Juggernaut

  Copyright © 2017 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 2017

  Formatted by: Brenda Wright – Formatting Done Wright

  The Detroit After Dark Series

  Brutal

  Brawler

  Berserk

  Ballistic

  8 Mile & Rion

  Convincing Bet

  Mercy F*ck

  When Time Stood Still

  Motown Throwdown (Motown Down #1)

  Motown Showdown (Motown Down #2)

  Motown Takedown (Motown Down #3)

  Motown Breakdown (Motown Down #4 & 5)

  A note from the author:

  For me, sisterhood isn’t essential.

  It’s everything.

  For the last three years, I’ve kept our memories fresh by writing a novel I never intended to publish.

  But I realized this was something that I needed to share.

  While the characters are fictional, it won’t be hard to find a piece of yourself in each one.

  This novel features my love of 90’s references, The Princess Bride and Van Wilder.

  Do you want to see what turning forty was like for us?

  Then grab a drink and flip the page.

  All my love,

  KS

  It's the times we're so crazy,

  that people think we're high.

  It's the times we laugh so hard,

  we can't help but cry.

  It's all the inside jokes

  and "remember whens."

  Those are all the reasons

  we're best friends!

  ~Unknown

  The only way to explain my life is to show you, talk you through it, and bring you into my circle.

  This is unusual for me. Bringing outsiders in.

  Because I have a thing about strangers.

  See, I’m not a fan of recruiting new talent. Making new friends isn’t difficult. Making new girlfriends you can trust is.

  Women can be vicious, competitive, and stabby.

  So, I keep my circle small.

  I wasn’t someone who needed dozens of women surrounding her to feel validated.

  Frankly, I didn’t have the meds or the patience for it.

  Instead, I counted myself fortunate to have the girls I did. Because I’m a firm believer in quality over quantity.

  (Unless we’re discussing shoes.)

  While I have plenty of friends, I have three true sisters.

  Not by blood, but by choice and by bond.

  These are the women I planned to grow old with.

  Nothing was going to change that.

  Oh, and the four of us? Well, we’re a bit out there.

  Friends since Keds came on the scene, we’ve seen it all, done it all…together.

  Every high, every low, and all the premenstrual screaming in between, it’s always been us.

  Why? Because we’re the Shit.

  No, really.

  We are.

  Sugar aka Shug Tight

  Hillary aka Miss Misery

  India aka Motherfucking Teresa, and me,

  Taylor aka Juggernaut

  So yeah, we’re the Shit.

  Maybe not the most original name for an all-girl band of public school misfits, but what do you expect when four females got bored and trusted Dicky Oliver to score us ecstasy? (It was grade A and worth every penny, in case you care.)

  Anyway, Sugar Sanchez is our lipstick lesbian fashionista, who in a pinch, straddles cock when her latest prospect is starring in shark week. Sugar thinks periods are gross and hooks up with men from time to time because it makes her feel pretty. This we find hilarious because she’s more averse to cock than blood, but we all lose our minds once a month and don’t judge.

  Truthfully, I was a smidge jealous because this strategy left her with options.

  Sugar is panties-down hot. Women and men alike trip over themselves to get her attention. Which works because Sugar likes attention from both sexes. She says it reminds her she’s doable. Aptly dubbed the world’s worst girlfriend, Sugar refuses to be monogamous or let us meet her lady-loves since none have yet to last beyond two dates. Sugar, I should also mention, has a short attention span and doesn’t do drama. But man, does she have great fucking taste in accessories.

  Hillary Bradley-Cohen is our pessimist who placed bets at her own wedding on how long the union would last. Somehow, she managed to marry the one man who was even more depressing than she was. I’m positive she only stuck it out as long as she did to win the kitty. She may see the darker side of things, but she liked money, a lot. Two months ago, her husband moved out and she’s been reeling ever since. The separation wasn’t a shock to us. However, she’s still coming to terms with it.

  Another thing about Hillary? She likes to be the one who does the leaving. She’s currently in the detox stage I call, dicknial.

  PS: She spent her earnings on a sweet pair of Louis Vuittons.

  India Metz-Sinclair is our resident saint and all around nice person. Married for-fucking-ever, she’s the do-gooder, the voice of reason, and for a small woman can drink us all under the table. India is patient, rational, and open-minded. Totally the thinker of the group. She’s the one you go to when you need to know which decision is the right one. (And then you do the opposite and plead stupidity.) While she was single handily the worlds most devoted wife, her husband’s devotion made her look like a slacker. They were sick in love and it showed. With a not-so-gentle shove from me, India got her man and wasn’t letting him go. It was sweet and nauseating. It was also forever. Luckily, the nausea subsided a few years back.

  Then there’s me, the unhitched-cock-goddess, Taylor St. James.

  A self-proclaimed lover of happy hour and random hook ups, I had my shit on lock.

  No man or appendage tied me down. Nuh uh. I kept my legs and my options open.

  I was dubbed juggernaut because once I picked up speed, I destroyed everything in my path. A bit overdramatic, but the name wasn’t my idea. However, I’m reminded often (in photos and video) that I lived up to it. Honestly, it’s not hard to do. Chaos may not be my middle name, but I loved causing it, being the center of it and taking credit for it.

  In my opinion, each of us had our own brand of hot going on.

  Also, we got better with age, too.

  Sugar is petite, she had great tits, lean legs, and an absolute stunning face. Don’t even get me started on her perfect fucking Jennifer Aniston post-Friends hair-do, or adorable tramp stamp either.

  Hillary is average height, yet thin. Possibly due to genetics, but mostly due to being too miserable to eat.

  She has long auburn hair (totally from the bottle), tits which filled your palms nicely (I checked), and even a heart-shaped ass.

  Her face was a mix of innocence and doubt. What set her profile
off was her dark blue eyes and those goddamn cute freckles. She also had a beautiful smile when she remembered to use it.

  India is also average height, but curvy. She wore her hips like an accessory. She also wore happiness like a fucking Girl Scout sash. She had solid C cups, tiny hands and feet, plus a firm toosh, and confidence. Add in soft blonde hair with kick ass highlights, hazel eyes, and the poutiest lips I had ever seen; India was a beauty.

  …And then there was me.

  I had height, hips, tits, ass, and hair.

  I had an abundance of all these things.

  The only thing I might have more of was attitude.

  I put my attributes to work for me and loved the results.

  When I wasn’t being a professional at work (which some would say was debatable given my profession), I enjoyed not acting my age. I hated that society expected women to behave a certain way based on a number.

  I refused to be categorized.

  Stuffed in a box.

  Stifled.

  I lived for granting wishes and epic fuckery.

  I didn’t do regret, wear cheap underwear, or drink bad liquor—boxed wine withstanding.

  For me, life was grand.

  And I wasn’t looking for a change.

  Sunday brunches have been our thing since college. Before that it was parties and hungover Coney Island breakfast deals. Nowadays we could afford brunch, so we did brunch with flair. Each of us was approaching the big 4-0, Cougar status, and some of us were handling it better than others. (Cough Hillary Cough.)

  While we dined, no topic was taboo, each of us put it out there, never holding back. (Honestly, we bypassed taboo in the 90s.) Judging was frowned upon, secrets were forbidden, and if you borrowed clothes, you found a way to stain them so you didn’t have to return it. While all awesome in our own ways, the four of us couldn’t be more different and that’s what made us lifers.

  Because really, who wants to hang out with the same version of themselves?

  Variety, as they say, truly was the spice of life—and so was a good rum.

  I loved my girls, my devotion to them was concrete. They were my world. And we all know when you spend years with someone they rub off on you in little ways. Though I saw myself in each of them, I knew down to my pedicured toes that staying single was a smart life goal. While I’ve had a long list of potentials, none had staying power. In this, I favored Sugar. The second a man tried to change me or interfere with my girl time they became an old memory. And believe me, they all tried. My inner Hillary comes out to play when I find myself settling for men who aren’t good for me.

  I become an insecure mess. I question him, myself, and I hate that I do.

  But deep down inside, I’m most like India. Though I’ve never had a long term anything, I knew that if I ever truly found the one, I’d give him the goddamn world just to see him smile.

  For the one, I fear I would change and not even realize I had until it was too late.

  Two things truly terrified me; haunted houses and losing my identity.

  Then again, I tried reasoning that for the one I wouldn’t have to change.

  For the one, I wouldn’t lose anything.

  In theory, I would gain.

  Alas, there’s been no one.

  But there has been a lot of no ways.

  A plethora of how drunk was I’s?

  A gaggle of how’d I get heres?

  And a laundry list of, glutton for muscles.

  Each disaster reminded me why single was safe.

  Why?

  Turns out men see me as a project.

  A woman who is crazy fun, outgoing, and uninhibited doesn’t have trouble finding interest.

  She just has trouble keeping it.

  Men, oh how they love everything about me at first. Especially my wildness, it’s what draws them in, that addictive taste of chaos. But after a while it seems I wear them out and that’s when shit goes downhill. That’s when men try and tame me, alter me.

  You know, get me to blend into their lives instead of meshing them together.

  Listen, I may be perpetually single, but even I know that’s how it works.

  That’s also when I kick their ass to the curb.

  So, while I’m single always looking to mingle, I had to admit I was also bored.

  The script was always the same, and I knew the ending. I was tired of reading the same story.

  I knew I was searching for something I couldn’t see, but still, I kept my eyes open, afraid I’d miss it.

  Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find it.

  The older I get, the more I convince myself I never would.

  Basically, I was feeling lost.

  -Lie-

  I was backsliding.

  I was reverting to bad habits.

  If my parents were around, they’d say I was acting out.

  They wouldn’t be wrong. They’d still be assholes. But they wouldn’t be wrong.

  So now that you’ve gotten a little background, allow me to set the scene and prepare you for what’s about to go down.

  I’m slamming a mimosa, okay fine, I’m on my third. (Going forward, anytime I mention a drink; immediately add three more. That’s probably a semi-accurate number.) I’m power drinking to cushion the blowback I’m about to get when I confess I slept with my ex last night.

  Don’t go getting dirty on my girls for their reaction, either. They love me, they know my penchant for repeating mistakes, and they also know I’ll blame it on the alcohol.

  This is probably a good time to tell you, I avoid holding myself accountable whenever possible.

  I was Peter Pan with boobies. I was forever young.

  (Mentally anyway. My ass and driver’s license would argue this.)

  Being an adult wasn’t my strong suit.

  But sex was.

  I loved sex.

  But I didn’t love my ex.

  My ex who was awful in bed.

  He wasn’t awful out of it though. In fact, he was a lot of fun.

  Plus, he was hot.

  I liked hot.

  The problem with hot is that you get burned.

  I was, metaphorically speaking, covered in burns.

  Anyway, his name is Taylor.

  As if being a horrible lay wasn’t enough, we shared a name. I lost count how many times I fake screamed my own moniker and I still wasn’t used to it. Seriously, it felt like I might be lying to myself.

  Fuck that, I was lying to myself.

  So yeah, the girls? They’ll have something to say about it.

  But first, I had to let Hillary finish and wait for my turn like I was in line to jump rope.

  “—to write a book,” she says proudly.

  Hillary always has ideas. At least until she has to work for them. Then she gets depressed about it and usually quits. She’s lucky her parents left her money and that her divorce settlement—if they ever file—would be hefty. Her ex may be a downer, but he made great money. It also helped she was good at her job. For someone who clung to misery, being an underwriter for a title company was a logical choice.

  “What kind of book?” India asks like the little entrepreneur she is.

  “Romance.”

  “Is neurotica a genre?” I inquire sweetly.

  “Whatever,” she huffs. “I could make a fortune off your sex life alone. In fact, you’re my muse.”

  Of-fucking-course I was.

  “You have a publisher?” Sugar asks while going for the pitcher. Oh, I should mention we didn’t bother with ordering single glasses. We ordered pitchers, plural. It was financially responsible. More bang for your buck and all that.

  “No, I’m going to be an Indie. Seriously, they’re everywhere. Apparently, I can write a dirty book and women go nuts.”

  “Pretty sure that’s not how it works,” I point out. Being a lover of romance novels myself, I knew Hillary had no concept of the hard work and talent it actually took. Oh, and Hillary doesn’t read.

  “No
? Explain The Notebook.”

  Dear God…

  “First,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Nicholas Sparks doesn’t write dirty novels. Second, he’s not an Indie, and third, honey, I’m sorry, but a female Nicholas Sparks you are not.”

  “Fourth,” India chimes in. “The Notebook is beautiful and poetic. He’s cornered the market on tear-jerkers.”

  “Fifth,” Sugar offers. “He’s goody-goody gum drops to your…”

  “Sour Patch Kids?” I add.

  “God, when’s the last time you had those?” India asks.

  “Senior year?” I think on it and suddenly they sounded delicious.

  “We should get some and soak them in vodka,” Sugar suggests.

  “Who said being an adult is no fun?” I ask the room.

  “You watch,” Hillary pouts. “I’m going to do it and when I do, you’ll be famous, Taylor.”

  “Don’t worry, Tay,” Sugar smiles. “This is Miss Misery we’re talking about. No one will ever know it’s you since they’ll kill themselves half way through. I’m depressed just thinking about it.”

  Seeing my turn at the rope, I jumped in with both feet.

  “So, I slept with Taylor last night.”

  Confessing this at brunch while the four of us were together seemed like a great idea and a time saver. At least until Hillary spit her drink all over our shared cheese plate, Sugar rolled her eyes, and India yells out, “For eff’s sake!”

  “Just say fuck, India,” Sugar says pelting her with a grape. “You pay taxes, you’re allowed.”

  “Told you, bestseller,” Hillary offers wiping her drink off the food. Not only was Hillary a pessimist, she was cheap, too. The five-second rule didn’t even apply to her. If it wasn’t covered in hair or shit, she’d still eat it.

  “Just tell us why,” India says, calling on her trademark patience.

  “I was drunk,” I deflect easily.

  “That is no excuse, Taylor,” she chastises me. “He’s a player, he’s selfish, and you’ll never meet Mr. Right when you’re faking it with Mr. Wrong.”

  Okay, so he was a player and selfish, but he wasn’t Mr. Wrong because he wasn’t Mr. Anything. He was a way to pass the time, and he helped break up the bouts of loneliness. I loved India, but loneliness wasn’t in her wheelhouse.