Overruled

by Lana Ferguson

Two fingers of scotch usually helps prepare me to handle Dani’s verbal assault, which she insists on before she defrosts. A good therapist might suggest there is something seriously wrong with me if they knew how much I enjoy our strange dynamic. Dani has no qualms with making it immensely clear what she thinks of me as a person, and for the life of me, I can’t even begin to explain why that makes her inability to stop coming to me to fuck her stress away all the more appealing. Touching Dani is like scooping the honey out of the hive after the beesting. Totally worth the pain. I’m sipping my drink and looking out the wide wall of windows on the other side of the large leather sectional in the living room when I hear three sharp knocks from the front door across the room, and my skin hums with anticipation as I set my scotch glass on an end table and practically jog to answer the door. Her perfectly arched dark brows are pulled together over her stormy gray eyes when I open the door, her pink mouth pursed as she taps one heeled foot. I smile at her arms crossed tightly over her chest; she always looks like someone forced to solicit for community service when she comes over. “Hi, honey,” I say sweetly. “How was your day?”