Page 133 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I snatch my t-shirt off and wipe up the spill, balling it up as I bend down to kiss the spot I just blessed. She moans softly, but she doesn’t turn my way. She simply says, “Goodnight, baby. I love you.”

I wait until I’m closing the door behind me to respond.

“I love you, too.”

36

Raya

I didn’t actually think Mr. Taylor would come over on a Sunday, but here he is, pulling into the driveway two hours after I called and fed him a little damsel-in-distress act.

So easy.

Men aredumb.

I stare out the front window, watching as he cuts the Lexus’ engine and steps out, moving slow on knees that ain’t what they used to be. He straightens and glances at the house, completely unaware of the trouble waiting for him at the door.

The timing is perfect. Ace is somewhere playing basketball with his little friends, sweating and laughing, totally oblivious to what I’m about to do here.

If he’s anywhere near his phone, he’ll get an alert as soon as Jackson rings the doorbell, but it’s fine. In fact, it’s preferable.

I smooth my hands down my sweater dress, adjust my cleavage, and wait.

Ding Dong.

I open the door with a slow, lazy smile.

“Jackson,” I purr.

He stands there, one hand holding his car keys, the other hanging at his side. He has the guns out for me today, bulging in a short-sleeved polo. He takes me in, eyes roaming my body, but he’s careful about it. He schools his expression quick, like he already knows there’s trouble ahead.

But he still steps inside.

Another Monday at this fucking piece of shit school. Ace needs to hurry up and give me my ring already. I’m sick of this shit.

The kids are coloring right now. If you ask me, they need to be reading and doing math. And not just the super smart outliers; the whole class needs to step it up. No wonder America’s so behind. We don’t expect these kids to do shit before five years old.

The demon child is acting a little off today, I noticed. No smart ass comments, no eyerolls. Just sitting there at the table stabbing her crayon against her paper like it personally offended her.

I prefer to ignore things that aren’t my business, but something about seeing her like this rubs me the wrong way. So I drag myself out of my chair and make the short walk across the room.

“What’s wrong with you?” I say, propping my hip against the table.

She lifts one shoulder. “Nothing.”

This little girl stay lying.

I arch an eyebrow and wait. She lasts about three seconds before she cracks.

“I got in trouble at home,” she mutters, still stabbing at the paper.

“What’d you do?”

She chews her lip. “Told my daddy he stank.”

I swallow a giggle. “And?”

“He got mad, and now I can’t have my iPad for a whole week.”

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