Page 45 of Wrong Pucking Player

“H-Hey, Armani! I-I didn’t know you were back in town.”

Oh.

Right.

Forgot all about my reputation here.

“Flew in two days ago,” I announce while I take a single step that lands me far too close to their group.

All of them scurry back like I’m a disease they don’t want to be infected by. I don’t pay much mind to it, but I can tell from the sparkle of intrigue in Andrews’ eyes that she’s interested in the backstory behind this.

Great. She’s going to pester me whenever she’s home.

“Ah. G-G-Good to know! Don’t mean to waste your time, you know? Didn’t think you’d be associated with this cunt.”

“I’m not a cunt,” Andrews goes off with an exaggerated groan before she points at him with her left arm. “I’ve committed to one guy from sixteen to when I turned twenty. After that, I enjoyed my hoe era because y’all men don’t know how to fuck girls properly. Being explorative and trying to find a man who knows which hole to put their cock in doesn’t make me a cunt. It makes me a woman with fucking standards who wants to commit to a man who can actually please her and not a boy who doesn’t know shit but wants his girl to bow and suck his cock every hour of the day.”

We’re all helplessly staring at her as she literally goes on a rant about the importance of self-discovery and love in the department of sex, but my attention is drawn by the droplets of blood that begin to fall onto the concrete beneath us.

My eye twitches.

My body grows stiff.

The mere air around me suddenly feels far too thin.

I’m not sure it’s my demeanor that shifts the entire atmosphere, but even Andrews pauses her lecturing rant to slowly glance my way with wide eyes.

“Armani? Why on heaven’s do you look like you’re going to murder someone?” She looks far too innocent for someone who’s injured.

Maybe the pain hasn’t connected to her receptors yet, but the mere sight of her being hurt turns a switch in my mind that makes me want to punch something.

Punch someone?

“Oh fuck, Frankie,” one of the boys to his left declares and points to Andrew’s arm. “Think you hurt Armani’s girl.”

“I did what…” He trails off as his eyes land on Andrew’s elbow, as the blob of blood only grows and begins to spill down her arm. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Andrews questions before she glances at her elbow to see the obvious wound that we’re all staring at. “Oh, shit!” She seems completely surprised by the sight before she pouts her lips and blinks her eyes.

Oh fucking no.

“Don’t you dare fucking cry, Andrews,” I snarl as if I’m trying to avoid a plague. I can’t deal with women crying.

Nope.

Abort the fucking mission if it means me watching those unique blue eyes fill with tears and pull at my fucking heartstrings.

I’ll lose it mentally if she sheds a damn tear.

Whatever look I give the group of men trembling in horror has them screaming and dropping to their hands and knees in seconds in front of Andrews.

“SORRY, ARMANI’S GIRL!” they all declare in unison.

You’d think I was a fucking mafia boss with how they were reacting in public. It’s almost embarrassing to experience firsthand.

“I-I shouldn’t have been in the way! Please forgive me! I’ll fundraise money for the medical fees!”

“Are you stupid?! Give her everything we have now!” his friend on his right insists.

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