by K. S. Adkins
Brawler
Copyright © 2014 K.S. ADKINS
Published by K.S. Adkins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: K.S. Adkins 2014
Publishing assisted by Black Firefly: http://www.blackfirefly.com/
(Shedding light on your self-publishing journey)
Few forces in this fucked-up world are more powerful than sisterhood. Against all odds, four girls would meet and form a friendship so strong, no law or man could break it. As women, they didn’t set out to change the world, but they are changing the streets of Detroit and doing it the only way they know how. Violently.
Each of them possesses a specific skill set. One can kill without fear or remorse, one can create medicine so strong that it can sustain life or bring death, one can tip the law into her favor, and one can sense lies. Together these four childhood friends rose against the odds, against the streets, and will band together to bring Detroit to its knees. Only then can it be rebuilt.
Without their knowledge, events have been unfolding that will bring the four women together once more but not just yet. Each of them has a battle to fight individually before they can fight as a whole.
But that time is coming.
And when that time comes, the city won’t know what hit it, and the fallout will be fucking legendary.
“A city where pity runs low
If you ever shoot through my city, now you know
Cause we are strictly business and we also got our pride
And if you don't like it, I suggest you break wide”
~Mc Breed
This story is not for everyone. If it were, people may actually buy it. No, this story (like everything I write) is over the top, violent, suggestive and intended for adults with low morals and a fucking sense of humor.
It’s a STORY, nothing more.
If you hold no love for foul language, first person writing, unprotected sex or Detroit don’t read me. I don’t live in Kansas, Toto, so don’t expect some over the rainbow shit.
If you can get down with my writing, I thank you and love you hard.
Now turn the damn page!
K.S.
Wrists bound, legs spread, and back arched. I’d fucking beg for it if I thought he would listen. If I thought he’d spank me, gag me, or wrap my hair around his fingers, I would promise him anything. But he doesn’t hear me. Instead, he just stares. Night after night it’s the same punishment with no relief in sight. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let him do this to me? Thrashing with frustration and desperate to come, I growl and threaten to do these things to him. To make him suffer. He blinks once, twice, and leans down to tower over me, showing me who’s in charge. My belly quivers, my legs shake, and my mouth waters at what I’m seeing, at what I’m about to feel. Finally, I’ll have what I want, what I’ve been dying for, then just before he gives me the relief I need more than my next breath, he just … walks away.
Moaning in agony, I curl up into the fetal position, putting another pillow between my empty thighs. Another wet dream, seriously? I was so fucking close, and the second I opened my eyes it was gone. I consider grabbing another pillow and dry humping it just to get some of that feeling back, but I don’t because I know it won’t work. I know it won’t work because I’ve tried before. Nothing works. Not anymore. Ain’t that just a bitch?
My vagina and I are no longer on speaking terms. This by far the longest dry spell I’ve ever had the displeasure of having. You’d think it would be easy for an independent, non-clinging, disease free, employed single woman to get nailed these days but … no.
Seems that my vagina is holding strong for a certain someone who deserves a swift kick in the nads, not my hidden treasures, but alas, the vagina wants what it wants. No other nads will do now. My, how times have changed.
These days my best friend is getting it on the regular and I’m in a drought. I don’t like droughts, okay? I have needs, and dammit, it’s making me cranky. Especially when I have to see the object of my lust daily. Because of him, “Trick Trick,” my bedside boyfriend, now bores me. Knowing what’s hiding under those jeans is fuck-ing torture! He flaunts it too, the cockblocker. Enough about my dry vagina, it’s not like that well is going to get tapped anytime soon, so I’ve decided to ignore it and pray the dreams go away. I’m used to not getting what I want. But girls like me don’t get guys like him, and doesn’t that just fucking blow?
Not too long ago my best friend, Venessa, was a beautiful train wreck, and I loved her the best way I could, which was usually from a distance. Now she's a beautiful train wreck madly in violent love with Detective Rogan “Rogue” Black. After I was taken and Venessa saved me (again), their relationship went on fast forward. They live together now, they train together, and I'd bet he still listens to her phone calls, too. She found “the one” just by looking at him. I didn’t think Brigg’s was the one, but I thought he was a decent right now.” But I changed my mind when he tried to kill me. Even Venessa doesn’t know the whole story, and part of me wonders if I’ll ever be able tell it. Life’s been too busy since all that shit went down to even stress about it, so I don’t.
These last few weeks have been crammed with research, fighting bad guys we can’t see, and avoiding Jonas Rafe. I can't seem to totally get rid of him, either. It's like there's a tracker in my ass. Knowing these guys, that's plausible. Having so much happening at once that my sole focus should be in one place when it's really in another.
Which is why on a Friday night, I can’t stop throwing pillows. Pillows! I mean really, who throws pillows? Seriously, I own a gun. I know how to fight fairly well, too. I stop and think and realize I must be losing it. Normal people do not do this. People who orgasm regularly wouldn’t have to do this.
I just can’t stop thinking about Jonas either, the dick.
My new partner in Shadow Squad, and all-around bane of my existence. I’ve never met anyone who can give you a compliment and an insult in the same sentence. Nor have I ever met someone who can be the headliner in my dreams, and the one time I actually want the prick to talk, he doesn’t.
Since Venessa and Rogan have officially moved in together, their house is a welcome distraction from this one. It’s just so … quiet here now. Venessa offered me her loft but I said no, so she subleased it out to Jason instead. I know I’m being stubborn, but this is my home. I don’t want to leave it even if I don’t feel safe in it anymore.
Then there’s Jonas, again.
The cocksucker.
He offered me a room in his place which was almost endearing until … he continued to speak. Notice I said, “almost,” because his proposal went something like this:
“You should be honored I asked,” he says, going on like I even want to hear the rest. “The chicks I usually bring by here? I don’t even let use my bathroom. For you, I’d let you use it and clean it.”
The thing about Jonas Ra
fe is he comes off as this totally shallow idiot that thinks with his dick, but I don’t think he is. He’s been my silent protector for weeks now, and I won’t lie and say I don’t like it, even if he is a cop. The way he looks at me makes me feel one way …
But then when he speaks to me? It makes me feel another. It makes me want to hit him. Hard. With a goddamned pillow. Even despite this, my vagina twitches just thinking about him in there. To want someone so much is new for me, especially when he thinks I’m a total girly girl.
I need to talk to Venessa; for some reason she can see past his verbal diarrhea. Funny, she always came to me for advice until Rogan. Those two have the oddest yet perfect relationship. They share everything, they leave no room for bullshit. See, I have a theory about that. Neither of them has had to deal with exes and bad breakups because they’d never had one. When those two met? All bullshit went out the window. They never had feelings for anyone else so there was no drama, no baggage, no misunderstandings. They started with a clean slate; everything for them was new, and it was honest. There’s something about those two, you’d have to see it to believe it but one thing’s for sure, they live for each other, and it’s a beautiful thing to see. My best friend found that one guy, the one she’ll allow to touch her, love her, and bring her back when she needs it. Rogan found that one girl, the one who sees past what’s on the outside, the one that loves him, and the guy lives for her happiness.
Me, well, I have always had the worst taste in men, always. Is a girl like me even an option for a guy like him? Probably not, but it doesn’t change the way I feel. The four of us are meeting at Russell tomorrow to start training now that Venessa was cleared for some physical activity. Being in close proximity to him does things to my body, I can’t deny that, but maybe I’ll get lucky and we’ll train silently?
“Hellooo?” she asks on the first ring.
“Hey, you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Is Rogan listening?”
“Maybe not right now but, he will,” she says, laughing. “Never mind, he’s totally listening.”
“That’s so fucked up,” I say. “Hey, Rogan.”
“Hey,” he says.
“When’s the wedding?” I throw out there smirking, because if you say wedding anywhere near her, she melts down and it’s fucking funny.
“Why would you say that!” she squeals. “Fuck, Rogue, I think I’m itching, are these hives?”
“No,” he says, laughing.
“You’re evil.”
“She’ll marry me eventually,” he says, “Got her a puppy, though, named him ‘Boner.’”
“Uh,” I say, “Who named him Boner?”
“I did,” he says with pride, as he should. Because Venessa can’t have children and he doesn’t like to share, so a puppy is perfect for them.
“Don’t blame that shit on me,” she says. “He got him for me from the pound yesterday, but Boner started humping my leg so he put him outside to cool off.”
“He’s a puppy,” I say. “He can’t help it.”
“The only one humping her leg is me,” he says, and I hear Venessa laughing her ass off. Like I said, perfect.
“So, I called to talk about Jonas.”
“Who the fuck is Jonas?” she asks “Oh right, Rafe. I’ll probably never get used to that.”
“What’d he do now?” he asks growling.
“He hasn’t really done anything, yet …”
“Then what’s the problem?” she asks.
“The problem is, he will!” I squawk back.
“Macy,” she says, “It’s not too often I hear you get worked up about a guy, but thing about Rafe is, he tries, yeah? He just fucks up a lot. I think you scare him a little, to be honest.”
“I scare him?” I ask “V, the man makes no sense. One minute he’s there before I can trip on a crack in the sidewalk, and the next he’s offering to assault me with produce then have me clean his bathroom!”
“Why would you clean his bathroom?” asks Rogan.
“Right?” she says.
“That’s my point!” I shout.
“Spill it, Macy,” she says. “What’s the real problem?”
“I don’t think I can partner with him,” I say. “I can’t work with someone who thinks I’m all Sex and the City when I’m really more like 8 Mile with a penchant for nice shoes.”
“Hmm,” she says, thinking. “You’ve given this some thought, yeah? Here’s what I think. I think you don’t like the idea of having to prove yourself to someone. Such is the life of an overachiever, not that I know shit about that. He’s a cop, Macy, and he doesn’t want anything to happen to you, yeah? Show him you’re a bad mawfucka. We aren’t cops, so you and me have a learning curve. Show him your curves, Macy.”
“Mawfucka? Seriously? What if he still thinks I can’t do it?” I ask, biting my nails, which reminds me I need a manicure.
“What if he does?” she counters back.
“Didn’t we have this conversation before?” I ask.
“You two have the same fucking conversation every time you pick up the phone,” says Rogan
“Feel free to hang up,” she says, then she pauses before she yells, “Would you get out! I’m trying to pee!”
“Not likely, it’s just pee,” he says. “Macy, he’d kill for you. Think about that.”
“Okay, I will,” I promise. “Hey, V?”
“Yeah?” she says.
“I can’t go down for another cop,” I say with conviction.
“So don’t,” she says, hanging up the phone.
Problem is, I already have.
Looking around my living room, I find myself depressed. Not only do I have to pick up all the pillows I’ve thrown (which sucks because I hate messes), I’m depressed that I even own that many pillows. What’s most depressing is that I’m no closer to getting off now than I was when I met him months ago. Is it tacky if chicks get hookers? Is that an option? Chicks get hookers, right?
Shit.
Fuck.
Balls.
That’s how I feel when it comes to her.
She hates me.
Why shouldn’t she? I can’t talk to her for shit. I’m always hurting her god damn girly feelings. The chicks I usually try to hook up with would rather fuck than talk, and when they do talk, it’s to insult me. Problem is, I rarely hook up at all. Okay, so it’s been a while. They start off interested in my face and my body; chicks dig cops, right? It’s when I open my mouth that I ruin everything. Thing is, I know I’m a decent-looking guy, but my looks only get me so far. Every time I make an effort to talk to her, she scrunches up her nose like I just shit myself, and her whole body tenses. Yeah, that’s the effect I have on her. Fucks with my head, big time. I get that chicks read those certain types of books and watch those specific flicks where the guy says and does all the right shit. That ain’t me. Truth? I ain’t ever met a guy who does, but whatever. Chicks like that type of shit, but they don’t get they’re brainwashed, neither. So when I guy like me finds a chick he wants to talk to, he fucking can’t because she’s already programmed to shut him down.
I’ve never met a chick I even wanted to talk to, until her.
She’s fucking beautiful. Smart as hell. She’s classy. She speaks her mind. She’s also a lot fucking tougher than she looks. She’s also way out of my league.
When we were offered Shadow Squad, my worry for her reached my mouth and of course pissed her off again. Am I the asshole for not wanting her hurt? She’s a nurse! You can’t compare her to Venessa. Shit, you can’t compare anyone to Venessa. But Macy, she’s not Venessa. Even the thought of her in the field makes me sweat bullets. The thought of her anywhere that I’m not makes me feel anxious, and the fact that I don’t know what to say to make her smile depresses the shit outta me.
Last week I was tailing her and she was ignoring me and almost tripped on some uneven cement. I pulled some superhero shit I didn’t even know I had in me. To thank me, she, of
course, snapped at me for calling her a klutz. Well, what else would I call her? I wasn’t the one about to fall on my ass, she was.
She is a good listener, though. That freaks me out, too. She’s always dissecting what I say, and it makes me nervous. I know what I want to say, but with her I just can’t fucking say it.
Did I mention she kicked my ass? Yeah, well, I’m still coming to terms with that. You can’t look at her and think badass. You look at her and think runway model or smoking-hot teacher. One look at Venessa, you know there’s something off about her, like she’s looking for a reason to put you down. Not Macy, though; she just looks sweet and quiet. Reminding myself it doesn’t take much to remove that sweetness, and it’s the quiet ones that can put you on your ass I shake my head because yeah, way out of my fucking league.
Since I’m exposing myself here, here’s what it comes down to … She’s so fucking good at everything she does, I just want to be the one better at something for once. It should be me walking into danger so she can sleep at night. I just want to be the guy she runs to like she did in that basement. And? She calls me “Jonas.” Not even my parents called me that.
I want to be the guy who defends her. She wants to be equals or some shit. How can a fuck-up like me ever convince a lady like her that I’m worth a shit?
Picking up my phone, the irony is not lost on me that I’m calling my partner for advice. My partner, you know, the one who’s more socially stunted than I am? Yeah, that guy.
“What?” he says on the first ring.
“Well, hello to you too,” I say. “Got a minute?”
“Make it quick,” he says. “I’ve got Boner to take care of.”
“I’ll be coming back to that later,” I say. “But, uh, I need advice.”
“I bet you do,” he says. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” I defend. “I just can’t get her to like me, man, and it’s pissing me off. Every time I open my mouth she makes this face like I just picked my nose and tried to shake her hand with it or something.”