wants to listen to another man whine like a pussy, so… let her be right. Especially you, since we all know in your case, you are wrong — my P's brilliant.

  *Think before you speak. I definitely didn't write this one. More often than not, when I talk, people’s jaws drop, at least one person slaps me upside the head and sometimes we get asked to leave places. The church still won't let me come back. But word on the street, the “street” being the Crew women, is that once you say something, you can never unsay it, and even if she says she forgives you… she'll never forget. This part I actually know first-hand is true, because I can be fighting with my woman about… anything, that happened this year, and all of a sudden she's crying because I said she overreacted about something I don’t even remember that happened ten years ago.

  Basic rule of thumb on this one? If you're mad, don't talk. If you think you have a valid point or argument… you don't, so don't talk. And under no circumstance ever, do you answer any questions about clothing, makeup, a new hairdo or weight with anything but a nod and smile. Ever. Just nod and smile.

  *The Little Things. When they said this, I assumed they were talking about your dick and was about to kibosh the whole convo, since as far as my daughter's concerned, you don't even have a dick, no matter how little it is… but turns out, they meant something else.

  As I write this, they're literally composing their own quiz for you — what are P's favorites; color, food, song, flower, perfume, and God knows what else. And dates — get familiar with the calendar on your phone — 'cause you're fully expected to remember the endless list of “moments” that somehow count as anniversaries. First kiss, first date, birthday, Valentine's, when her astrological sign aligns with yours, the first time you saw her in that one blue dress and the day you met her dog… good fuckin' luck. I'm not even sure what the penalty for an infraction in this area is because my Shorty is a realist and doesn't come at me with this shit. She knows a lost cause when she sees one. Plus, Gidget reminds me of the biggies… and we don't have a dog.

  *Grandparent Rights. I'd like to go on record as saying, if you read my rules, there's no way possible for this to ever be an issue, but Shorty’s standing over my shoulder right now making me include it. Shou
ld you be “the one,” and Immaculate Conception decides to grace you and my daughter… after about ten years of marriage… nope, still not on board with this horseshit.

  And there it was… that slap upside my head I mentioned earlier.

  Anyway, under extreme duress, I'm supposed to inform you of this old saying—

  “A son is a son till he gets a wife, but a daughter is a daughter the rest of your life.”

  According to my better half (still standing here), this means — she is the “First Grandma.” This title comes with the following privileges:

  *Besides P and yourself, my wife gets to hold any and all babies FIRST. (I'm estimating this to be within ten minutes of birth.)

  *Grandchildren come to our house first for holidays, birthdays, sleepovers and any other activity First Grandma deems fit. Your parents schedule around us. So basically, if our Christmas dinner starts at noon… your parents’ starts the day after.

  *We get first choice of seating at recitals, ball games, school ceremonies and any other activity First Grandma deems fit.

  *We get the first pick of pictures taken; size, pose, etc. This applies to all pictures: private shoots, school, sports, etc.

  *We choose what we're called first, i.e. “Nana” or “Mimi” (basically whatever my woman can get the baby to say first) and your parents may choose from the leftover “Meemaws” and the likes.

  We (she) reserve the right to add to this list at any time.

  I reserve the right to dismember you and bury the various parts across several counties if this rule ever becomes applicable.

  And that's it. We're done. The seven rules to try and date my Princess.

  I'm hoping that you're shaking your head, about to throw this book away and pack to move… to Honduras.

  But, if you truly make my daughter happy, then I'm hoping you listened. Took notes. Made index study cards. Because honestly, I'd much rather have taught you how to ensure her endless smile than have to actually kill you.