The Divorce Diet

  Copyright © 2018 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 2018

  Edited by Brenda Wright

  Proofread by: Hour Glass Editing

  Cover Designed by: Just Write. Creations

  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

  Annoying Pest

  Juggernaut

  Liquid Courage

  The Middle Man

  Hormotional

  Motown Throwdown (Motown Down, #1)

  Motown Showdown (Motown Down, #2)

  Motown Takedown (Motown Down, #3)

  Motown Breakdown (Motown Down, #4 & 5)

  Table of Contents

  Other Works by KS Adkins

  Dedication

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Pharis

  Eddie

  Epilogue

  Music that Inspired

  About KS Adkins

  For

  Jane

  Allow me to tell you a little story...

  My name is Pharis Hilton and until freshman year of college, I had successfully managed to keep my friend base purely male. This was made easier by playing lacrosse, football, and flag football. Though, I did try a season of soccer once but was kicked off the team for sacking. Pussies...

  Jocks like me didn’t have issues with guys because we were one of the guys.

  It was how I liked it. No drama, no gossip, and no sexually transmitted diseases.

  Growing up in a rustic small town, everyone knew everyone, but I was certain I was the exception. Where I knew all the athletes, coaches, and rec staff, I didn’t pay attention to what went on around me on a teenage level. I didn’t know or care who was popular, on prom court, or got finger banged at Nelson’s tractor party. When I wasn’t working on my own family’s farm, I was playing ball, period.

  But it was during a particularly rough flag football game where I was in an opponent’s face reminding him that my pert ass wasn’t pigskin when two vocal girls stole my attention from the argument.

  And for the record, until them no one had been able to do that.

  Honestly, I couldn’t help myself even if I tried. I was drawn to their obnoxiousness.

  Suddenly, they were waving at me, screaming my name.

  This was surprising to me because it wasn’t unheard of for fellow female classmates to ask me what school I went to even though I went to the same school. Yes, that’s how little I cared about fitting in.

  Now, it’s a well-known fact when girls show up to practices it’s to flirt and get attention from the guys.

  But not these two. At least not that day. Because that day they were only focused on me.

  And they were impossible to ignore because they used obscenities as good as I did, if not better.

  An impressive feat to be admired.

  From that day on, Connie and Bridget attended every practice, every game, until I agreed to be the third in their best friend trifecta. While I was very vocal in my refusal to fill out a questionnaire, they dug their heels in on making it official by way of a formal initiation.

  The ceremony went like this:

  “I’m Connie, the smart one,” Connie said, hugging me.

  “I’m Bridget, the pretty one,” Bridget said, kissing my cheek.

  “What does that make me?” I said backing away in discomfort.

  “The sporty one,” they said in unison.

  “The Spice Girls are taken,” I replied despite liking where this was headed. They didn’t want to change me and that made them okay in my book.

  “And they’re old.” Bridget scrunched up her face. “Ew.”

  As unique as each of us were apart, we made sense together.

  I got them into the jock-only parties, they helped with my homework and fashion.

  We raised hell and even moved to Detroit as a trio to attend college.

  And to this very day, they are still the two best friends a football junkie like me could ask for.

  They still meddled, made me laugh and always, I mean always, had my back.

  Case in point, now.

  They had plied me with just enough alcohol to loosen me up.

  Seriously, it was only a matter of time before they succeeded and they knew it.

  Knowing I’d lost the battle, I whined with a hard exhale and the most exaggerated eye roll I could muster, “Fine, you win, I’ll do it.”

  Three vodka sodas and one shot in and I caved.

  I couldn’t keep slamming drinks, shooting tequila, plus arguing with Connie.

  Not when she meant well, not when she was...right.

  After all, it’s been two years.

  Two miserable fucking years to be exact.

  Two years ago, my marriage went from happily ever after, straight to shit in the blink of an eye. And one year ago, it was made official.

  I couldn’t even tell people I was single because I wasn’t single.

  I was divorced.

  And God’s honest truth, I hated the word and everything it stood for.

  I might as well buy a tank top that said “No longer a Mrs. so give me your kisses...”

  At least it was self-explanatory.

  Maybe it was time for me to start dating because I owed it to myself to annoy someone other than myself and possibly get an orgasm out of it.

  The thought of starting over again with someone new...well,
it made me insecure.

  Because in the single’s game I was a rookie.

  I wasn’t even first string. Total bench rider right here.

  Sure, I didn’t want to die alone, but I didn’t want to housebreak another husband either.

  (Obviously, I sucked at it the first time...)

  However, plenty of women my age were divorced, right?

  The anxiety of dating, I assumed, came with the territory.

  But the prospect of first impressions and judgement had my stomach knotting.

  I had one failed union under my belt and was terrified of the entire scene. Post-divorce baggage was heavy enough for one person to deal with. What if I met someone and he didn’t like sports?

  Okay, so that was a no-go, but what if he was divorced too?

  Could I handle the weight?

  What if he had children?

  What if his ex was prettier than me?

  What if he still loved her?

  Oh God, I knew it! I’m the rebound!

  “Can’t do it,” I wheezed out as my face reddens. “Abort mission!”

  “Too late,” Connie smirked victoriously. “I’ve already been in contact, and this guy has all the right boxes checked. Play your cards right, clean up that lady basement, and he can check out your box—”

  Shit, was my vision winking out? When was the last time I even looked at my box?

  “Can I at least see his picture? Read his profile?” Any reason to cancel.

  “Or you can trust me and be at the Townhouse at eight o’clock.”

  Hearing Townhouse triggers one of many painful memories I couldn’t hold at bay. It socked me in the uterus like it was yesterday.

  “I got us reservations for the restaurant that just opened up,” I said gleefully, thinking this was the perfect chance to wear the red dress Bridget made me buy.

  “Oh yeah? Which one?” he asked while scrolling through his phone.

  “Townhouse on Woodward.”

  When he narrowed his eyes at me, I knew. I fucking knew what was coming next and steeled myself for it. “You sure you want to go? It’s gonna be busy, parking will be a bitch. And neither of us like staying out late on a school night. Plus, you have a game tomorrow.”

  Lately when it came to date night or trying anything new he did this to me. It didn’t used to be that way.

  Defeated, I opened up the app on my phone to cancel the reservation. And I told myself is was fine since I had lost my appetite anyway.

  “Eight o’clock when?” I asked forcing myself back to the present. Stupid fucking memories... Focus, I needed to focus.

  Dating good. Drinks better. Free drinks best. This was my new life motto.

  “Tonight, baby cakes.”

  Eyes wide, I shook my head furiously. I’d become so worked up that when I went to stand I fell on my ass so hard a fart squeaked out.

  Coming to lean over me, my best friend huffed, “Faking an injury won’t work. You’re going. Oh, and lay off the kale, damn.”

  From my spot on the floor, I demanded, “This is fuckshit! Not until I see his profile.”

  “You are a pain in the ass, woman,” she said but handed me her phone. “And the combo you were shooting for is bullshit.”

  Pulling up the profile, I forced myself to read his name first and not to panic.

  John McClane

  Age: 41

  Divorced, no kids

  Works for the city of Detroit

  Likes watching football, talking football, and arguing about football

  Dislikes Russians

  So, he had a few years on me, okay. I could deal with that. I was an established thirty-year-old. Age meant maturity, right?

  Surely, he had a 401k and vacation time saved up.

  Plus, he was bald, and he was...sexy.

  In a familiar movie star sort of way.

  Connie was right, he did meet my criteria. At least digitally speaking.

  And I wasn’t Russian so...

  Did I want to spend another night alone in a house I rented but hated? No, I did not.

  Did I want to dress up, feel desired, and possibly end up getting plowed from behind by an older guy named John? I kinda did.

  Three hours later...

  Okay, so it’s true, dresses do compliment me, but I hadn’t had a reason to wear one since my grandpa’s funeral a year ago. And yes, my girls made me look fuck-me-tastic, but the tomboy beneath the surface was concerned I couldn’t pull it off. As a sports interviewer , I wore tasteful blazers, tight jeans and flats.

  But this?

  This was hot. I was hot. Like touch myself scorching hot.

  This dress was speaking the language of lust.

  And it was saying the very things I wasn’t so sure I was ready for.

  Sure, I talked a big game and was ridiculously horny, but to actually go through with it? With a stranger?

  When I’ve only been with one man my whole life?

  This dress is an invitation to f-u-c-k, no RSVP or post-coitus call required.

  I face Connie and Bridget and asked, “How do I look?”

  “I want to hump you,” Bridget said, confirming my own thoughts. I was, in fact, wearing bang me attire. “And you better keep the heels on because... doggie style, ruff.”

  “Is not wearing panties trending?” I inquired. “Or is it too presumptuous?”

  “Commando is always trending,” Connie insisted and Bridget nodded.

  “Ok good, I like being on the cusp.”

  “Car’s here,” Bridget said, handing me my bag. “Breath spray, spare cash, knife, and condoms. Go get ‘em, tiger!”

  “Am I really doing this?” I asked my friends. I mean, I had freaking condoms in my bag.

  “Fuck yeah, you are,” Bridget nodded so hard she lost her balance.

  “Enjoy yourself, honey,” Connie whispered, leaning in to hug me.

  Yep, I was doing this.

  And I wasn’t excited about it in the least.

  In fact, my vagina and I were both terrified.

  So, after being dropped at the restaurant, I made my way inside at a snail’s pace. Not because I was in heels. But because I had never been on a blind date, let alone know what happens on one. I had been with the same man since college, and I had always taken comfort and pride in that. Always feeling like I accomplished something few did. I’d held out for my one.

  Only standing here at reception mumbling my date’s name, I felt inexperienced and stupid.

  Even more so when I got to my table, and he wasn’t there.

  Ready to turn around and bolt, the server explained he was parking and would be walking in any moment. I decided it was kind of him to call at all and forced myself sit down.

  Doing my best not to fidget, I placed a martini order while trying not to check my phone.

  Anything to not make me look like I was on a blind date.

  The light buzz I had earlier had long deserted me and there were not enough martinis to rid me of the anxiety riding my ass. I hated the feeling. Mostly because I was not an anxious person by nature and not being in control of this sudden anxiety was making me anxious.

  Just as I was ready to make a run for it, I felt the room charge like it used to when my ex entered it.

  Turning slightly in my seat, I froze at what I was seeing.

  Because the ex in question was headed straight for me.

  Oh, my God, he was going to know I was on a blind date. Pathetic much?

  Sliding into the booth across from me, he shrugged his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves and... smiled.

  He looked like he was dressed for a date, too. Because Eddie didn’t wear sport coats and khaki’s unless he (used to be we) was going out.

  And if that’s true, I would crumble right here in public.

  But if he was on a date, why was he sitting here staring at me?

  “Pharis, right?” Hearing his voice after so long made me want to break down and cry.

  I wasn’t read
y to face him yet. Not on my best day and certainly not wearing a skin tight red dress while I waited on my date to show. Just looking at him gutted me. And now he was sitting at my table...

  Around the six-month post-divorce mark, I forced myself to delete old voicemails he’d left because I spent too many hours torturing myself listening to them. I had loved, still loved, everything about him. Including the deep tone of his voice.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I whisper-yelled, getting angrier thanks to the humiliation running through my veins.

  “I’m John McClane,” he smiled. “Your date.”

  Blinking once, twice, and swallowing hard it hit me.

  Oh, my God.

  No wonder the name sounded familiar.

  Did I mention my ex-husband was a cop? Who loved the “Die Hard” franchise? (I’m guessing it was an employment clause.)

  Son of a bitch!

  I knew I should have stayed awake for those fucking movies!

  Forget crying, I was going to yippekiyay this motherfucker!

  Maybe some newly married men would find Soldier Stadium an odd choice for their first vacation with their bride, but not me. Because my wife was currently entertaining offers for sports reporting from Chicago, Columbus, Dallas, and Detroit. Chicago being our first stop and Detroit being our last.

  While she hadn’t said it, I knew her heart lied with her hometown. But she, at least, wanted to vet her options before making a decision. And wherever she chose, I would apply for the police academy there.

  Wrapping up with the recruiter, she thanked him and exited the field to where I was in the stands.

  “Well?” I asked, pulling her into my lap.

  “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I was too busy staring at the field to really hear what he had to say.”

  Let me also say this. Being a female in a male dominated field didn’t even register with my wife. Because in her mind, men weren’t an obstacle. They were simply part of her journey and if they didn’t like her, they could get the fuck out of her way.

  “There is no wrong choice, superstar.”

  Smiling up at me, she repeated, “Superstar?”