“I’ve put a lot into this relationship,” she yells. “All those times I sat through your boring baseball games? You owe me for that. All those insipid dinners with your family? I want to be reimbursed for my time, dammit.”
“I didn’t realize getting to know my family was such a chore,” I say calmly, “but I don’t think it rises to the level of compensation. Most couples would consider that just the shit you do for the one you love.”
“Fuck you!” Henrietta screams.
Her abrupt change in mood and tone makes me think she’s been hiding multiple personalities all this time. Maybe I should buy these guys a case of beer for saving me from her.
“I’ll take you for everything you have—your houses, money, it’s all going to be mine soon! I can’t believe I wasted one minute on such a fucking dumbass jock who wouldn’t know how to find my G-spot with a flashlight and a map.”
She’s managed the impossible with her outburst—all twelve strippers have stopped fucking and sucking and are staring at her in disbelief.
“Maybe I’d have better luck making you come if you ever did more than just lie there like a wet fish,” I hit back. “If only I’d known the key to your sex drive was getting a dozen of my friends for a gangbang, we could’ve settled this a long fucking time ago.”
I’ve never been hit by a woman. Some might find that hard to believe, given the number of women I’ve been with—all of whom had multiple orgasms, by the way. There’s nothing poor or off about my sexual prowess and Henrietta knows it, too.
But I’m not fucking stupid—or blind, for that matter. I’ve been in enough bench-clearing brawls to know when I’m about to be on the receiving end of a punch.
I see Henrietta pulling her arm back. Just as she thrusts her fist toward my nose, I see a flash of blonde hair and a curl of red lips appear in the doorway behind my now-ex-fiancée, swinging a purse so hard and so heavy that when it connects with Henrietta’s head, it lays her right out on the floor.
“Goddamn,” the red lips swear in a southern accent as sweet as a Texas-sized cinnamon roll. “After the night I’ve had, that felt fucking good.”
As we stand over the unconscious body of my cheating whore of an ex- fiancée, I can’t help it—I grin.
I recognize that sweet little voice, that blonde hair, and those ruby red lips.
Lord have mercy.
Mysti May Grace, in the flesh.
Her blue eyes sparkle as she smooths an invisible scuff off the part of her purse that she knocked Henrietta out with. She’s sans an engagement ring, I notice right away—which is funny, given that…
“Thought you were in Tijuana,” I say, crossing my arms and tilting my jaw back. “Wedding night jitters?”
“You could say that. Wanna get out of here?” Mysti asks, running her fingers through her thick, wavy hair. It’s like spun-fucking-gold and I’m mesmerized by it—as are, apparently, all the strippers still standing naked in the room.
Mysti May doesn’t even give them a glance... “Seriously, let’s take off. I’d rather not have to knock out this bitch a second time.”
“After the favor you just did me,” I say, grabbing Mysti’s hand. I lead her out the door and away from my shitty, stripper-fucking past. “I’d follow you anywhere.”