Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition by Elizabeth Knox (top 5 ebook reader txt) 📕

a blast and got my mind off my troubles for the night. I’ll say this—he didn’t lie when he said he would take me for a ride under the stars. We were laid out for all to see until dawn. It’s been months since I’ve seen Cowboy and no man has done me like he has. In fact, if anything, I’ve grown lonelier since then. I can’t say for sure if it’s him, but I hate being alone.

I miss the hell out of Jazzy. Sure, we talk on the phone, but you can’t tell me that’s the same as being able to grab lunch and laugh over a movie together. It’s not. Can you die of a broken heart? The kind where you have no one and your best friend, who was your family, left you? That kind of a broken heart, can you die from it?

I’m bored as hell too. My past relationships have all failed epically, family and love. Jazzy has been my constant. She kept me occupied, and since she’s left, I’ve been finding more and more men’s underwear left in my house. Jazzy was my girl, the person I went to with everything, and without her here, I’m lost. Alone with my own thoughts, it’s hard to gauge how much I’ve changed. With one eye cracked open, I see the underwear belonging to the man I called Jack. I don’t know his name, okay. We said no names last night. He called me Red, yes, because I had a glass of sweet red wine at the bar. Speaking of, it’s given me a horrendous headache. It pounds inside my skull, I’m sure punishing me for my choices.

No, I haven’t gone so far that I’m drunk when I hook up, but a few drinks make it fun. It’s become a game and I’ll admit it’s more than my usual amount. If I was in therapy, I’m sure it would be defined as reckless behavior or some shit. I call it rock bottom. I haven’t told Jazzy because she will be pissed. Not being with the random guys—okay, that’s a lie, she wouldn’t like it, but it’s not easy for a bitch like me. Not everyone gets my crass sarcasm and attitude. In other words, she’s my only friend and family. I have a dad and mom, but we aren’t close. They are self-centered assholes who should really practice what they preach.

Sighing, I roll over and fling an arm over my face. “This is bad. I’m having fucking conversations with myself now.” With great effort, I take in a deep breath, and get my ass out of bed. On my way out of my room, I snag the boxer briefs at the end of the bed, and toss them into the trashcan in the kitchen. Oh good! He left a business card that has a note scribbled to call him. Nope. I toss that into the trash as well.

Seems like everything in my life is trash.

When I can figure out what the hell is my damage, then maybe I can have a chance at a normal life. I already know my issues run deep into my past and I’m not about to open up that house of horrors. Brushing off the bullshit in my head, I stretch and look outside my window to see Karen with her teenage son. She gapes in shame at my body. It can’t be that bad? Well, I’m wearing Jack’s white ‘wife beater’ sans bra and underwear. The kid grins and I cock an eyebrow while his mom shakes her head at me.

Tired and not feeling well, my temper flares and I yell, “Fuck you, Karen! Take little Tommy home then. I’m in my own goddamn house.” I raise my hand and flip her the bird as I storm off to the bathroom. Mumbling, I continue talking shit while I turn on the shower. “Come after me if you got a big set of cannolis, bitch. This girl right here, Angela Sarrico, will kick your ass and knock you back into the nineties with that stupid as fuck hair.” My hand tests the water’s temperature before I jump in. “That’s actually an insult to the nineties. I take it back, Karen, you’re just a judgmental cunt.”

The water relaxes the tense muscles in my body, and I exhale the stress. Picking up my cross from around my neck, I give it a kiss and send up a small prayer. I know I could do better, I just haven’t figured out how . . . yet. This one goes to my grandma who is up above in heaven. God, I miss her and the memories. I wish she were around to keep me company. After I thoroughly wash, I jump out and nausea slams into my stomach. The guilt from my Catholic upbringing and my mother’s passive judgment is so strong, I’m puking from it.

Angela, you can do better than your friends at school. You will do better than you have been. When I was your age, I never had that problem.

My mom wanted a perfect girl, the captain of the cheerleading team and student body president president. Getting first place in track wasn’t enough—I needed first place at State. It never ended, and my dad agreed with her when he was around and spared me a thought.

It has to be the late nights and stress from work bringing all this back. There has been whisperings at work of problems with my boss. I can’t lose my job. I don’t know what I would do if I did. My dad wanted me to work in the corporate world just like him. As soon as I was old enough, he planned my future in a way that benefited his long-term goals. He raised me to be calculating, powerful, and strong. Combine that with my heavy Catholic upbringing and I’m ice-cold when I need to be. When I told them both what I wanted, to be a