The Truth Hurts

By Evon Davison

The Truth Hurts is the culmination of a journey that stretches from the gem of the Pacific Northwest, Seattle, to the vibrant Cajun-infused metropolis of New Orleans. The ebb and flow of the Mississippi River is the framework for blood, death, and betrayal, while exploitation, coupled with secrets and deception, thrusts the human spirit to the brink of destruction. In the quest to be kingpin of gangland, outsiders find that the Big Easy doesnt easily surrender itself to intimidation or fear.

The mirror of reality will spin a parable of lingering emotional wounds that will force the doors of humility and humanity to open, as worlds collide and the truth unfolds. Love and hope will finally prevail . . . and the truth will hurt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543454710

Evon Davison

Evon is a 20 year veteran of the United States Army. she currently resides in North Carolina. This is her fifth novel.

Book preview

1

T HE THROBBING PAIN shooting from the back of her head awakened her . She rubbed the pulsating bump on her head, feeling a warm oozing substance that felt slippery between her fingers. It’s blood, but… She attempted to plant her hands firmly on the edge of the sofa to raise herself up, but fell backwards again, cradling her tender melon. As she stared up at the paint-deprived ceiling, she tried to determine where she was and how she got there. How long have I been asleep? She felt groggy, drugged. She looked around again. Where in the hell am I?

After a few more minutes of lying on the sofa and holding the back of her head, she finally arose and really perused the room. There was no television, no windows; only bricks stacked inside wooden frames that used to hold window glass. She glared at the frames, confused. They didn’t look quite right. She ambled over to the area and ran her fingers along the insides of the frames. These aren’t bricks; this is wallpaper cover designed to look like real bricks. What the hell? Once she stared closer, she noticed that the windowpanes had been painted black, but the paint was beginning to peel and crackle. She could see shards of daylight trying to spill though the blackened, fractured panes.

Once she saw the slivers of daylight spattering through the windows, she felt a slight glimmer of hope; maybe she’ll find a clue of some sort to indicate her location. She continued to check the room out. It smelled musty, closed in, and the carpets were sullied. Feeling slightly defeated, she slumped back down on the ratty couch. It was filthy too. No surprised, given the condition of the rest of the room. There were blotches of brownish-red spots splattered on the fabric. She impulsively flinched at the sight and bounced up. She bent down and took a really good look at the sofa and touched the cloth. She hoped she would not feel wetness, especially the dampness of fresh blood. She was wrong; it was wet and it was blood. Maybe it’s the blood from the back of my head. As much as she wanted to think that, she had an eerie feeling that she was mistaken.

As she looked at the blood splatter, her mind traveled back to a time when she was a small child growing up in Mississippi. She could still smell the blood as it permeated her nostrils as she remembered the incident. She could still hear the ambulance siren wailed loudly as it passed by their little raggedy house on Elder Street one Saturday afternoon. Naturally, the loud sound alerted the Johnson kids that something bad had happened in the neighborhood.

As the kids and Elaina stood on the edge of the street, craning their necks towards the oncoming traffic, they waited to find out what happened. As the crowd gathered at the accident site, it was rumored that a car had plowed into the old Oak tree that stood unscathed in the bend of the road. The frame of the car had rested against the tree, putting yet another notch on the tree’s victim belt, probably # 150.

The Oak tree was the only tree that stood between the curve of the road and the curve of the road. That particular day, according to witnesses, a sparkly blue, brand new Ford Mustang came barreling along Elder Street, unable to negotiate the upcoming curve and the old Oak tree. The car looked like it was on its side as it was about to round the corner. When the driver lost control of the car and it collided with the tree, the crash could be heard within a three mile radius. The victim didn’t’ stand a chance; he was thrown from the car, his body strewn across the street pavement in bloody smithereens.

The Johnson brood hurried over to the crash site and joined the growing numbers of onlookers. They had never seen anything so horrific. Blood and guts were spewed everywhere! They had heard that cars had crashed into the Oak tree before, but most of the accidents happened at night when most of the neighborhood was asleep. Most of the drivers lived in the neighborhood knew how to slow down before coming to the dangerous curve.

The young man who perished in the crash was from a neighboring town who had no idea that a car, not even a sparkly, blue Mustang, can be driven at eighty miles per hour around a bend that steep. Angela remembered the sad look on peoples’ faces as they witnessed the authorities removing what was left of the kid off the street.

She shook her head and shifted her focus from the horrible recall to a familiar travel bag propped up in the corner of the room. It looked like her bag, except that it appeared to be dirty; it looked as though it had been dragged through mud and sludge. She rose, still bewildered by the wetness of the couch and the pounding in her head and walked over to the bag. She lifted it from the floor and unzipped it, but quickly dropped it to the floor again.

There was a horrible smell coming from the inside of the bag and it was nauseating! She instantaneously covered her nose with her hand fingers, but willed herself to re-open the bag, determined to investigate the mystery inside of it. She sniffed. It reeked of coagulated blood and rot, like a dead animal. She was familiar with this smell; she had smelled the stench of rotting human flesh too many times before in her adventurously dangerous life.

There was a semi-wet cloth located at the bottom of her travel bag. What the F…? Angela turned the bag upside down, spilling the contents onto the floor. The cloth unraveled, causing her to scurry to other side of the room feeling mortified. There was a bloodied organ, it looked like an organ, with a note attached. She dropped the cloth and backed away from the corner, stunned. She paused for a few seconds, then unsteadily made her way back to the couch and sat, trying to regain her composure. She propped her chin in the folds of her thumbs with her hands in a prayer-like position. Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this? Where in the hell am I?!!!!!!!!! She got down on her knees in front of the tattered couch and prayed. Oh God, just keep me safe and in your arms. Show me the way Lord, please show me the way. Amen. She winced at the bloody mess lying on the floor. The organ looked like a heart; it had ventricle tubes jutting out in three places. I just don’t understand….What is this and how did it get here?

She glared at the note and reluctantly plucked it from the organ. It read: Yeah, I’ll bet you’re wondering where you are and whose heart this is, huh? Well take a good guess, you gangster Motherfucker. I’ve known you for a long time and should have killed you when I had the chance. You fooled everybody else, but you didn’t fool me. But it’s all good because I got you now and you are under my control. No worries though, it will all be over soon, real soon. I promise.

She ran over to the door and began banging and banging. The door was stained with greasy finger prints that looked as if many other victims before her had found themselves in the same situation that she was now in. The door bore large holes that looked like bullet entries.

Let me out! Let me out! Who the hell are you? What do you want from me? She screamed at the top of her lungs, but to no avail. There was only dead silence on the other side of the door. She bashed the door so hard she heard her knuckles crack. After more banging and a sore hand, she sauntered back to the ratty couch and plopped down, exhausted.

Her recollection was so vague; she began to struggle to meld her memories, replaying her actions, beginning with where and how her journey began. She remembered lying across a bed, but who’s bed? And where? She procured a few squares of tissue paper from the grimy bathroom and nursed the lump on the back of her head. She also wrapped her injured knuckles in a filthy towel she found hanging on the rack.

She continued down her memory path. I think that was two days ago. I feel like I’ve been drugged or something. Shit, this just doesn’t happen like this. Who in the hell wakes up to this? And my head is still fucked up. Who leaves a threatening note like that?

After fifteen minutes, she began to recall her last moments. The apartment, I remember being in my apartment, thinking about New Orleans and that song "Walking to New Orleans was the last song etched in my head. I had laid my money out on the bed and counted it…I know I drifted off to sleep, but I don’t remember waking up.

Angela’s mind really began to spin once her memory began to show up like an old, lost friend. Where is the money? Where’s all of the fucking money I had laid out on the bed in my apartment?

Suddenly there was a loud bang on the door. Angela bolted upright and ran to the filthy bathroom and locked the door behind her. She held her breath, afraid to move or exhale. Then she heard the sound of a key jiggling in the keyhole. She cupped her hands to her mouth, trying not to whimper.

She heard the sound of heavy footsteps lumbering around the room. She heard the sound of paper bags rattling as she gently pressed her ear against the bathroom door. Three minutes later the rattling ceased and the sound of footsteps walked towards the room door. The door slammed shut and Angela found herself in the presence of her own company. She waited for fifteen minutes before she emerged from the bathroom. Her eyes perused the room; she was alone.

Who and what in the world was that? Before she could answer her own question, her eyes locked in on the old coffee table. She couldn’t believe what she was seeking. She rubbed her eyes, making sure the sight wasn’t a mirage. There were food containers lying on the rickety table!! She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, but knew she was very, very hungry. What if that’s not food in the container? What if someone is trying to poison me? She wrestled with those questions for about three seconds before her hunger won.

She hurriedly opened the containers and saw a rack of smoked pork ribs, baked beans, a garden salad and a roll. Automatically she sniffed the food. The aroma was unbearable as she began to eat like she’d never eaten before. God this is so fucking good! She ripped the ribs from the bones, not giving a damn about the sticky residue the barbecue sauce had left on her face; she ate all of the food in record time and quickly downed the bottle of water.

Once she finished her food, laid there for a few moments, and basked in the thrill of a full stomach, she walked over to the window and began running her fingers along the edges of the cracked painted windows again. She began peeling little snippets of paint from the panes. As she peeled the panes, sunshine began to streak through across the floor in the room. She squinted, but once she saw the outside world, she began to think about plotting her escape.

Suddenly the door flung open and three people lunged at Angela. She jumped to her feet as one of the masked people delivered a blow to the right side of her head. She fell backwards on to the floor, writhing in pain. The individual hovered over her and delivered a swift kick to her mid-section, knocking the out of her; she lay on the floor, afraid to move

"That’s for being a fucking coward, you motherfucker!! I bet you thought

you’d never get caught, but people aren’t as stupid as you think they are. You ain’t seen or felt a fucking thing yet!! This is only the beginning of the pain I’m gonna put on your ass. Oh don’t you worry, I’m not going to kill your sorry ass." It was the voice of a woman, but whom?

"Naw, I’ve got bigger plans for you. You ‘gon have to remember who not to fuck with bitch! She slammed a hard boot into Angela’s bowed back and watched her arch her back in pain. As for that fucking heart I left in your bag, I would tell you who it belongs to but that’s for me to know and for you to find out. Think of someone you love dearly. I want to get some pleasure out of watching you suffer like the dog you are." Before she left she delivered another vicious blow to Angela’s back, then walked away, seeming satisfied with her infliction of pain. While Angela lay in pain, she could hear the sounds of footsteps and laughter resonated as they slammed the door shut. The room fell silent; they were gone.

She couldn’t move; her body felt like it was broken into a million pieces. She tried to stand up, but fell to her knees and screamed in agony as her knee caps hit the filthy carpeted floor. Oh my God! Oh my God. Oh my God! Angela bent over, holding her bruised and broken bones intact. She was sure that the boots had done some really fucked up damage to her ribs.

Blood trickled down her mouth and the right side of her head continued to throb. She crawled from the middle of the floor to the filthy bathroom, panting. She slowly stood up and began cleaning her face with another sour, pissy smelling towel that hung from the rod. After wiping her face, Angela made her way over to the unkempt bed and eased herself onto the mattress, lay down and draped the covers over her body. She had forgotten how painful blows to the body felt. It had been so long ago that she was attacked in Titlo Alley….misery shot through every muscle in her body.

As she lay on the mattress, she thought the violator’s voice sounded eerily familiar and there was something about her presence that was so fucking familiar to her; she struggled to remember when and where she had heard it, but her memory eluded her. She pondered for a fleeting moment about who she thought it was, but quickly dismissed the crazy idea. I’m sure the answer will come to me in time.

She closed her eyes but could not sleep. She thought about the woman’s words someone you love dearly. Angela became frightened. The only person she loved with all of her being was Lindley and she was safely tucked away with Elaina in Mississippi. Danielle!! I hope she hasn’t hurt my best friend! Oh my God I’ve got to find a way out of this place, quick!!

It was morning and she could hear the sound of cars passing, probably the rush hour traffic. She sat upright on the side of the bed and coughed; it hurt so much. She realized that she was not in the best of shape, and she had endured a real, brutal beating, Seattle-street style. Once again, she strained to stand, and it was really difficult; she delicately walked over to the window and peered through the paint-crusted panes. The night’s painful sleep fueled her quest to escape; it was as strong an emotion as ever.

She made her way to the filthy bathroom, determined to take a hot shower and to brush her teeth, just get cleaned up. After she showered, she put on the same bloody, tattered clothing.

Angela began searching the room in hopes of determining where she was. From the window she looked around, but nothing was remotely familiar. She winched as she moved to the other side of the room. She walked to the couch and slowly began to move it. She painfully lifted one side of the sofa but there was nothing but more dirt underneath. She slowly bent down and strained her eyes to see what was underneath the bed. Nothing.

Finally, she crawled over to the closet on her hands and knees, grimacing in pain, but made it to the back of the closet. She discovered a sliver of crumpled paper hidden in the corner. She lay on her side, picked up the paper and unraveled it. There was a receipt, with writing on it that read: Welcome to The Skywalk Inn, SeaTac, WA. Enjoy your stay. Angela tossed the paper back to the corner of the closet.

Well I’ll be damn! This motel has a reputation of being the worst dump along Pacific Highway. It is common knowledge on the streets that some of the girls from this area are put up here while they pimp downtown SeaTac. They are well worn, like old shoes. The men rode ’em hard and put ’em up wet. I’ve never heard anything positive about the city of SeaTac.

She looked around the room again and shuddered. Only a low life thug would hang around this city and use this monstrosity as a prison.

SeaTac was the only outlying suburb of Seattle and is situated between Tacoma and Seattle, with a population of around 28,000. The main street, Pacific Avenue, was a hub for prostitution and gang-related activities. In fact, the serial killer Gary Ridgeway, had lived in the small city. He admitted to killing 49 women between 1982 and 1998; most of the women were prostitutes. The art of prostitution was familiar to her. She witnessed the act time after time growing up in her small town. Prostitution was an international language.

The prostitution and gang activity in SeaTac, Tacoma and Seattle reminded Angela of New Orleans and its surrounding parishes, but the shit in the Big Easy was definitely on a larger scale. The city had really suffered economically since Hurricane Katrina came to town. The crime went from worse to worse.

Just like SeaTac, there are some strange things going on in the city of New Orleans. You can get whatever you want, whenever you want it and how you want it. Sometimes getting what you want will land you jail time, cost you the cash in your pocket, or your life. If you don’t know how to navigate around the city, you could end up in the wrong place at the wrong time; happens all the time in the Big Easy.

When she was running her business, she could not remember any of the girls in her house in Seattle coming from the SeaTac area, except for maybe one-April. April, who was a foul-mouth, deranged bitch who had lied to Angelo, telling him that she was from the San Francisco Bay area. He should have sniffed that out very quickly. She was too defiant and much too often. She had lied to get access to Angelo’s organization. April was the SeaTac mole who Michelin, another foul-mouth thug, had sent in to report back to him. Once April saw how much money she could make, she quickly abandoned him, which really pissed him off. That’s why Michelin was mad at Angelo for taking April from him. She betrayed him. He and I never really connected any more after our confrontation; I’m surprised he didn’t take that nasty ho out, being the ruthless prick that he was. Like I always say, if you entertain clowns, you’ll soon become a part of the circus…

All of a sudden, a light went off for Angela! The voice she had heard yesterday was April’s. It was April who had beaten her down like that? What! Angela extended her arms above her head in V formation. She almost exploded with anger. Oh my God, how did I miss that? That motherfucker, that motherfucker!! Another revelation clicked for her also. She finally realized that April knows who she really is. Does she know me as Angelo Martin or Tracey Campbell? How in the fuck did that crazy bitch find out who I am? She said it when she said I bet you thought you’d never get caught, but people are not as stupid as you think they are. Angela felt like her street skills had diminished while she was trying to seek revenge on the Carters.

Angela had sacrificed herself; she had traded her identity as Angela Carter for a pimp named Angelo Martin and a woman named Tracey Campbell, who had taken the Carters down, one by one. She was the anonymous hero for the family of Fernando Agostino, the owner of West Over Properties, a rival of the Carters. He was brutally murdered by Derrick and Nigel because Cole and Anita wanted his commercial assets. Tracey Campbell was smooth, sophisticated and well bred. Angelo Martin was a suave pimp who had friends like Maria to back him up. Angela briefly thought of that poor girl who died to save Angelo’s life. That’s life in the fast lane…some live and some die. That’s all a part of the game.

Angela remembered that when she was Angelo Martin and began running the business out of the eight bedroom house in Sterling Heights, she had some problems with April. Time after time April refused to obey the house rules; she was tough and unmanageable. April repeatedly brought her boyfriend, Romano, into the house during business hours. Romano made the other women feel uncomfortable with his dark, creepy behavior. It seemed that he enjoyed disrupting the household and tormenting the women.

Angelo finally had enough of April and Romano’s shit. April’s last refusal to comply with the house rules sent Angelo over the edge. Angelo was forced to scrape meat and beat the stuffing out of April. After he bloodied her nose and face and bruised her from head to toe, he threw her out on the streets to be with her loser of a boyfriend. That day April screamed out and vowed to get revenge on Angelo. That bitch kicked me while I was incapacitated, but oh she may have gotten the first punch in, but World War five is coming…

Angela’s remembrance was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the keys jiggling in the lock again. Just as she had done the day before, she jumped to her feet and ran to the bathroom and locked the door. She felt vulnerable again as she pressed her body against it and whispered a prayer out loud. God please don’t let this be another fucking beating. My body can’t take it.

Once she heard the sound of bags rattling, she felt relieved; she knew it was the person who had delivered food to the room the day prior and not an impending beat down. She gently pulled the door ajar so that she could get a better view of the mystery person. Jeeze that shit smells so damn good!

She saw a shadow moving about the room. She wasn’t sure why all of the movement, but she opened the door wider and saw a short, stout Hispanic woman who appeared to be in her late forties. She wore a blue uniform with white trim around the short arm sleeves. Angela strained to read the name tag on the woman’s uniform. She was too far away. Now I get it. She works here and she’s being paid to feed me and to make sure I stay locked up in this fucking room all day. I wonder if they have anyone else watching this room during the evening. She’s got the key to my freedom in her tiny, gnarly hands. Angela stared her up and down, calculating her next move. I think I can take her, but damn I’m hungry too.

She waffled for a split second between freedom and food. Fuck the food! It’s time to get the hell outta this hole. She hurled the bathroom door open and just like a linebacker on a football field, she tackled the woman to the floor, wrestling with her until she grabbed the keys out of her hand and ran out the door. She was sweating profusely and her hands were shaky as she stuck the key into the door lock and twisted it to the left.

Click. Angela scurried down the hall, cradling her bruised ribs. She took the stairwell down to the first floor side door and stopped. She scanned the scenery as she caught her breath. She looked upward at the Skywalk Inn’s WELCOME sign, barely lit up. The hook on the left side of the chain hung much lower than the chain on the right. The sign looked like it was going to snap. Most of the sign’s light bulbs were missing or burnt out. Shabby.

She turned to the left, looking for a street sign; trying to find a way to orientate herself. Damn I’m not familiar with this fucking city. She looked to the right and saw a street sign that read Pacific Highway S. Now she remembered where she was. She was right in the middle of a string of cheap motels, with prostitutes walking up and down Highway 99 in broad day light. Angela crossed the street and briskly ran behind a building on 216th Street and watched the motel from that vantage point. There was a blue car in the parking lot of the motel. A very familiar car with two men sitting in it, like they were waiting on someone. Damn, it’s the car Danielle was telling me about. Those thugs are cops; they’re common street trash.

I’ve got to find a way to Danielle’s apartment; I can’t go to mine, not right now. I’ve got no money, no cell phone. She looked down at her filthy clothing. Before I do anything, I need to clean up. I don’t wanna look like the typical, homeless, bag lady.

2

S HE CAUTIOUSLY WALKED to a convenience store on the corner of 216 th Street and Pacific Highway South. The store clerk paid her no attention as she entered the store and headed directly for the public bathroom where she cleaned the blood from her blouse as best she could. He still paid no attention as she left the store; he was probably accustomed to degenerates coming in and out of the store, using the facilities like she’s doing.

After a brisk 15 minute walk, which allowed her clothing to dry a little, she flagged down a taxi on Pacific Highway South. The driver pulled over. She gingerly opened the door and got in; her hand still stinging.

Where to lady? The driver asked as he peered into the rear view mirror. He spoke with a New York City accent.

Ben Hill Apartments, Beacon Hill area. Angela replied.

She secretly prayed that Danielle or Rachel would be at home once she arrived to pay for the cab fare. The driver looked at Angela from the rear view mirror again.

I’ve never seen you in the SeaTac area. You from here? He fixated on the bruises draped across her face and the dried blood on her clothing.

Are you okay lady? You look a little roughed up there.

I’m fine, thank you.

Why does this sonofabitch want to have a conversation NOW? I don’t even want to look at him, let alone speak about where I’m from or who I am.

No I don’t hang around Pac Highway and I’m fine. I’m from the Bellevue area, Angela lied as she rested her head against the headrest. She drifted off…

She had once lived in Bellevue, right on Lake Washington, in a gorgeous home, in a luxurious neighborhood. She had it all until her conniving, vicious husband decided he would try to end her life because he thought she wasn’t good enough to be a Carter. Ah the Carters. They were some of the most crooked people she had ever met. They came from nothing, but edged their way up the ladder by any means necessary, murder included. During their reign, they were some of the richest black people in the Seattle area, the cream of the city’s upper crust.

They owned commercial properties all around the city. They were ruthless in their approach in acquiring properties that were up for sale. They were suspected in more than a few questionable incidents. But all good things must come to an end and Angela was glad to be an accomplice in their fall from grace.

The driver drove the rest of the seventeen mile trek in silence. They arrived at the apartment complex. The halt of the cab startled Angela out of her light sleep. She told him to wait while she went inside the apartment to get the taxi fare. He was visibly upset and he spoke his mind.

Hey lady, I ain’t making no money sittin’ here waitin’ for youse, so hurry up already, heh?

Hold your fucking horses, you’re gonna get paid. Jeez!

She shot him a spiteful glance and walked over to Danielle’s and Rachel’s apartment and knocked on the door. Come on girls. Open up. She looked over at the waiting taxi driver; he looked really annoyed. After she knocked a second time, Rachel opened the door, looking bewildered.

Hey Angie, where have you been? We’ve been looking all over the city for you. We’ve been over to your apartment and knocked on the door, but didn’t get an answer. We really got worried when we saw your car still parked out front.

It’s a long story Rachel and I will have to explain it later, but right now I need to borrow some money to pay the taxi driver for driving me from SeaTac to here. Can you loan me the cash? Rachel looked puzzled, but quickly realized she was taking too long to respond.

Oh yeah, sure, I’ll give you the cash. I’ll be right back; let me go get my wallet.

Angela took the money from Rachel and went out and paid the taxi driver. He rolled his eyes as Angela handed him the fare. Apparently he was expecting a huge tip because he had to wait so long; she gave his ass BIG goose egg. His tires smoked as he popped a wheelie leaving the parking lot, his lips moving, mumbling expletives. Stop asking motherfuckers personal questions, stupid. I guess the taxi cab companies just drag anybody off the streets to drive. Perhaps a class on how to shut the fuck up would do you good when you’re driving customers?

Angela finally felt safe once she was inside the apartment. She plopped down on the sofa, letting out a big release of air from her lungs.

"Angie, where in the Hell have you been for two days? What the fuck happened to your face and your hand, girl? Are you okay?

Rachel, Rachel, honey, I’m okay, but I can’t begin to tell you exactly where I’ve been, but I know I escaped from a flea-bitten motel room on Pacific Highway South in SeaTac about an hour ago. I don’t know how I got there or who took me there. Nothing. This is like a fucking day mare! Someone beat me like I stole something and I’m not so sure what I fucking stole. Let me put it to you like this: I’m so fucking happy to be here, I could cry, but I need to calm down and get my shit together. Angela was throbbing from hunger. She needed to eat.

Rachel, can I please have something to eat? I swear I have not eaten since yesterday. I’m almost at the point where I will pass out if I don’t eat.

Oh yeah, if I can’t do anything else, I can definitely feed you. You are so in luck. I thought I’d cook a surprise meal for Danielle; to welcome her home. Angela was stunned.

Where’s Danielle?

"She’s been in some type of training for her degree at the University for three days. She’ll be home this evening, so I took the night off. Why do you ask like that?" Rachel had a strange, concerned look in her eyes.

Hey look, nothing meant by my question. I’ve just been through some type of hell. When was the last time you spoke with her?

"Today. Why? What’s going on Angie? Do you know something about my woman that I don’t know?" Angela thought about the bloodied heart she had found in the wrapped cloth that was in the bottom of her bag. She was worried because she had no idea who that heart belonged to.

No, just wondering. I miss her, you know? Not that I haven’t missed you too Rach. It was just a question.

Angela washed up and sat at the dinner table, salivating at the mouth. Rachel had prepared a grilled pork loin with grilled zucchini squash and stuffed potatoes. The food was accompanied by a crisp white Zinfandel wine. Angela was so hungry she forgot Rachel was in the same room as her. Grunting noises escaped her mouth as she devoured the food. She was famished.

Wow? You’re eating so fast it scares me, Angie. I’m just trying to watch out for the flying squash, because I know you’re not going to lose any of that pork loin; you’ve downed that already. They laughed.

"Girl I’m so fucking hungry I could eat those clogs you wearing on yo feet…I’m just playing about that shit, but for real, I’m trying to wait until Danielle gets home before I tell you the fucking