Juggernaut Page 2

  “I was bored, and he was available,” I throw out. “We aren’t getting back together or anything, it was just sex.”

  “Bad sex,” Sugar mumbles. “This right here is why I switched teams.”

  “Whatever,” I laugh. “You hate cock; you have no say.”

  “I don’t hate cock,” she grins. “I hate the ball hair, nose picking, farting, and ESPN that comes with it is all.”

  “I saw this coming,” Hillary butts in, reaching for her bag. “Seriously, I called it.”

  “Are you—dammit, Hillary, do not take notes!” I threaten.

  “What? I need to do it now while it’s fresh.”

  “I need my own pitcher,” I announce waving the server over. When she comes to the table, I order another and change the subject. “So that’s done; I feel better for sharing. What did you babes do last night?”

  “I organized my closet by color and season,” Sugar beams.

  “Shit, that reminds me I need to do laundry,” Hillary grumbles.

  “Scott and I finalized the menu with the caterer,” India says while reaching for the rolls. “Thanks again for lending us your guy, Taylor. Don’t forget, you promised to come.”

  “Thursday, right?”

  “Friday,” she groans. “I even added it to your calendar.”

  “Of course you did,” Hillary chimes in. “Do you schedule her shits, too?”

  “What is with you?” India snaps. “You’re even more miserable than usual.”

  “I went on a date last night,” Hillary confesses and we all leaned forward. All thoughts of Taylor and Taylor gone.

  “Spill,” Sugar demands.

  “Oh no,” India whispers. “It’s too soon, Hillary.”

  “Stop it, Saint Chastity,” I point at India and then ask Hillary, “So did you get you some?”

  “No,” she says with tears in her eyes. While typically awash in misery, Hillary oddly enough wasn’t a crier.

  “Why not?” Sugar asks. “Small dick? Bad breath? Lots of debt?”

  “I couldn’t because all I could think about was Nolan.”

  “Of course you did, sweetie,” India says, grasping her hand. “You’re still legally married, which means had you acted on it, it would have been cheating.”

  “Do you even hear yourself?” I ask her. “Nolan left, he moved the fuck out. Just because a judge hasn’t said the words doesn’t mean the marriage isn’t fucking toast. It’s a piece of paper, India. It doesn’t mean shit if the names on it are done.”

  “Okay, fine,” she agrees. “But what if you reconcile? You’ll never be able to live with yourself if you had sex with another man. Rebounds never work out.”

  “She won’t know that unless she tries,” Sugar offers helpfully. “Getting over one by getting under another is worth a shot of tequila, or six, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I’m not asking you, am I?” India argues. “You’ve had your fingers inside more vagina than my gynecologist. Your longest relationship is an orgasm. You are not qualified to give advice here, Sugar.”

  “Truth,” Sugar grins. “But I do like my orgasms.”

  “Sex is therapeutic and doesn’t have to scream marriage proposal,” I interject. “But if she’s not ready, she’s not ready. Just because you’ve consigned yourself to one cock for eternity doesn’t mean Hillary has to.”

  “This from the girl who’s had more random dick than all of us,” India retorts.

  “So what? I like dick.”

  “And assholes,” Sugar adds.

  “And the unemployed,” India chimes in.

  “Casper wasn’t unemployed,” I explain (again). “He was an aspiring model. He just didn’t aspire to get off the couch.” This much was true. The man wasn’t just intimate with his furniture, he also loved his stories. But after they ended at four pm, he wasn’t half bad. (Unless a character died. Then he was a fucking mess.)

  “At least she was smart enough not to get married,” Hillary says while wiping her eyes.

  “Not all marriages end,” India says regaining her cool.

  “And not all marriages are like yours either,” I offer. “You’re an anomaly because from what I’ve seen most marriages do, in fact, end. What’s the secret to yours anyway? Anal?”

  “Look,” Sugar says effectively shutting us down. “Did you want to have sex with this guy?”

  “Maybe?” Hillary says, looking crestfallen. This wasn’t misery she was feeling. It was desolation. Hillary was trying to acclimate to her new reality and felt like she was failing. “I don’t know, but I do know I didn’t want to be thinking about Nolan.”

  “Then go on another date,” I insist. “No pressure. See where it goes. Try this, have fun.”

  “You think?” she asks hopeful. “He was so nice and funny. He smiled the entire time. I liked it.”

  She would. Considering her ex, to my knowledge, didn’t possess the muscles or the means to smile. The problem for Hillary was that she struggled with positivity on a good day. Then she went and married Eeyore, and it’s been downhill ever since. While Hillary is prone to mope on occasion, her union to him made it a lifestyle.

  Nolan and Hillary were literally ‘misery meet company’ times infinity. You couldn’t even visit without popping a pill.

  “Just – ” India starts, and I gave her the look. “Just trust your instincts, Hillary.”

  “Yeah,” she says clearly thinking it over. “Who wants another drink?”

  Looking around for our server, I noticed that once again, we cleared the patio. Seriously, it’s a skill to be admired. This year alone we have been banned from ten restaurants. Not that we cared in the slightest, considering new places were popping up all over Detroit. Now we just see bans as goals. Or as Sugar calls them, badges of honor.

  An hour later, we solidified our Tuesday plans, when India once again reminded me of her dinner party.

  “Don’t be late and don’t show up drunk,” she pleads. (For the record, I didn’t show up smashed all the time.) “I promised Evander you’d be there and that you would consider coordinating his event.”

  “India, fuck – ”

  “He’s not that bad,” she tries. “He’s not, and he’s Scott’s best friend. Please, Taylor, for me?”

  “For you,” I agree, reluctantly.

  Hugging me tight she says, “Love you and I mean it,” before practically skipping away.

  Clearly, she was feeling way more positive about this than I was.

  I loved India’s parties, that wasn’t the issue.

  Seeing him was.

  Evander Church.

  The bane of my existence and the source of my wet dreams.

  A man I couldn’t seem to impress or forget.

  Needing to do just that, I went back inside, flagged the bartender down and ordered a double.

  While I couldn’t speak for all thirty-nine, nearly forty year olds, The Shit adored everything Pitbull.

  Aka: Mr. Worldwide, Mr. 305, Lil Chico

  Not for the first time I’ve asked myself why he wasn’t running for President. Because he’d have my vote. Who wouldn’t want their leader’s political platform to be a dance party? I know I do. But since he’s in town to perform not campaign, The Shit was hydrated (cherry vodka/blueberry Red Bull), claimed our spot on the hill, and were ready to dance our faces off. And yes, this was happening on a school night.

  When the opening act is midway through their set, Sugar announces, “I need to pee.”

  “I’ll go,” I offer since I could grab another drink, too. Plus, we always paired off. Safety in numbers and all that.

  “Me too,” India says joining us.

  “I’ll watch our spots,” Hillary says rooting in her bag. “Take these,” she says handing Sugar wet wipes. “There’s STDs floating around here that haven’t even been named yet.”

  Hillary wasn’t just a pessimist, but a germaphobe, too. But I did snag a wipe for myself.

  Using my height as an advantage, I p
ulled my pals through the crowd daring anyone to break our chain.

  Once in line for the bathroom, the three of us went from having to pee to having to piss. “Follow me,” India says, turning in the other direction. Doing as she says, we come upon the expectant mom/handicap restroom. “Uh, we can’t go in there,” Sugar says while tapping her foot signaling the urgency. When out of nowhere, India kicked in the back of my knee so hard, I pitched forward.

  “What the fuck was that for?” I yell as I attempt to put weight on it.

  “You’re our way in,” the bitch shrugs.

  “Genius!” Sugar approves.

  Limping forward, I glared down at India who grinned up at me. Never the rule breaker, India Sinclair could bend the holy fuck out of one when it suited her. Or in this case, us.

  At the door, a gentleman says, “The stall only holds one.”

  “Pssh,” I wave him off as the three of us infiltrate the area. “I’m nursing an injury; I get the toilet.”

  “That’s fair,” India agrees. “I’ll take the trash can.”

  “I get the sink,” Sugar says already pulling her pants down.

  The sound of urine is music to our ears. Each of us has glazed eyes from holding it so long and just as I ask, “Who locked the – ” a group of women walk in. The great thing about females is, we are improvisational creatures. Instead of being grossed out, or running the other way, the new girls calls dibs on who would piss where once we were done.

  After tossing the wipes, we grabbed a lot more booze before making our way back to Hillary.

  Drinks in the air, we tap rims just as the master takes the stage.

  Another thing about the Shit; we tend to consider ourselves our own private sector.

  So, as we sang, danced, and carried on, it didn’t take long for the crowd around us to give us space or else get stepped on.

  Which was good because when “Timber” came on, Sugar went ahead and lost her mind two-stepping like a pro—on a hill, no less. When “Give Me Everything” begins to play, the four of us paired up for our well-choreographed routine, and while I didn’t look around to see if the crowd was impressed; I knew they were. We were fucking brilliant.

  Then it happened.

  My lady jam.

  “Time Of Our Lives” is my go-to, feel-good, drop it down low, pick it back up, and bounce my ass anthem.

  The again, I also believed cookies and porn are best when homemade, too.

  So anyway, here we were on a random week night in August half-drunk, but fully happy, dancing on an incline. Yes, because we loved Pitbull and because we could. The Shit lived for making memories together and always would.

  Indian Village is a kick-ass historic Detroit suburb even our latest recession couldn’t destroy. A Detroit darling, coveted and well-protected, it was nearly impossible to buy into when families kept it generational. Luckily for Scott and India, I had an in which got them a prime piece of real estate braggery for all time. Over the last two years, they’ve restored this clutch McMansion and is now the envy of pretty much everyone, myself included. Who didn’t like kick-ass houses? Better yet, who didn’t like friends who had kick-ass houses? My pal and here hubs even had a wine cellar. If I ever went broke, all I’d need is a mattress and a spot in their basement. The cellar was that amazing.

  Anyway, Scott was one of three partners who made up the firm of Church, Church & Sinclair. (He was the Sinclair.)

  As far as corporate attorney firms went, they were the absolute best—respected and feared.

  While he was born into money, made a boatload of it, he is also incredibly generous with it.

  India was no slouch either. She was the vice president of Urban Mortgage Funding and a monetary motherfucker in her own right. While I joke about them being the Cleavers, they aren’t. Not really. They truly did have a good marriage because they fought for it. They put the time and energy in, which took initiative. Or was it love? Anyway, while career-driven and enjoying the spoils of it, they haven’t had kids yet. And let me emphasize the yet. Because I could see it in India’s eyes. One day she wanted to be a mom. Scott being Scott, would be right there with her front and center with the sperm.

  So standing in her nook and casually sipping on my wine (Only because India stole my vodka), I pretended to care about the conversation happening around me. I don’t know these people and small talk for the sake of small talk wasn’t my thing. My pal and her hubs have boo koo dollars in the bank, but they aren’t assholes about it. The couple bragging about their bank rolls, however, are. I genuinely like all of their friends, minus these two fucksticks. Look, I am self-sufficient. I have a great business, and do well for myself, but I refuse to talk about how big my financial lady dick is. I worked hard, I played hard, and my testimonials speak for themselves. But every time I come to one of these gigs, I am cornered by these particular righteous fucks who thought they were doing me a favor by hiring me.

  Wrong.

  Now mind you, I catered to every income and take big paying gigs, but only because the person hiring me is decent. However, the average Joe these two pricks would snub in a heartbeat were my kind of people. Nothing trumps real. Because I kept my overhead low and my prices affordable, I could accommodate almost any budget and if someone still couldn’t afford me? Well, let’s just say I’ve never turned anyone away because of money. See, I’m Metro Detroit’s premier event planner, and I rock at it. And because I rock at it, I didn’t need to lower myself to people like this. People who don’t concern themselves with being nice or humble. People who would hire me, pull out all the stops, and at the end of the day it was just another party. Forgettable. Taylor St. James didn’t do forgettable. I chose to align myself with people who would not only remember it always, but appreciated the lengths I went to make them happy.

  So, cutting them both off, I simply say, “I’m booked through 2018, so sorry.”

  Boom.

  Take that, bitches.

  Turning away and heading to find India, I am stopped by Scott who gives me a fresh glass and a kiss on my cheek. “You look amazing, Taylor,” he says sincerely.

  “You’re no slouch yourself, Sinclair.” And it’s true, he wasn’t. Scott Sinclair was a hottie. A genuine hottie who knew he looked good, but also knew his wife would deck him if he got an ego about it.

  “Evander is out back hoping to speak with you.”

  “Hoping?” I laugh at the lie.

  Evander Church, the second Church in charge, avoids me like a three-day old yeast infection. Has done so repeatedly for two years, in fact. He takes one look at me, and I swear he fights scratching his crotch before frowning and running away. Okay, so he doesn’t run. More like stomps. When he does speak to me, it’s like he’s making a checklist of all my flaws. A long checklist…Bottom line, I make him uncomfortable. Men like him didn’t stoop to women like me. By that, I mean women who are fun, have high alcohol tolerances, and like foreplay.

  Plus, he is all sorts of sexy, successful, and clueless.

  Which seems like a waste for someone to be that good looking and not at least embrace it.

  Fucking shame he also lacks the ability to cut loose or smile. Once, I did catch him mid-grin at something I said, and I kid you not, it looked like he shit his pants. The man is a workaholic and it bleeds from his pores. In two years, I’ve never even seen him outright laugh, which always made me wonder why he bothered coming in the first place. Although, if I had to bet, it was to take shots at me. As if I was the entertainment. The man couldn’t seem to help his reaction to me. I couldn’t seem to help forcing the reaction out of him. While I couldn’t explain it, the fact remained; he intrigued me.

  And whether we liked it or not, we were drawn to each other.

  Where it confuses me, I don’t mind it, and I don’t fight it.

  But I do my best to let him think I ignore it.

  Because while Evander is also drawn to me, he hates that he is.

  Unlike me, he didn’t hide his reaction
for my benefit.

  No matter, we start out at opposites sides of a party, we always end up going at it. Without fail, for two solid years, Evander Church has been verbally destroying me and I still didn’t know why.

  Even with his open dislike of me, I do feel a little bad for him. Because some of the guests here are also employed by Church, Church & Sinclair. His own peers, who don’t speak to him or even try to hide the fact they are hiding. Here was a man who gives orders and expects them to be followed, only he had no one to boss around. It is obvious he thrived on a controlled environment, and I wondered if he had a masturbation schedule, too. As for me, I got off when the mood struck. And if it happened to be in traffic…who really cared?

  “Taylor,” Scott smiles, gauging me. “He’s a good guy. Maybe a little rough around the edges but he means well. He also knows you’re the best and that’s what he wants.”

  And what Evander wants, Evander gets, apparently. “I’m on it, Scott,” I salute while snagging another drink on my way out back. Now double fisting, I use my foot to ease the door open, stepping fully out into the yard.

  The Sinclairs don’t have just any backyard either. Hell no. It is the goddamn mecca of Landscaping Weekly. The craziest part of all this beauty? My pal and her hubby maintained this insane jungle together. As in a hobby. A way to spend quality time together. How they had extra time for it, I’ll never know.

  Because I lived in a loft above my warehouse and the only green in my vicinity was the pot I kept in my freezer for special occasions. I call these occasions, days.

  Locating Evander, I scope him out by the massive fire pit you could fry a house in. As always, he was alone, and I’ll admit, from a distance he was perfection. Big, broody, and imposing. He had a way about him that screamed confidence and authority. Unfortunately, this came with a you’re beneath me aura, too. While he was gorgeous in a GQ sort of way, he appeared to have the personality of a paint sample. The first time I met him I drooled, wanted to climb his large body and tattoo his face on my ass. My whole ass. But two things stopped me. The first being the look of disdain he threw in my direction and the second, his choice in female companionship.