Tammy’s fiancé and Mitch were familiar with one another, so they held small talk and friendly laughs-their usual.
I could see into the kitchen from the room Ciara and I was in with the kids. At one of the card-tables sat a girl: A homely-looking chick who looked like she was pregnant at the eyes and wearing glasses for two. She could not keep those things swollen things off of Mitch.
“Oh shit. Not again!” Ciara laughed out loud.
It was funny as hell-Ciara knew this thing all too well—too.
“Girl I know when Mitch walked up in there, those glasses fogged up didn’t they?” she laughed and asked aloud, as if she was yelling it into the kitchen so that the pregnant-eyed girl who couldn’t hear, could hear-or at least read.
“Girl these whores love that man. He puts a spell on these bitches when he walks through! Puts ‘em in a trance. They looooove him girl! They wanna fuck him sight-on-scene! It’s ridic!” I laughed with Ciara-over the loud music.
All we could do was laugh because, again, and again, and again and again, I say: Mitch really was one fine ass athletic dude. He could get a girl’s pussy wet in thirty seconds-flat on just looking at him, alone. By the time he would flash that smile of his, within the next ten seconds, if her shit was in any way functioning-if she didn’t cum in her pants, that knob would surely be throbbing at least 300bps. Everywhere we would go, we would watch girls damn near lose control when they would look at Mitch. We liked to laugh at the responses-but little did they all know; I had my fists in both his nostrils. So by the time he would split that corner to stand or sit back next to me and they got a look at the both of us, all their fantasies of meeting their Fabio would be crushed. “Sorry!” (We would laugh).
Ciara had been on many of our outings with us and knew the game all too well.
She was all-too familiar with it all and got the biggest kick out of it.
Throughout mine and Mitch’s on-again and off-again relationship; even two of my very own good friends went in for the kill during our “off-again” times that I was weaving Mitch in and out of my life between Remedy and post-Remedy, simply wanting relationship with the concept of quality time rather than “us.”
Even Dana was one of my (two) friends who was secretly crazy about Mitch. And she and I had a history and closeness so far back that the most competitive and rivalry we ever had been was a team effort and living dream to beat the Stridettes during our tweens on the neighborhood drill team: I was the classically trained dancer in since fourth grade therefore had the highest, pointed toe prance with my hands on my hips. I: was the “Clydesdale” of the team.
She: was “the sassiest pivot and thigh slap upon completion of the turn” of the team. Whatever the analogy was for that, the top and bottom line is that everybody else on the team was in our fucking shadows. Aside from that-there was never any enmity or rivalry with her. Dana me had taken baths as kids together as, I was the honorary sister-cousin among all her sisters and cousins for Christ sakes!
Fast forward, we were grown women now and she-like all my friends-knew, despite the bad timing, awkwardness, lopsidedness, tears, tumultuousness and turmoil that clouded my relationships with men; my luck with men was still notoriously enviable.
Men loved Angie. And everybody knew that. That was a faxed fact, jack. Period.
So, I could see where any girl would want to test her sexy or ability against, or by comparison to mine but Dana had the wrong friend to try that with—as well as the wrong friend’s boyfriend to try.
Not only was it against the friend code, friend or not, things like that, to me, was the strangest, weirdest form of female aggression and reeked of the kind of desperation that I observed never worked in a woman’s favor and feminine power.
I was never into leaping. I lured.
I was never into seeking. I summoned.
I was never into demanding. I commanded.
It was my theme park, what should I scream for?
When my daddy told me early on-even before I could understand it-that it was all about me or nothing. I believed him.
When my daddy told me-early in the game-that I was the star of the show. I believed him.
When my daddy told me that I was the ringleader of the circus-I believed him.
By this time in my naivete, while most girls could only hold out their hand to boyfriends and it be pecked with dick, drama, deceit, and dalliances; I could hold out my hand it be pecked with everything from dollars to summoning their emotional, mental and even sexual dependency-even along with the dumb shit wherefrom, still, I snatched souls and secrets—secrets of their personal pasts, relationship pasts, sexual exploits and even secrets of their ex girlfriends.
I learned early on that men loved to talk and reveal—especially of they trust you. And because of this-early on-I learned that you had to give them nothing but your magic and opposite that: migraines-one or the other-depending on what they earned either way: the magic or the migraine. Like a Pavlov’s Dog positive-negative reinforcement exercise, it had to be the magic or migraine given solely and contingent on how they put out.
As subtly emotional as I knew I was-I kept a lot to myself in that regard but on the outside, I was the perfect homie-lover-friend to my boyfriends, all wrapped into one. I was nurturing and naïve but somehow knew how to play to their obnoxiousness and their nature.
Unfortunately most girls, and especially the girls I hung out with, didn’t have those kinds of connections or ability to connect in those ways with their boyfriends. I noticed that they were always chasing, always the aggressor, always the one trying to have and build relationships with guys who clearly had no interest in the kind of closeness and connection with them that I-for one- could never stand for, be in, or give of myself to. No fucking way.
I was always the ear and adviser to all my friends about love and men but I didn’t know how to articulate how I would do what I would do because I would just do it-it was second nature for me-just about as much as it was first nature for them to not know how to connect with emotionally, mentally or even physically summon the guys they, alone-themselves, were committed to.
So with that, they would just…do what they do. But me? I would work with what I had control of or knew.
And low and behold, Dana tried it. She went for that shit. Mitch was that fine. She couldn’t help herself.
He and I both knew she had a lil’ crush on him and we would laugh about it-together.
I’ll never forget how one Mother’s Day, Mitch fought hard to get my time.
We had been one of our “off-again” moments probably for about a week or two beforehand, but because of the way we were; he secretly knew that he could bombard my time, especially considering the sentiment of the day.
Mitch was very big on creating experiences and unforgettable ‘moments’ with me. He always wanted to mark his spot in my life, 
time and mind. I secretly liked that about him despite the fact that I wasn’t shit and neither was he. But our poison was quite the elixir-for both of us sometimes.
I wanted to chill that day, but he had the day planned. I wanted to just bathe and hang out around the house in pajamas-not so much as comb my hair that day. All I wanted to do was relax so he lost that fight and had to trash his pre-plans, but he refused to lose the fight all the way.
He insisted on coming over to spend the day with Lucky and me-so he brought the potluck and plans all over to me. It was soooo super sweet. Mitch always tried so hard to impress me-everyday-no matter what.
I was dressed in pajamas and my hair was all over my head that day but Mitch didn’t care, he just wanted to be up under me like a little puppy.
My phone rang.
“Ring,” Ring,” “Ring.” I picked up.
It was thoughtful Dana:
“Happy Mother’s Day. What are you doing today?” she asked.
“Same to you sweetie, I’m just chillin’ out today-pajamas all day. I might bake something good for Mr. Mitch. He brought enough food over to feed an army-but no desert!” I giggled and smacked his cute nose, as he sat up under me looking up at me like a puppy, while I sat on the bed.
Dana replied: “Oh so you’re not going to the park today?” she asked.
(Sunday-any Sunday-every Sunday in spring, summer and early fall, was the hot-spot up at Ethan’s Park).
“Nah, I can’t go today-I’m held hostage,” I sighed and laughed.
I winked at him-so as to say: “It’s your little girlfriend.”
Mitch yelled aloud: “You wouldn’t be held hostage if you would’ve gotten dressed and let me take you out instead of bringing take out to you!”
“Oh, Mitch is over there?” asked Dana-lowering her voice.
“Yeah girl…getting on my nerves already-acting like a puppy and won’t get off from underneath me,” I blushed and blew a kiss at him. He was so cute that day.
“Oh, okay. Well I’ll talk to you later,” she said.
“Okay well, have a good day,” I replied.
Mitch and Me hung out, cuddled and watched television and all thing naughty and nice.
A couple hours later:
“Ding-dong. Ding-dong,” the bell rang.
I was clueless as to who it could be because I had gotten all my “Happy Mothers Day” phone calls from everybody for the day and Ciara was spending the day with her mom-so, I wasn’t expecting her to come over soooooo who could it be? I wondered…
I got up and walked to the top of the stairs:
“Who is it?” I yelled.
“Dana!” she yelled back.
“Dana?” I questioned, looking back at Mitch-laying back on the pillows and looking at me the same way I was looking at him: Perplexed.
“What the hell? Didn’t you tell her you were busy today?” he asked.
“Yeah…I did,” I paused.
I shook my head back and forth and Mitch began shaking his right along with me.
I whispered in at him:
“It’s official. That one right there…lovesssss her some you!” I said, as I pointed down the steps.
Mitch clutched his stomach laughing.
“Fuck that. Nah, YOU answer the door, and I’m going to sit where you are sitting,” I said to him.
“Come on, get up…get the fuck up right now,” I demanded.
He laughed and shook his head and shook his head some more.
He knew me all too well-so much so that yes, I could trust him to open the door to give Dana just what she wanted and he not send her any energy or indication that she even stood the chance that the fantasy in her head played out that caused her to get prettied up to drive over to my house for my man to see her.
Showtime.
I sent him charging down the steps while I sat back on the pillows-waiting for Dana’s, thoughtful sneaky ass to make her way to the top of the steps. When she would reach the top, the next step [for anybody walking into my house] was to look to the left-where my bedroom was (or straight ahead, if I was in the living room).
I lay on the bed-dying to hear what her excuse was for stopping by, after I had just made it clear to her that I would be held up all day in the house with Mitch.
She made her way to the top of the steps.
I looked over to my right and there she stood: dressed to killllllllll honey-in her Sunday’s best.
Hair: shit, shined and shellacked.
Purse, hanging and swinging:
“Well hello Dana. You look cute. What’s up?” I asked-condescendingly, curiously.
She put on the baby doll voice: “Uh-nothing, just stopping by-you’re still not going?”
I heard Mitch slowly making his way back up the steps. I placed my finger on my chin and watched Mitch walked around through the living room, to the other side of my bedroom’s second door to enter from that side. Inside I giggled. Because Mitch and I had a connection and energy that nobody else knew about but he and I, and well…there, she was.
He walked his tall, athletic, beautiful self back into the room from the other door opposite the door where Dana stood.
I giggled some more inside-just feeling her heart beat down to her pussy.
I could tell the fantasy in her head that played out as she got dressed and prepared to make her way over to me (to be seen by my pretty boy boyfriend), didn’t exactly turn out like it did in her mind.
Mitch sat back down on the floor beneath me like my sweet little puppy-facing the television.
I began to run my fingers through his beautiful head of hair and looked at Dana with a very serious face.
I took a deep sigh.
“Dana,” I paused and said slowly with my eyes squinted.
“I told you…” I held on to the word: “You”—“that I would be spending the day with Mr. Mitch-here at home…I was serious when I said that,” I said, seriously.
She could feel my energy. I wasn’t playing with her ass.
“Hmm. Well, I will talk to you later then,” she said-looking embarrassed.
“Sure Dana. Talk to you later,” I replied.
She walked down the steps alone.
The moment she shut the door, Mitch turned around, looked at me and burst into laughter.
We were stunned. It was just….mad weird. But that wasn’t the first time Dana had done some snake shit behind my back with guys. Even as far back as when I was with Santana, he and Dana worked at a steakhouse joint for a bit and even he told me some flirty, inappropriate shit Dana had done at work and on the bus on the way home one day. She sat across from him and threw her legs on him or something to that effect. I never even said anything to her back then but little did Dana know, she was running a tally with me that she certainly couldn’t afford.
“These bitches love them some you! I mean…they are willing to cross their own damn friend for you. Amazing! And me and this one go way since fifth fucking grade!” I said to Mitch.
“I wouldn’t do that!” yelled Mitch.
“I know you wouldn’t but I’m just saying, like…why would she pull some shit like that just to get a glimpse of you or you of her and shit? Like…that was bold, desperate and dumb!” we laughed and carried on about our afternoon.
As if it wasn’t enough that just months prior (on a Sunday, after coming from Ethan’s Park) Mitch was at the McDonalds near there-getting the googly-eyes from Dana-trying to flirt; acting like she didn’t know who he was.
When he refreshed her “thoughtful” memory, she was so embarrassed that he called her to the carpet on it, that she resorted to eluding to the false fact that she hadn’t talked to me in near ions.
You see, the ‘hadn’t talked to me in ions’ excuse was one that she had used when yes, I hadn’t talked to her in a while because she had stabbed me in the back at one of the oddest moments in time: When she had her first daughter. I was knocked up by Remedy.
She actually hadn’t spoken to her mom in these ‘ions’ who had put her out and she needed a place to stay.
Although I was in the process of moving from that house (to the one Mitch and I was currently staying at, at the time), I cleaned that house from top to bottom in preparation for Dana and her new 
baby girl to come stay with me while she was awaiting her apartment.
But before she could even shit her baby girl out and get to my house, I learned some of the most terrible news: My friend Posh and her sister had gone to the hospital to visit Dana after she had her baby. Dana, who I had grown up with since fifth grade, knew that I didn’t even take on many “new” friends. Posh and I made fast-friends at the hood high school I attended my senior year.
I wasn’t even really friends with Posh’s sister there, just friendly to her because Posh and me were technically friends. But it was Posh’s sister that ran me the news that Dana sat up in that hospital talking about me like a junkyard dog.
It was mad weird.
But throughout the city, one thing Dana was becoming notorious for was if she needed a place to bunk, wanted to borrow a shoe, shirt, dress, slacks or coins; if she could offer any conservation or information about you to whomever was concerned, it was her down payment and shoe-in and your shit was as good as told—as long as she could get what she wanted out of it or the moment as it served her desired outcome.
Even over broken girlfriend codes and disloyalty, I hated that one thing about Dana even more.
She even had the nerve to tell me, how she was hanging out with Pucker’s Soccer and Soccer’s home girl Andrea for a short grip of time. This was during the time when I had moved, gotten a new number and had been MIA on Pucker and had gotten my new apartment (that, at that moment in time) Pucker knew nothing about along with his not being able to find me.
The oddest thing was out of Dana’s own mouth-her telling me about her excursions with Soccer and Andrea. Soccer joked that she and Pucker were still going to get married regardless of what Pucker and I had. According to Dana, Soccer also joked that she was going to send me an invitation. And according to my very own “friend” Dana, they all laughed.
“Why would you not check her Dana when you, of all people know that I’ve gone through with him for years and how I had been done with him since the night of my graduation? Why would you let them speak of, and make a joke of me me in that way, Dana? Why?”
“Oh girl it was nothing. It was really nothing,” was how Dana brushed it off.
It was that moment, and the tally tickered up through that very point, I knew I had to place Dana on some tier of friendship that was a ways far beyond our sweet childhood history, her thoughtfulness in showing up to my high school graduation and even later-her showing up right after Pucker found out where I lived and came over and took the pussy that day.
Because fast forward, here she lay in the hospital bed spilling the beans about me to my new friend and her sister-things about me that neither of them even knew about me, my emotions, my boyfriend or the content of the conversation Dana had no business offering up and that she, herself, wasn’t updated on.
Sure, she knew that I was preggers with my boyfriend Remedy’s child and heavily considered not having it, but as far as she (didn’t) know, she had no idea if I had miscarried or aborted. But let her tell it, I had already thrown the child in the garbage can. Dana was talking so far out the side of her neck. Because oddly, as close as she and I was, she didn’t even know much of, if anything, about me Remedy. The only two friends that even knew him was Tina, who was still with Pucker’s friend Right Hand Man, and my bestie K-K who had moved to L.A.
Remedy, myself and Tina had all worked at the marketing gigs at one time or another back when Remedy and me were close friends. But, aside from Ciara, none of my friends even knew Remedy nor were Tina and K-K even updated on my entire relationship, goings on and situation with Remedy. So Dana was way off. But according to Posh’s sister, Dana was now over in Regene [a mutual friend of Posh and her sister]’s closet and merely gossip-cashing me [her friend since fifth grade] out-knowing that in just one day from doing so; she was about to wrap her newborn baby girl up and coming to live with me. I was floored at her stupidity and boldness!
There was no way I could let her come live with me after being run that news.
So I placed a phone call to her in the hospital before she could even get discharged. I advised that she patch things up with her mother or go to her grandmother’s because there was just no way she could live with me a whole day after trashing me like she did-to two people who did not even know me like that.
So fast forward.
It was obvious that she used that situation’s “ions that she hadn’t seen or talked to me” in order to clear the way for Mitch to pass through her open play up at that McDonald’s that Sunday afternoon.
And although we had eventually made our way back as friends, Dana was already running tallied accounts of her sidewinder ways. So when she did what she did on Mother’s Day, she didn’t even know that I even knew about what she pulled at McDonald’s even before that.
Yes, these whores would try it. Friend or no friend.
Tonya (the second friend mine—since fifth grade) was another one.
She and I had gone out together one evening. At the venue, a couple guy friends of mine happened to have been there and I spotted Mitch as well.
At this particular time, Mitch and me weren’t exclusive but at the same time, we were not quite off but not on either, however, I did not want his eyes following me the whole night because I was on some care-free shit that night. So I had Tonya, who was much taller than me, on eye spy-shielding me from view whenever I was mingling around.
Well months later, during one of mine and Mitch’s off-again times, he was busy involved in this church-based modeling group where, ironically, Tonya was apart of the same group. She and I would be talking on the phone and she would act really weird by ending our conversations with this same statement: “Girl I have something to tell you, but I’ve got to be sure first-it’s nothing. We’ll talk…”
Turns out, that “nothing” was the fact she had been taking Mitch out to dinners after the two of them would be hanging out with that modeling group they were in.
Her sidewinding ass was trying to see if he remembered her from being with me at the venue some time ago.
She, knowing who he was to me, was really hoping that she could play this whole bumping into someone that I was involved “once upon a time” excuse.
She was methodically juggling how she was going to tell me while trying to play it.
Mitch, was pretty much innocent in this because he didn’t know she was a friend of mine. He was merely hanging out and messing around with other girls while I was caught up in the rapture of the love of Remedy.
But she sure as hell remembered Mitch’s fine ass. And all for the sake of him being fine; she was willing to forfeit and dismember me for his fine ass-having no idea that I could write my own ticket: to, far, away near, at whim and by my choosing him at any moment in time-regardless of our “off-agains.”
Regardless of where I placed Mitch or how far away from me, still, he always told me everything-next to how many times a day he shitted-if I wanted to know that too. And yes, he told on her ass too.
You see, according to Mitch (who, after he fucked her twice) she confessed to him at dinner one night, that she knew him by way of me. Of course Mitch was freaked out about it. And just like that stunt Dana pulled, Tonya’s way of easing the tension was to tell him that she hadn’t talked to me in “ions”-just to get a taste of what it would be like to be with his pretty ass-all at the expense of dispensing a friend. These hoes were diabolical when it came to Mitch’s fine ass.
Thank goodness I never told them about our bedroom business and how good I had him trained there but little did they know, it was even more than just that.
They were unbelievable. They were willing to forfeit 10/12 years of good friendship over a possibility, a roll in the hay and a chance-a chance that they did not even have (as long as I was alive and Mitch was alive to know I was alive). The tricks these broads would play would be amazing. He would always come right to me and tell me. His being kept in my good graces was on a level that they knew nothing about or could compete with if they tried.
Little did they know, the same spell he could put on these girls (with his good looks and Colgate smile) was the same spell I had on him-and on my time, by my watch and at whim-for years.
He wasn’t through with me yet. And he could not get over me (just yet), because he had never gotten the chance to have all of me liked he wanted to. I was never fully: emotionally, mentally or physically available to him-all at once: ever. That was the difference between me and them (and all my girlfriends-actually). Always was. No matter how in love I was with a guy, he never knew (or had) all of me. That was my edge-my mystery to them all.
With Mitch, little did all these strumpets know, he wouldn’t let up. Not just because of the sex, but because he was curious to uncover more about me everyday-because he knew there was more-that he wasn’t getting. Throughout our entire friendship and into the relationship; he never got tired of trying. And I never got tired having him my way or looking at his fine ass through the same lenses that the next woman was looking from-including Pregnant Eyes while he, Ciara and me were at Tammy’s house.
So I knew what Pregnant Eyes was going through while sitting in that kitchen when Mitch walked in. She probably forgot that it was Tammy’s son’s birthday party and thought it was now her birthday and Mitch was the surprise. His ‘ole delicious self looked like life suddenly happening after turning the page of some hunky upscale male magazine.
I get it. I was well-briefed on the effect he had on girls, all too well.
Even Ciara, being my closest friend around me-knew all too well.
We laughed at ‘ole Pregnant Eyes, yet, Ciara knew it was about to be some drama, because (especially in closed quarters) girls couldn’t contain themselves whenever Mitch was around.
Sometimes we would sit back and watch and laugh for a while, but this time, I wasn’t going to watch for too long. It wasn’t funny anymore because Mitch was already getting beside himself these days-especially after I confessed to him that Rem got killed and definitely wouldn’t be coming back. It was like he was taking advantage of me having only him to fall back on-like he was getting me back for all the times I chose Rem’s feelings over his.
Back to the kitchen.
He already knew the routine.
He knew Ciara and I was watching in the distance and most probably was laughing.
But he also knew that he had better put himself in clear view so that I could see everything-including that Pregnant-Eye’s cooter knob throbbing in her pants underneath that table, too.
I was turning and giggling at Ciara to my right, then turning back to my left to give him the evil-eye. After a few minutes, the fun games weren’t fun anymore to him-he got realllll “cute.” He moved in t
he direction where he was out of my view, but I could still see that pregnant-eyed girl turned in such a way where she was talking (in his direction)…
Aw shit…
That is where he screwed up and my smile dropped. The laughter ceased.
I turned to Ciara:
“He obviously gave her what she wanted-some conversation. Look at her face-she’s happy as a lark. You know I’m going to kick his ass for this one, when we leave-right? You already know it right?”
Ciara laughed and sighed; preparing herself for another one of our big fights that she had grown accustomed to witnessing or trying to break up.
She knew we were going to go home and do the usual: Me-swinging on him for as much and many times as possible before he could grab hold of me and lift me high above him; pinning me to the nearest door or wall while squeezing my arms so tightly like he could taste feeling the ligaments, veins, muscle, and blood ooze through his fingers.
My arms forever stayed black, blue and purple. It was so painful. I could feel the pain before he could even grab me. Just by looking up into his eyes, I knew what was about to happen. I could feel it in my bones, in my body. I could feel it.
It would take every ounce of strength I had in me to try and break free from the strong grasp of his strong, thick fingers. I would be trying to scratch his eyes out while kicking him in the stomach as hard as I could to escape that pain. No matter how hard I kicked, my little feet kicking into his stomach was ineffective, nothing but annoyances to his rock-hard abs.
This position he’d have me up in was nothing but an abs and shoulder exercise for him, so he could
have me up there for what seemed like forever. He would have me pinned on that wall or door as if at any moment that he would step back-I would somehow hang there like a human wall-sconce.
He would not get tired. It was amazing. Like painful magic. I would be hanging there trying to use my wrists and fingers to fight while I’d beg and cry, or until I’d get sleepy. He would grit his teeth, yelling or grunting like a madman. It hurt so bad that I would have rather him hit me than pin me up there for so long and so hard. No pain was like it, and I hated when he would do that. I just hated it.
I knew that this moment-my reaction to what I was watching with he and Pregnant Eyes, was going to result in this punishment of pain that Mitch resorted to-to avoid ever actually hitting me. I could predict his brand of ass kickings like it was choreography. I could set him off or he could set me off but we, and Ciara, all knew the very manner in which he was going to kick my ass—or his own ass.
You see, Ciara would watch him lose his temper and punch holes in the wall to keep from punching me. It was like the force he would put into punching walls and hanging me up on them would be the equivalent of a woman being beat to a pulp with a man’s bare hands-yet, Mitch never did use his hands to hit me and meant business about not using his hands to hurt me-except to shake, squeeze, and isolate.
After the pin-up and my kicking his stomach with my feet, depending on how mad he was, he would drop me to the floor and start stepping on my feet really fast-as if he was putting out a fire-to punish my feet for trying to hurt him with them.
I would be screaming-trying not to be caught beneath his feet; jumping around like fire was beneath mine. I would be soooo sore as if he really did beat my ass from head to toe. All he needed was the word from me-to give him a choice as to how I was going to take it: If I elected to get my ass whipped by hands-I could tell he would surely deliver-something needed to happen.
He loved me too much to hit me with a closed or open fist. He was very conscious not to use his hands to strike me. He had too much personal integrity to have that kind of a reputation on the plate of his mind. But we sipped too much of each other’s poisonous elixir for him to ever walk away without a fight of some kind—and winning it.
If he got angry with me, he could never just walk away. He made for certain that the pin-up’s pain would equal an open or closed fisted ass-whipping. And to add to it, knowing that when he released me-if dared used my feet to kick him; he was going to teach my little moccasins another lesson. I knew always knew what pain my feet were going to go through if I used them to kick him, but I hoped that just one kick, one day, would be severe enough to teach him to walk away-period.
That never worked out for me though.
While stomping and punishing my feet; I dared not use my hands to strike him because I knew that
he would probably grab them and punish ‘em by a blunt-force squeeze. So when he would stomp my feet, I would just scream with my hands out, fingers stretched, while trying to escape.
We were nuts. And Ciara knew this. And didn’t know what the hell to do about this way of fighting we had going. She always had one of two
stances: Just sitting and watching this craziness, or if my screams, moans and agony went up and octave or two, like a referee, she would get up close and stand there-peeking between any open space to look at my face-awaiting for the okay to call the police.
This day though, shit hit the fan and our style changed…
After this “cute” shit he pulled with Pregnant-Eyes, I was prepared for all that pain. His style of beating was one that I already knew the choreography to, was dress rehearsed and all ready for. 
I already knew the role and buffer Ciara served and would play.
But I was not expecting what had happened next…
SNEAK PEEK FROM THE UPCOMING/NEXT EXCERPT:
“CIARA, GIVE ME MY DAMN SCREWDRIVER!”
Ciara always knew everything, down to where to find my screwdriver in my car-because sometimes, we would have to manipulate the starter under the hood with it, in order to get the car started.
Like a kid hurriedly doing what mama said; she hurriedly handed it to me.
I snatched it and proceeded to chase Mitch down the street of that ghetto neighborhood like an Olympic Gold Medalist. Those two wheels on that bike had nothing on these little moccasins!
But he was riding that bicycle so hard and so fast that it looked like in any minute he would be taking off into the air like Elliott, E.T and his buddies. That motherfucker was gone-pumping those bike petals such that it was rocking side to side.
I was like: “Oh. My. Goddddddddd!”
I was running hard as fast to catch up with him. Mitch was already too naturally athletic and agile. I knew I didn’t stand a chance on catching up to him but I was going to try. I was running hard and fast enough to burn holes in the bottom of my shoes. His back was right at the tip of my screwdriver—every time I stabbed at him.
I couldn’t catch up with him for nothing and it was driving me crazy.
Every time I lunged to swing the screwdriver to stab him, he would get a lucky burst of wind and that momentum would catapult him many paces ahead of me.
It was magical.
I was mad.
I was growing more pissed and frustrated every second yet, too angry to even feel tired.
I wanted to puncture his back like he punctured my eye.
I wanted that screwdriver ripped and in.
I was so mad that I began to grunt and cry at the same time.
About a mile and a half and too many blocks into this chase, I
THE ABOVE-POSTED EXCERPTS ARE FROM THE NOT YET PUBLISHED PREQUEL / BOOK 2 “Angie Situation” series/trilogy
BOOK 1- PUBLISHED:
TABLE of CONTENTS
PREFACE 5
- The Roots of Picked Fruit 17
- The Precocious Ripening 33
- Ripe & Ready. Gangs, Bangs & Pangs 39
- The Queen Bee in Me 63
- Another Level. Blossoming. Beautiful. 80
- TGGF, Male Model & Me 101
- TGGF & Me 112
- Divorcing Dad 124
- You Know Who 130
- First Flings First 139
- In the Lion’s Den 170
- Cold Shoulders and Frozen Dancing Feet 195
- Pills & Frills 204
- You Know What: I Told You So 209
- Dichotomies & Dazes 228
- Situations, Decisions & Transitions 241
- Up, Out & Away 244
MEET the AUTHOR Q & A 254
READING GROUP GUIDE 257
SNEAK PEEK into book2 (“Angie Situation NAIVETE’” )’s CHAPTER ONE 260
OTHER BOOKS BY ANGELA SHERICE 269
ABOUT the AUTHOR 270
