Page 26 of The Man Handler

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it before placing it back up to my ear. “Uh, nooooo,” I answer sarcastically. “I thought I told you the last time I saw you to delete my number.”

“I didn’t think you meant it,” he states, sounding serious.

“Oh, I meant it. Along with everything else I said that night.”

“Damn. I was hoping a little space and time would mend whatever ill feelings you might have had the last time we were together.”

“Benson, are you delusional?”

“Hunh? Whadaya mean am I delusional?”

“Just what I asked,” I say. “I want to know if you are crazy, ’cause you really must be if you think you and that lazy dick of yours will ever be invited back into this tight pussy again. After the way you half-fucked me the last time I had you in my bed, I don’t think so, nigga.”

Silence.

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m thinking before I speak. I really don’t appreciate how you coming at me. Have I ever disrespected you?”

I take a deep breath. “No, not that I can recall,” I admit.

“So then what makes you think you can come out your mouth all slick?”

“Let me explain something to you. Number one: I’m a grown-ass woman, and I speak to you how I want. I have no respect for a man who creeps on his woman, so get it right. Number two: When I ask—no, tell—a nigga to not call my fucking house again and he does anyway, then it’s obvious to me that his ass doesn’t understand basic English and he damn sure doesn’t respect my wishes, so I have to give it to him raw and uncut. Bottom line, if you don’t like how you’re being talked to, then don’t call my motherfucking house. You had your opportunity to get some good pussy on a regular and you blew it, so let’s keep it moving.”

“You know what? Fuck you…you fucking nasty, trick-ass bitch.”

“No, fuck you,” I say back, laughing. “I know you don’t think you hurt my feelings with that little bullshit line. Nigga, puhleeeeeze. You need to get your dick game up first, before you try to come for me.”

“Fucking smut,” he snaps.

I continue laughing. “And so is your dumb-ass mother for throwing up her rusty-ass legs and giving birth to a pathetic-ass motherfucker like you,” I snap back. “Nigga, you are a fucking waste of dick. So you might as well do yourself a favor and go put a bullet in that lazy-ass cock of yours. You retarded fuck. Now, don’t call my fucking number again ’cause the next time you do, I won’t be so nice.”

“Whatever, bitch,” he snaps, hanging up on me.

I fall back on my bed, laughing my ass off until tears pour out of my eyes. These niggas crack me the hell up. I swear they do. The minute you check their asses, they wanna resort to calling you out of your name. That shit is hilarious to me. Hell. I keep s

hit real with ’em and their dumb asses want to start feeling some kind of way about it. Oh, well. The truth hurts. And I don’t give a hot fuck whose feelings get hurt. Niggas have been dismissing and disrespecting women for centuries. It’s about damn time women turn the tables and start shoveling the shit back at them. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a new damn day. I’m not letting any man try to pimp me, or play me. Believe that.

Instead of dealing with a nigga tonight, I decide to take my ass a long, hot bath, climb up in bed, and masturbate. That’s exactly what I’ll do, I think, getting up and removing my clothes, fuck myself into a delicious slumber.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Of all the people to run into first thing this morning, I have to bump right into Everett’s ass, literally and figuratively. “Ooh,” I shriek. He turns around. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you standing there,” I say, looking up at him. I was so deep in thought, looking over some last-minute changes to one of my weekly reports, that I rammed right into him.

“Anytime,” he says, offering me a mischievous grin. He steps back onto the elevator with me. “I’m glad it was you, instead of someone else.” He flashes me a smile, pausing, taking me in with his eyes, considering what stands before him. Today, I am stylishly dressed in a brown and orange print wrap dress with a pair of brown four-and-a-half inch heels. My hair is in an updo with a sweeping bang that curves along the right side of my face, and I am wearing a light coat of cranberry-wine lipstick to accentuate my luscious lips. He scans my body, smiling, then continues, “I’d like to bump into you as many times as I can.”

I roll my eyes, waving him off. “Yeah, I’m sure you would. Umm, I thought you were getting off.”

“I was,” he says, seductively licking his lips and eyeing me up and down. I try to act as if I don’t notice. But his smoldering gaze is slowly causing a fire to stir between my thighs. “But I forgot something.”

“Oh, really?” I inquire, pressing the button for the basement level. The door closes. “And what’s that?”

“You,” he says.

I roll my eyes dramatically and say, “Oh, please. How many times have you used that tired line?”

He laughs. “Including you, three. But those other two times don’t count since I didn’t mean it.”

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