Page 55 of The Man Handler

Unfuckingbelievable.

“Garrett,” I snap, bracing myself up against the door before I fall on my ass. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?!”

“I told you we need to talk, and I’m not going anywhere until we do.”

“I want you out of my house, now!”

He removes his leather jacket, tossing it across the arm of the chair, then sits his ass down, totally ignoring me.

I huff, slamming the door. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You,” he snaps.

“Then get out. I didn’t invite you here, and I don’t want you here, especially if you’re trying to beat me in the head about shit I am not interested in. You can’t simply come over here anytime you want and barge up in here like you got it like that.” He continues to ignore me. “Garrett, do you hear me talking to you! I want you to leave.”

He turns and faces me. He stares, but says nothing. Leans back in his seat, interlocking his fingers behind his head. For a moment, I think this nigga is crazy. Hell, maybe we’re both fucking nuts.

I am now standing in front of him. Hands on my hips, neck rolling in ghetto fashion. “You got some muthafucking nerve! I don’t know who the fuck you think you are coming up in here like you own shit. Last time I checked, I didn’t have a man, and I don’t want one. So, why are you here, huh, Garrett?”

He continues to stare. And it is starting to piss me off even more.

“So you’re just going to sit there and stare. I thought you had so much to say.”

He rubs his hands together, then leans over and rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. I can tell he is waiting for me to finish running my mouth. And in all honesty, I don’t even know why I am standing here getting myself all riled up, having a one-sided argument with a man who isn’t even mine. A man I don’t even want. Or do I? I shake my head, finally realizing exactly how crazy I must look and sound.

I sit my ass down in the chair across from him, fuming.

“Are you finished?” he calmly asks.

I fold my arms across my chest, trying not to look like a pouting five-year-old. But for some reason, that’s exactly how I am feeling. Still, I feel just

ified in my anger. As far as I am concerned, I have the right to be mad at him. He’s here unannounced. He’s pretty much barged his way in here. And he has disrespected, and disregarded, my house rules. He knows, like everyone else does, that I like my dick by appointment. Do not come here unannounced, or uninvited.

My cell phone rings. I look at it sitting over on the coffee table in front of him, chiming away. It suddenly stops, then starts up again.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asks, pointing at it. “It might be one of your little boyfriends.”

He smirks.

I roll my eyes.

It rings again.

“Someone must really want to talk to you. You sure you don’t want to see who’s calling?”

I pull in a deep breath, slowly blowing out my frustration. “Garrett,” I say evenly. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, so now you’re ready to listen?”

I tilt my head.

He runs his hands over his face. “What are you afraid of?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I want to know why you are so afraid.”

“What makes you think that I’m afraid?”

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