I’ve had a lot of women try crazy shit to get me interested, but having a woman pretend to clog the toilet was a first.
And holy hell, was she wild. Like a damn honey badger, and no, I’m not saying that to be funny. I left that bathroom with claw and teeth marks on my shoulders; she was so damn feral.
Every time I lie down in my bunk, I see her. Raven black hair, emerald eyes, and a smile that makes my damn dick lose its mind. Women like her don’t come around often, and when they do, you’d better watch out, because they will wreck your life.
I go through the motions of the day, bored with what my life has become. It’s not that I don’t enjoy being a Hunk, but seeing how happy Slay and Natasha are makes me feel like I’m missing out on actually living. Not that I fault them for their happiness. That life just isn’t meant for me.
My phone pings, alerting me to a message on Chatter. It’s that BB-8 hating woman again.
Trista Kinney:Are you kidding? He doesn’t complement shit. He’s the Kardashian of droids and shoved R2 aside to roll his bulbous ass to fame.
Along with the message, she sends a link of BB-8 at an event with Justin Trudeau.
I burst into laughter at her wittiness, because her take on the fictional droid is wild.
Toxic:My man’s just out there representing. Leave the little guy alone.
Trista Kinney:Well, don’t be surprised if your‘man’starts getting artificer work done.
Toxic:What the hell is that?
Trista Kinney:I don’t know what the droid equivalent of a BBL is, but he’ll probably show up on Dancing With the Stars with a hot pink outer shell, sparkling silver accents, and roll his way to victory with a Starbucks sticker clearly visible, because he’s gotta get that money honey.
Chuckling, I try to think up a witty reply, but I’ve never been clever.
After my shower, I head into the venue where the guys are practicing their dance moves.
Armando comes up, chair in hand. “Hey, I was hoping to get your thoughts on a move I’ve been working on.”
Just great. The last time he tried something new, it was over the top and he almost broke his damn back.
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re going to end up in the ER?”
Armando places the chair away from the walls. “Just bear with me.”
He bounces on his feet, getting ready, then leaps into action, diving to the floor and spinning on his head.
“Is he fucking breakdancing?” Kilo mutters.
“I don’t know what the hell he’s doing.”
He transitions into the caterpillar, which isn’t even a little bit sexy, ending the bit with a backflip from the floor onto the chair, which is admittedly impressive.
“Well, what did you think?” he says excitedly.
“I, ah, think that took a lot of skill,” I say honestly.
“Do you think Carl might put it into the show?”
I look at Kilo, who’s looking at me, silently conveying his discomfort.
“You know, practice it a bit first. See if it’s something you want to commit to.”
He stretches his arms up, bending backward, then side to side. “Yeah, I think I need to practice more before I show him. I may only get one shot.”
“Definitely practice,” I say, hoping like hell he sees how ridiculous the moves are on his own.
“Thanks, man.” He waves as he heads off, and I bring out my phone, excited to chat with the little droid hater.
