Juggernaut

by K. S. Adkins

  By hour seven, we both lost our senses of humor, and while I encouraged her to sleep, she refused.

  We no sooner checked into the hotel when both of us fall into bed and crash.

  It means the world to me she came. That she’s left her business in Sugar’s hands to be here with me.

  Waking up to Taylor isn’t a novelty but necessity.

  I had to have this for the rest of my life.

  Moving her hair away from her face, I couldn’t help but stare.

  This woman, she is what I wished for.

  And it was granted.

  With her eyes closed and her leg thrown over mine she asks me, “Tell me something about you no one else knows.”

  This is a no brainer. Trailing her breast, I confess, “Every time I go trial, I get an erection.”

  Opening her beautiful eyes, she grins. “Elaborate.”

  “The second I open those doors I get hard and stay that way until court’s adjourned.”

  “Do you come in the courtroom when you win?”

  Laughing out loud, I say, “No, I go home and jerk off. However, I don’t see the courtroom much. Most cases are resolved outside of it. ”

  “I still like the visual, Van Wilder,” she whispers.

  Pulling her atop me, I groan, “I’ve got you now.”

  “Do you?” she asks while rolling her hips.

  “I do,” I say. “You can jerk me off.”

  Sliding my briefs down, she whispers, “As you wish.” And when her fist wrapped around my shaft, I see heaven. Working me slowly, I crack one lid open to watch her. “The vibrator on your pillow…”

  “I knew you saw it,” she grins knowingly. “Although I’m surprised it took you this long to bring it up.”

  “Do you use it often?”

  Leaning down to brush her lips with mine she says, “Not since you started giving me better orgasms.”

  Something I’ve noticed is that every time I smile, Taylor’s face goes soft and her eyes get dreamy. “I love the way you look at me when I smile, Taylor.”

  “Your smile is the highlight of my day, Van.”

  “I missed having you close,” I say, anchoring her hips. “A week without you is too long.”

  “I missed you, too,” she says while taking me in hand once again. “Wanna see how much?”

  As it stands, Taylor missed me a lot.

  About seven a.m., I wake to her phone ringing. When I see it’s Hillary, I answer it to avoid waking her. After I answered her question, I put her phone on silent, but it was all for naught. “Which one?” she asks sleepily.

  “Hillary. Go back to sleep.”

  “What did she need?”

  “She had questions about dating sites.”

  “What was the actual question?”

  “I answered it, Taylor, now sleep.”

  “What was your answer?”

  “That she could find a date without it.”

  Mumbling, “Good answer,” she snuggles deeper into me and traces my nipple with her fingers.

  With her free hand, I find her staring lovingly at her ring. When she notices I noticed, she turns to me. “I’ll never tire of waking up to this ring on my finger. It’s perfect, Van.”

  God, this makes me happy. But I have questions. “Why did you end it with Trent?”

  “He peed sitting down,” she says twirling it around her finger.

  “Dan?”

  “Small dick, smaller wallet.”

  “Carmine?”

  “Gambling problem.”

  “Damien?”

  “He had a thing about my underwear.”

  “What thing?”

  “He liked wearing them.”

  “And Taylor?”

  “We’re better off as friends.”

  “And?”

  Kissing my chin, she says sweetly, “And I was done wasting time on him. India said I would never find my Mr. Right if I was too busy with Mr. Wrong. He wasn’t Mr. Anything, Van. So, I let him go.”

  “What about me?”

  Rolling up and over me she smiles down at me. “You are working out to be Mr. Everything.”

  “Give me your mouth, Taylor,” I demand.

  “A bossy Mr. Everything,” she says while doing what she’s told. As much as I want round two, my cock needs some rebound time. Seeing an opening, Taylor takes her turn and asks about my past. And because fair is fair, I explain. “The longest relationship I’ve had was with a woman named Claudia, who worked even more than I did. At the time, I believed it ideal, until she dumped me for her secretary.”

  “Zouch,” she whistles.

  “Explains the hours,” I shrug.

  “Who’s next?”

  “Amber,” I shudder in memory.

  “Uh oh,” she grins. “Was she bat-shit crazy? Like boil the bunny crazy?”

  “You watch too much television,” I tease. “But no, she wasn’t crazy, she was…a virgin.”

  “You popped her cherry?”

  “She forgot to mention she was a virgin going in.”

  “What tipped you off?”

  “The screaming.”

  Stifling a laugh, she sobers enough to say, “Have you been with anyone that made you happy, Van?”

  Switching positions to give her my weight, I pin her to the mattress. “Yes. You, Taylor.”

  Her response to that has me ready for round two in seconds.

  My first game is at noon.

  Leaving the car with Taylor so she could relax, I have a teammate pick me up and take me to the field.

  I’ve been playing Lacrosse since college. Never athletic in high school, I surprised myself when I took to it as well as I did.

  Not only was it fast-paced, it gave me an outlet.

  Corporate law is cut throat and stressful, and sometimes I just need to take out my frustrations on the field.

  Today, she will be here to see it.

  This was another wish that had been granted.

  We have just finished warming up when I spot Taylor walking toward us. I’m not the only one to notice her approach either. Every male here does.

  Even the females do a double take.

  And based on the looks she is getting from the stands, I don’t know how women can be so fucking nasty to one they’ve never met. Uncaring of the looks, she bypasses the stands and heads straight for me.

  “Lucky fuck,” Stephen, my goalkeeper, mumbles.

  “Hey, Van Wilder,” she says jumping into my arms. “You look hot in uniform.”

  “You look hot in…” I didn’t know what to call it.

  “The right answer here is anything.”

  “Introduce us,” Stephen demands.

  Holding her up by her ass, Taylor sticks her hand out. “Taylor, Van’s fiancée.”

  “Van?” he asks shocked. “Fiancée?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “You’re marrying, Evander?” he sputters.

  “Evander’s getting hitched?” Lee calls out. “Hell yeah!”

  “I meant no disrespect,” Stephen injects. “I’m just surprised.”

  “That a beautiful woman would want to marry me?” I attempt to joke.

  “No, brother,” he grins. “That a beautiful woman like her would want to marry you.”

  I could tell his response irritates her, but she doesn’t act on it. Instead she says, “Set me down so you can stretch or do whatever it is men do.”

  “I like you right where you are,” I grin, holding her tighter and loving it when her legs tighten.

  “Gentlemen,” she says, getting my team’s attention. “Kick some ass and afterward we drink!”

  With a lot of hoorahs and fuck yeahs, we all watch Taylor saunter over to the stands and sit.

  “Fuck me, Evander,” James whistles out. “She is…”

  “I know,” I finish for him.

  “Congratulations, brother, you deserve it.”

  For the rest of the day, Taylor cheered me and my te
am on from the stands, but toward the end she came closer to the bench. Not only was she a vocal cheerleader, she was the perfect distraction for the opposing team, who couldn’t stop looking at her. Capitalizing on this, she made it a point to jump, twirl, and even high kick. Although the best was when she felt herself up. That incident alone caused two injuries and a lost goal. I couldn’t have been more vocal about my approval.

  Taylor St. James cheering for me, her fiancé, is my proudest moment to date.

  Trophy in hand, she launches herself into my arms, attacking me with kisses and praise.

  With my arm around her, she announces, “Shots!”

  And my roar could be heard for miles.

  Boston is known for great bars, and while our championship has been held here every year for the past ten, I never went to the bars. I always went home. Tonight, I’m at the bar with my team and my woman. A true first.

  Several rounds in, the guys begin to get more and more familiar with her and I don’t like it. Especially when the constant theme is how did Evander talk you into marriage?

  It pisses me off because I have talked her into it, but it is more than that now. She and I have something real. Something that needs a chance to grow and mature without the fucking banter.

  Slamming another shot back, Taylor spins her stool to face Kip, one of my midfielders, and there was no smile on her face.

  In fact, I could actually see the juggernaut surfacing.

  “Taylor,” I try and persuade. “Let’s go –”

  “In a minute, Van Wilder,” she objects, putting a hand up. “Check this out, Kit.”

  “Kip,” he corrects bluntly.

  “Whatever,” she waves him off. “Anyway, I was resigned to a life of singledom and self-induced orgasms when out of nowhere, this giant, corporate hotshot walks right up to me and takes a drink from my hand. You don’t know me, but I’ll tell you this, Kipper, no man takes my drink and lives.”

  “Then what happened?” James asks, smiling at her.

  “This guy,” she emphasizes with her hands. “Had the balls to not only steal my liquor, but to say, should I call in the morning or nudge you?”

  “And what did you say?” Stephen asks practically drooling.

  “I couldn’t say anything,” she shrugs. “Because my mouth was full.”

  Receiving claps on the shoulder, points of praise, and looks of envy, Taylor swings her stool toward me and announces, “You may have gotten the nudge the next morning, but you still owe me a drink, Church.”

  Bowing to her, I grab my wallet and whisper, “As you wish,” then head to the bartender.

  Saturday night is spent with Taylor and I partying hard with my team, cracking jokes, Kip eventually falling for her and passing out at 3 a.m. Unfortunately, the ride home Sunday is nothing short of brutal. Both of us are hungover, exhausted, and dehydrated. Around eleven p.m., when I drop her off, she kisses me once and drags herself toward the warehouse door. But just before she lets herself in, she looks back at me and smiles.

  It isn’t too long ago I declared my love for her. It strikes me as wrong I wasn’t reminding her every five minutes.

  It also reminds me she hasn’t returned the favor.

  I won’t lie, I’m in a bitchy mood.

  Everyone and everything was pissing me off today. No matter what I ate, I couldn’t get full. I avoided mirrors. My hair was frizzy. I snapped at my dealer and insulted a vendor. I didn’t even have it in me to fake it either. I was well and truly, a mean girl.

  So when Hillary asks me for Van’s number I almost go full Rousey on her ass.

  Because Van is my man.

  My fiancé.

  But when I’ve calmed my inner beast down and ask her why she needs it, she explains he doesn’t bullshit and is great with advice. So, I cave. Because she’s right. Van doesn’t bullshit. He says what needed to be said and apparently, this worked for Hillary. Then I thought about what would happen once she activated that phone tree and fell over laughing.

  So, an hour later when Sugar calls asking for it, I give it freely.

  This is his own fault, really.

  Because he specifically told them both he is available, anytime.

  You don’t tell a woman anytime and not expect her to follow through.

  Several hours after that, I receive a text from Hillary which says marry him or I will.

  Another from Sugar that says Van’s da man.

  Lastly, one from an unknown number die fat juggerslut.

  His ex is not creative, so I respond back with, Jesus, is that you?

  To which she so eloquently says I hate you.

  So, I say I didn’t think cows had feelings.

  And then I send her a photo of a cow with her face on it.

  Blessed silence ever since.

  Outside of witty banter, work this week has been nuts for both of us.

  Which meant I haven’t seen Van once again.

  But he has texted me a bit ago asking if he could come by after work. Of course, I said yes, and even gave him my door code. Something I have never done before—not even with my girls. Okay fine, especially not with my girls. You give those heifers an inch, they take your jewelry. Though, I tell myself I’ve only done it to spare the heart palpitations when the damn thing went off. But down deep I know I did it because it’s time to go all in.

  Around six thirty, I really start feeling like shit, so I send him a message asking him to wake me when he was on his way.

  Crawling into bed, the last thing I remember is curling into a ball and wishing he was already here.

  Taylor wakes me up moaning in pain.

  She’s curled into a tiny ball whimpering to herself. Figuring it’s a hangover, I go into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water plus two aspirin. Gently trying to get her to sit up, she smacks me away and curls in tighter. She is holding her stomach, her face white and scrunched up in pain.

  “Taylor,” I say quietly. “Aspirin and water will help your hangover.”

  “Not,” she pants painfully. “Hungover.”

  “Talk to me,” I encourage. “What are your symptoms?”

  “It’s my period,” she literally growls at me and I back away. I have never seen her so angry. “Go. Let me die in peace.”

  “Are they always this bad?”

  “You want to talk now?” she says, kicking out with her foot, nearly missing my stomach. “Yes, Van they are always this bad. Leave now because when it comes, I might actually kill you and like it.”

  Not believing it could be that bad, I crawl back into bed next to her and attempt to spoon. This earns me an elbow to the to the cheek. I try rubbing her back and she screams at me to stop stalking her and curled back into herself. Hours I stay close, waiting for her to turn a corner but she never does. If anything, she only gets worse.

  And wanted to kill me.

  Calling my cousin Graham, who’s a doctor, I ask him for a sedative and pain reliever. I stress the words, fast and strong. I send him her address and thirty minutes later, I let him inside and bring him into her bedroom. Taylor is almost incoherent her pain is so intense. Then she jackknifes from the bed and slides knees first into the bathroom where she promptly starts vomiting. “Here,” he says while handing me the meds. “This is not a normal period. You need to ask her if she has a condition that exacerbates it. You also need to apply heat. Warm towels, heating pad, or a bath would work.”

  “Then she’ll be fine?”

  “Uh, if she’s this bad off now? Probably not.”

  “Great.”

  “The first few days are the worst,” he shrugs, likely thinking of his wife, Sasha. “Oh, and cousin, watch for the mood swings.”

  “Oh God, kill me,” she bellows just before she vomits again, heaving loudly.

  “Good luck,” he says slapping my shoulder before taking off.

  Rushing into the bathroom, she has her head hanging in the bowl with her arms around her middle. Heaving again, I curse for not having hi
m grab an anti-nausea pill and a bottle of whiskey for me.

  Her naked body is trembling and her skin is clammy. And when she tries to pull the bath rug up to use as a blanket, I ask her if she thought she is done getting sick. Limply, she nods, so I scoop her up and take her back to bed.

  “I need you to take this,” I encourage her. “You’re hurting Taylor and this will make it stop.”

  “’Kay,” she says, falling forward. Too weak to hold the cup, I put the pill on her tongue and give her just enough water to swallow. Once down, I put my body up against the headboard and settle her between my legs. It takes less than ten minutes, but when the pill hits, it hits hard. She goes from tense to limp; her breathing slows and she looks up at me and smiles. It’s clear she is high as a kite. “Did you know I can eat four full size snickers bars in one sitting?” she says. “I think I puked up three of them.”

  “How long does this usually last?” I ask, rubbing her scalp.

  “This is phase one,” she says on a purr. “Phase two is heavy bleeding. Phase three is cravings, but phase four is my favorite,” she says, pausing for effect. “Feelings,” she explains with air quotes.

  “What kind of feelings?”

  “All of ‘em,” she chirps.

  And then she is out cold.

  He. Wouldn’t. Leave.

  I am well into the fourth phase and I swear to God he is begging for it. He is being sweet, attentive, and totally focused on taking care of me. It’s pissing me off.

  Granted, during this phase everything does, but he especially is pushing it. I couldn’t handle the constant care and concern. Seriously, I need him to leave me alone to bleed out on the floor in peace. So, when he comes into the bathroom right after I switched out my you-know-what like he lives here, I lose it.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, checking me over. “Dizzy? Nauseous?”

  “I’m fine,” I grind out careful I don’t throw a haymaker. Because I wanted to. I really really wanted to.

  “Are you sure? You keep pushing on your stomach.” How astute he was…

  “Because I’m bloated,” I seethe. Because I am a fat fucking cow, and my vagina feels like it’s going to explode inside my body. Right now, I’m not just thinking fat thoughts, I am a fat thought.