As usual, a huge shout-out to my editing team. Harddaysknight is my mentor and gives me critical review. Thank you for all you do, HDK. My editors are PapaKilo14, Hal, Pixel the Cat, GeorgeAnderson and Olddave1951. Thank you, gentlemen, I love you all and you did your usual awesome thing. SBrooks103x is the remaining member of my team, but for the obvious reasons, did not edit.
I coauthored a story with GeorgeAnderson some time back and enjoyed the experience very much. When SBrooks approached me, looking for story ideas, I offered to coauthor this story with him. He has been a pleasure to work with, and I’m very pleased with our story. I hope to work with him again. He is a long-time member of my team, a dear friend and his work has been very valuable to me as I learned to write. I’m proud of his advancement as a writer; he was always a good editor.
From the coauthor: When Randi offered me the opportunity to co-write with her, to say that I was flabbergasted would be a huge understatement! I honestly couldn’t imagine what my meager ability could contribute to her awesome talent. I give her full credit for coming up with the basic scenarios, and thank her for her support and patience as I did my best to flesh them out. She has always been my sweet inspiration, and I hope to have the chance to work with her again.
The regular sound of the movement in the grandfather’s clock outside our bedroom door and the soothing hiss of the rain on the tile roof made me snuggle deeper into the covers. I glanced at the alarm and it read 3:46. I couldn’t imagine what woke me, but I was going back to sleep. I heard it again, the sound that must have dragged me from the warmth of my dream. I didn’t identify it at first, but then I realized that it was the alert sound from my husband’s phone. I slid over until I could hook his pants with my toe.
I pulled the phone from his pocket and pushed the mute button. I was almost asleep when I heard it again. He must have set it to go off on a timer when he had a text. Now I was perturbed. He wasn’t moving, the sound of his heavy breathing telling me that nothing short of a bomb going off outside the window was going to awaken him. I sighed, reached down and snagged his pants again.
I knew his swipe pattern. I’d seen him do it a million times. The screen said he had a text with an attachment. Idly, I tapped the attachment. It was a picture and it changed my life. It was from someone calling themselves, “girlofyourdreams.” I had thought, mistakenly, apparently, that I was the “girl of his dreams.” Evidently, I had been laboring under a misapprehension. The picture showed someone’s vagina, leaking cum, and the text said, “Can’t wait until next time.”
It was obviously some white chick. Evidently, some of those clichés are true. I knew one that wasn’t. It had to do with size and Calvin sure gave the lie to that one. I eased out of bed, got dressed quietly and started working. I was as quiet as a mouse and in thirty minutes, I had him packed and his stuff in his car in the garage.
The house belonged to me. I owned it before I met Calvin and I had a prenup to protect it. I found my fighting sticks in the hall closet and went back up to the bedroom. He was snoring slightly and I gave him a love tap on the nose. He shot upright in the bed and I flipped on the light.
“What the hell, Sahara!” He held his nose. It dripped a little and I threw him the box of tissues. He staunched his drip and I tossed him his phone, striking him just where I intended. “You have a text,” I told him as he groaned and clutched his groin.
“Shit,” he said as he saw the message. “Listen, babe, I know this looks bad, but she kept coming on to me! I just ... I finally just gave in. It was just one time. I’m sorry. It won’t ever happen again.”
“You’re right about that,” I said. “It may happen again, but not while you’re living with me. Get up, get dressed and get out, Calvin. Don’t call, don’t drop by and don’t send a candy-gram. Just disappear. I’ll be filing tomorrow.”
“Wait! Just let me tell you why.”
I cut him off. “No, you’re through telling me things. I’m telling you, now. I don’t care why. Get up, get dressed and get out. You told me why last time and I forgave you. You were drunk; it was a mistake; it won’t happen again. Well, it did. You’re a stupid man, Calvin. Get moving.”
“It’s four fucking o’clock,” he complained. “Where the fuck am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t care where you go,” I said. “Away, that’s all I care about. Go find your slut. She’s dreaming about you. Your ride on this train is over. Do you want me to break your arms?”
He took a look at the sticks and decided he should move. It was a wise decision. As pissed as I was, I probably wouldn’t have stopped with his arms. He got up and went to the dresser. “Where’s all my shit?” he asked.
“In your car,” I told him. “I left you a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I suggest you put them on quickly. Your nuts are looking awfully tempting there.”
He hurried. In ten minutes, he was gone. I was getting more furious by the minute. It’s a good thing he wasn’t here, or I would have committed several felonies on his sorry-ass person. I didn’t need to do jail time, but he’d left some pictures and shit, so I visited my wrath on them. Finally, it was light enough to go out. I went for a run so I’d be calm enough to talk with my rock: my Mama. I called Mom at nine and told her what had happened. “You’re better than that sorry excuse for a man, anyway, baby,” she told me. “I never wanted you to marry that man.”
“Well, you were right, Mama,” I said. “You told me so, okay? You happy now?”
“No, baby, I’m so sorry.” I could hear tears in her voice. “That’s not what I was saying at all. I’m just saying I’m glad you kicked his sorry ass out.”
“Thanks, Mama,” I told her. “I’m sorry I was a smartass. I’m just a mess. I’m pissed off and I feel like I’ve been pissed on. How are you feeling, Mama?”
“I’m okay, baby,” she said. “You want to come and stay with me for a while?”
I did, very much. So much that I sold the house a month later and moved in with her. Just me and my little mother, exactly the way it had been all my life, as if Calvin had never happened.
Six months later, I pulled out onto the highway and stopped. I had no idea where I was going, but I just knew it was away from Atlanta. Atlanta is a shit hole. I had been there all my life and I was heartily sick of it. My mother had passed away three days before. She was a little old doll, as healthy as a horse and as chipper as a sparrow. I never knew my father, but I heard he was killed in a robbery attempt when I was five. Mom told me she was feeling funny and then she clutched her head and collapsed. It was a massive stroke and she just kept having them over the next two days until there was nothing left. She was still breathing, but that was it. They told me we needed to remove the tubes and let her go. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do.
There was nothing tying me there anymore. I went home after Mom stopped breathing and cried for four hours. I thought about getting drunk, but decided that was pathetic. I made her arrangements. She wanted to be cremated, and no funeral. Her ashes went into the burial plot she had picked out and I made the arrangements to put the house on the market, have all our stuff packed up and taken to storage and I pawned my engagement and wedding rings.
I had four suitcases and a bag in the back of my Super Bee. I’m a hot rod girl. My Super Bee isn’t stock. It’s a 2007 with the Detonator Yellow and Flat Black paint job. I swapped the engine out for a 6.4-liter hemi the year after I got it. It was making 470 horsepower out of the crate. It’s over 700 now. I put a supercharger on it last year. The supercharger is a 145 cubic inch twin-screw IHI unit with integrated charge coolers, and makes 11.6 psi of boost. I love pulling up next to the Mustang owners and just crushing them at the stoplights.
I sat there for a minute and decided to head west. I put the throttle down, and thank God for traction control. I shot out of there like a scalded dog, and I was on my way. I didn’t know where I was going to wind up, but it was going to be a hell of a ride.
I’m a writer. You may have read some of my books. I don’t have a number one bestseller or anything, but I’ve cracked the top 100 three times. I didn’t have to be anywhere special to do my work and I wasn’t in any hurry anyway. You wouldn’t recognize my name; I write under a pseudonym. My real name is Sahara Wright. I just turned 28 and I’m a graduate of Georgia Tech and Auburn. I have a Ph.D. in Education Administration and another in English. I’ve never used them, but there they are. I drove west.
.... There is more of this story ...