by K. S. Adkins
“Woman,” he growls.
“This is true love. You think it happens every day?” I had waited my whole life to quote that. And I nailed it!
“Better,” he says, walking me toward the wall. “Say it again with my name.”
“I love you, Evander Church.”
“The name you call me,” he growls again.
“Whoever said I love you was easy was full of –”
“Please,” he whispers.
“I love you, Van.”
Kissing me hard, I attach myself to him refusing to let go. Minutes later, he rests his forehead against mine and says, “Thank you for never taking my ring off.”
“Who says I haven’t?” I totally haven’t.
Taking my hand, he gently removes it and holds it up for me to see. Inside the band is etched with the words,
As you wish
Tears directly follow.
“You never took it off,” he whispers.
“No,” I cry freely. “I didn’t, not once.”
“Never leave me again,” he says, hugging me. “Promise me.”
“I promise, Van.”
“I loved you when I put that ring on your finger.”
“Shit,” I cry into his chest. Dammit, I should have known.
“I loved you the day I saw you and every day since, Taylor. I vow to love you every day forward, too. Each day I will love you more than the last. They’ll make a movie about us one day. About our love story.”
“It’s a good thing you showed up when you did,” I tease to lighten the mood.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“I was about to try speed dating.”
Laughing hard, Van dips me and wraps me tight in his arms whispering, “I’m having a pole installed.”
Squeezing him tight, I whisper, “As you wish,” in return.
“Hate to bust up the party,” Sugar says peeking inside. “But Evander, your parents are here.”
“Fuck,” he groans, but is smiling when he did it.
“And uh…I think they’re stoned.”
Tagging my neck, he asks me, “If I promised to grant you any wish of your choosing; would you do an encore so my parents can see it?”
“Are you serious?”
“Actually,” he grins wide. “I am. They love strip clubs.”
“Tell you what,” I say moving toward wardrobe. “Since you already granted my wish, I’ll do this pro bono.”
“Wear that,” he points at a scrap of glittery material. “Please, wear that.”
“Go prepare your parents, Van Wilder. Shit’s about to pop off.”
Slapping my ass hard, he struts from the room leaving me with Sugar. Helping me into my outfit, she says, “I’ll never forget the look on his face every time he sees you. I’ll never forget the look on yours when you see him either. One day,” she says zipping me up. “I’ll have looks like that too, and I know, it’s worth waiting for.”
“It is, Sugar. I swear.”
“Enough girly shit,” she says eyeing me. “Get out there and dance for your fiancé’s parents.”
Kissing her on the cheek, I whisper in her ear, “As you wish,” and then I do exactly that.
I dance for his parents.
And I don’t take all my clothes off.
But I did choose the right road.
Oh, and I also make two large off his mom.
The big game…
Every year, India’s company competes in a no-holds-barred co-ed softball tournament.
According to Taylor, they have been the champions four years running.
That being said, my woman is very clear she wants that trophy.
Taylor St. James refuses to lose.
Any doubt I had about the seriousness of a softball game flees when Taylor walked out of her room with her hair in pig tails, her jersey tied at her waist with her nickname on the back, knee-high socks, short fucking shorts, and black paint under her eyes. Bending over to grab her bag does me in. Tossing her on the couch, I slide the material aside and waste no time giving her two orgasms before we leave. With a dazed look still on her face, we pull up to the field and I walk with her to the dugout. “Where have you been?” Hillary asks mid-stretch.
“Sorry, I’m late, I was masturbating.”
“Oh good, then you’re all warmed up,” Sugar hi-fives her.
“How is it masturbating if it’s my mouth getting you off?” I offer. “Twice.”
Spitting her water all over Hillary, India looks at Taylor and says, “This Evander is going to take some getting used to.”
“Right?” Taylor says, eyeing me. “You think he’s shocking? Spend the day with his parents.”
With all eyes on me, I shrug. “It’s true.”
“I am made up of questions right now,” Sugar says while grabbing her mitt. “So many questions…”
“Scott’s in the stands, Evander,” India giggles. “Now wish Taylor luck because we have to take the field.”
Cupping her ass in my hands, I haul her tight to me and groan, “Good luck.”
“If I go yard you have to go down on me again.”
“Have you gone yard before?”
“Yep,” she winks.
“So, my mouth on you is a sure thing?”
“Yep,” she chirps again.
“Then go yard for me, Taylor.”
“You got it, Van Wilder.”
Snagging her own mitt, Taylor isn’t even to the mound when she starts to heckle the opposing team.
Taking my seat with Scott, he hands me a beer and explains that Taylor will pitch the whole game. Sugar and India will swap out playing first and Hillary plays shortstop, refusing to rotate out. He shared the other players’ names and positions, but I only have eyes for Taylor and her girls.
Needless to say, the heckling is getting heated before Taylor has even delivered the first pitch.
“—not all lezzies play softball,” Sugar yells to the opposing side’s bench.
“They don’t?” the guy laughs in good fun.
“I thought it was a requirement,” a female adds who was in fact a lesbian. Although, she was just being a good sport who happens to adore Sugar. Her name was Cassidy and she’s been in lust over my girl for years.
“But we are responsible for the term dugout,” she calls out. “Ain’t that right, Cass?”
“Hand to the lord, Sugar!” Cassidy laughs loud.
“Pick a team, Cass!” Taylor teases.
“Oh she has," Sugar smirks.
“Is it always like this?” I ask Scott.
“No,” he slaps me on the back. “They aren’t even warmed up yet.”
And he is right.
Though the team at bat manages to score two runs before the inning is over, The Shit isn’t fazed by it.
In fact, the next several innings, both teams match each other run for run.
It was in the fifth inning Sugar walks, a guy walks, Hillary gets a double, India flies out and another guy gets a single. Sugar scores, now bases are loaded with Taylor at bat. I am on the edge of my seat as I watch her let the first two pitches go. The third is definitely a strike, but she let that one go, too. There is no stopping me from cheering either. I’m loud as hell and if it bothered her she doesn’t show it. The next pitch comes and I watch Taylor absolutely smash it.
Yelling for all I am worth, I stand in awe of my woman rounding the bases. With the third base coach signaling for her to round third, I am white-knuckling the fence as she ran to beat the play. “Down!” I shout and without missing a beat she slid. On bated breath I wait for the call to be made and when the umpire announces, “Safe”, we all go nuts.
And what does my future wife do?
Curtsy while standing on top of home plate.
We are up by one.
Now at the top of their batting order, it is imperative we hold them off.
Unfortunately, I walk the first guy, give up a single to the second and am getting annoyed by the third.
Shit-talking at games is a must.
A rite of passage.
It is also in good fun.
This asshole isn’t being sporting, he is being a dick.
He’s also pitched for us last year until his asshole ways got him kicked off the team.
Clearly, he is still holding a grudge about that because he blistered the next pitch straight into my right shoulder. Which, of course, sends me to the ground and sends Van into kill mode.
Sugar sits me up while Hillary checked me over, and India is trying to hold Scott back. My team is threatening their team, but when the asshole laughs at me, Van leaves the stands, runs onto the field, and tackles him. Luckily, India lets Scott go and he is able to break it up before Van kills the guy, but Van is in no mood to back off.
Now standing, I roll my shoulder and know, come tomorrow, this shit’s gonna be sore.
That son of a bitch did it on purpose. He also put a lot more muscle behind it than necessary too.
Promising Van I am okay, I’m waiting for him to take his seat, when he says, “Your next at bat, take his fucking face off.”
And with that, I let the juggernaut out.
No way am I letting my man down. This girl loves an audience.
My father may be a pothead, but he is also a husband and parent.
As far back as I can remember, he instills in me “a man protects his woman.
He does this by any means necessary.”
I know he spoke from experience because for many years, my mother worked in a bar.
A biker bar.
While he’s succeeded in becoming a top-notch attorney, a dedicated husband and devoted father; back in the day, he also busted a lot of ass protecting his wife.
So, when that motherfucker blazes one up the middle and I see my woman go down…
Had Scott not pulled me off the guy, I’d probably have gone to jail for murder.
And I’d have done it smiling.
Now back behind the fence, I watch as Taylor rolls the pain from her shoulder.
I don’t care they are tied, that bases are loaded, or that the asshole is going to pitch to her again next inning.
All I care about is the ball connecting with his mouth.
Hard.
Unfortunately, after Taylor was walked only one run scored and the third out was made. Which meant I had to sit through another inning of anticipation and fury. The good news is, I didn’t have to wait long.
With Taylor’s team at bat, I cheer on the batters at the plate wishing they’d hurry up so she’d have her turn.
Fucking finally, she was up.
Screaming my encouragements to Taylor, I watch as she sauntered up to the plate like she hasn’t just been smashed in the shoulder. Ignoring his taunts, she raises her bat pointing for the fence.
“If you put your ass into it, you might just make it out of the infield,” he laughs, though his team does not join in on his joke. I had a feeling the asshole may not make it out of the parking lot after this.
“Speaking of my ass,” she says, taking a warm up swing. “Be sure to watch it bounce when I round the bases.”
Rolling his eyes, he recovers and tosses the first pitch which she didn’t take.
“Did you jerk off before the game?” she asks. “Is that why you can’t throw a strike? Sore wrist?”
Tossing another, she lets it go by and coughs, “Bitch,” into her hand when the umpire calls another ball.
Irritated, he releases another pitch and just when I thought she was going to let it go, she swung.
“Holy shit!” I scream loud as it sails out of the park. “That’s my future wife!”
“Boom,” Taylor says jogging to first, rounds second, skips (literally) past third, and does the running man all the way home. With her team meeting her at the plate, she high-fives, cheers, and then faces the asshole head on. At his sneer, she slaps her own ass, gives him the finger, then calls for me.
“Van Wilder!”
Coming out onto the field, I lift her up by her ass spinning her around.
“That was incredible,” I growl into her tits.
“I know, right?” she says, clutching my scalp.
“Should have taken his face off.”
“Taking his face off only brings momentary pleasure,” she says biting her lip. “Going yard gets me lasting pleasure.”
“Trophy, celebration, then home for extra innings.”
Not only does she take photos with her trophy; she does it while holding onto me. At the bar, she never leaves my side and when we got back to my place, she comes three times, in which, I announce that I deserve a trophy, too.
She agrees to share hers.
At the ripe old age of six, I learned if you want something you fought for it, earned it, and that no one owed you a damn thing. Of course, my parents have reinforced this by basically forgetting I existed. So, I’ve busted ass for every single milestone, accolade, and material thing I owned. For the first time in my life, I am also in a committed relationship, and I’m not taking it lightly. Our future is at stake, and even I know not to fuck with that.
So, I’m five mimosas deep when I blurt, “Something’s up with Van.”
Three sets of confused eyes stare me down and I fight back the panic that’s been living inside of me.
I’m not this girl. The one that freaks and tweaks over every little thing.
Only that’s exactly what I’m doing, and I hate that I can’t stop it.
For the last few weeks, Van has either slept at my place or I’ve slept at his.
We’ve spent every available moment together, and I loved it.
What I don’t love, let alone easily voice, is the doubt I’m also feeling.
Because after this last week, I know my paranoia is justified when I feel him pulling away. A literal pull.
I feel this and I don’t know what to do about it.
I’m not the sharer of the group.
I’m the fixer.
The problem-solver.
The go-to.
But I need help.
I need my girls.
What I don’t need is the looks of disbelief on their faces after sharing something important.
“What?” I snap in frustration. “I’m serious. Something’s up.”
“Like?” Hillary asks.
“Like he’s been working later, hiding his phone and –”
“Oh, come on,” Sugar adds. “Stop looking for shit.”
“I am not,” I seethe. “Looking for shit.” And I wasn’t.
“You two are settling into your new normal,” Hillary says casually. “The man does run a firm, Taylor. Cut him some slack.”
She’s defending him? Her new positive outlook can eat a cock!
“Your hours are more flexible than his,” Sugar says easily. “Maybe you shouldn’t focus on Evander working and focus on what he does when he’s not working.”
“Or maybe you should get a hobby,” Hillary smiles.
Looking to India for help, I’m brought up short when she says, “You need to be realistic. Evander is a very busy man. He will always have cases that need his attention. You know this to be true, Taylor. You also know the honeymoon can’t last forever.”
And that right here is the problem. The honeymoon hasn’t lasted forever because since we made up in the dressing room at the strip club, Van hasn’t mentioned marriage.
At all.
No marriage = no honeymoon
In my heart and by his words, I truly thought that’s where we were headed. It’s where I want to be headed.
But as the weeks have passed, he’s become distracted. He’s constantly checking his phone (out of eyeshot of me), Janice calls him nearly a dozen times a day, and then at random times he just…takes off.
He’s become secretive.
And when I call him at work, he has Janice call me back.
This isn’t us. Something is wrong.
It’s making me insecure.
And the one time I need my girls to back me, they don’t.
Instead of easing me, they defend him. Making me out to be the asshole.
It’s not like I’m asking them to take sides. I just wanted them to listen, help me reason it out and perhaps-oh, I don’t know, not be dicks.
Having had enough, I ask Sugar, “Are we still on for –”
“About that,” she hedges. “Sorry, I have to bail.”
“Oh.”
“And I can’t do pedis this week,” Hillary drops on me.
“Why?”
“Got a date.”
Okay, ouch…
And the final stab to the back is India. “I’m out for happy hour tomorrow, too,” she says unapologetically.
Not only is Van avoiding me, but my friends, in under thirty seconds, all blew me off too.
Throwing some cash on the table, I push out of my chair and give them my parting words.
“Just once,” I whisper through the pain. “I needed you girls this one time.” Letting it all I out, I did yell, “One fucking time!”
India flinches, Sugar pales, and Hillary closes her eyes.
Whatever.
Fuck them.
I’m headed to my parents when Hillary calls. Lately, she’s called for a variety of reasons, all of them having to do with Taylor. But this call is different. In fact, I’ve been listening to her for nearly twenty minutes now. This call is about advice.
Guy advice.
And she’s calling me.
Again.
The fault lies completely on my own shoulders.
As Taylor said, I activated the phone tree. This was a misery of my own making. Only, I didn’t hate it as much as I felt bad that Taylor dealt with this constantly.
In effort to end her rant, I give her the best advice I could. “Ask him.”
“Ask him?” she coughs out.
“Yes, Hillary,” I sigh in annoyance. “Ask him.”
“How do you suppose I do that?”
“Simply by doing it.”
“Easier said than done,” she mumbles. “I’m not good at asking.”
“What would Taylor do?”
I ask this because Taylor’s answer would be the right answer and Hillary knows that. Unfortunately, Taylor isn’t happy with any of us right now and Hillary is afraid to call her. This is also my fault. But I’m confident Taylor would come around. “Taylor would roll her eyes and tell me to calm my tits, weigh out the pros and cons, then we’d do shots.”