KICK IT | JENLISA

2

Jennie

The trip to Rattlesnake Roast... yes, that was the name... was a punishment, and the return drive was a walk of shame. "I'll French roast her ass." I removed my nine piercings, four in my right ear and five in my left, then dropped them into my cup holder with a clink. "Irene, I am not cut out for this kind of adulting. Not for only twenty hours a week. Ugh, why can't yoga pay more?"

"Jennie." By the lightness in her voice, she was smiling. "You promised Jackson..."

"Yeah, yeah. Two months." Using a steady breath, I slowed the pulse racing in my neck. Only a temporary sidestep off my plan. And, unlike my brother, my lips would not be glued to the ass of a jerk so self-absorbed that she named a foundation after herself. She made Jackson's life miserable, but I wouldn't let her affect mine.

The irony that Jackson got me this job wasn't lost on my lacking sense of humour. Drawing another deep breath, the overpriced, custom-flavoured caffeine dizzied my brain. I flicked my eyes up to the red light hanging in front of me, taunting my patience for what felt like an eternity. Change light, come on... it shifted to green, and I lifted my foot off the brake. "All for a stupid, ass-kissing meeting. Irene, I swear, if I see..."

"Slow breaths, Jennie." she soothed. "I have news..."

"Ahh! Fucking ass!"

A flash of gleaming black slipped in front of my hood. I slammed my foot, choking my seatbelt across my torso. My phone grew wings and flew across the dashboard, landing on the floor of the passenger seat. With a lurched stop, I missed the back fender of an impatient ass who turned left on the red light.

While I gnashed my teeth and sat back to remove the diagonal chokehold between my breasts, the culprit – a black Maserati with tinted windows continued unfazed. My volleyed curses vibrating off the windows were as ineffective deterring them as they were pacifying my sprinting heart rate.

Why were people such idiots!? I rolled my eyes at the coffee spill on my passenger's seat. Reaching for it was futile; my seatbelt locked in a 'not today, stomach' compression. "Irene? Irene, did I lose you?" Nothing but silence. "Perfect."

I almost ripped off my steering wheel when the same car cut me off again, the same black panther sliding into my parking spot. Mine! A groan vibrated my throat and my blood pressure burst up to my brain. I slammed my palms on my wheel, then tossed them in an obvious, 'What the fuck!?' gesture.

Two giant feet stepped out in shiny, brown dress shoes. Long, muscular legs were followed by a light grey power suit that looked laughable on the lanky and mountainous person. Her!? Of course, it was her. The version of the Hulk before the clothes were shredded, turned sideways between the cars, not that I thought about removing her clothes.

I was not. Fuck, now I was. Why Jennie, why!? Silver sunglasses hid her eyes, but the entitled prick's gaze lingered on me... which was why I flipped her a middle finger. "Motherfucking thundercunt assburger."

My dust-coated windshield wasn't blurry enough to conceal her smirk. The temptation to roll her over it was outweighed only by the guaranteed damage from her heavy ass. She bracketed those bow-like, plump lips with her index and middle fingers in a 'V' shape. Her tongue flicked between them in a lewd gesture, making my stomach lurch.

She did not! Ugh, she did! I should have been relieved at the reminder of the bullet I dodged, but I was too far gone. "Fuck you, Manoban!" I screamed so loud that my words bounced back in aftershocks.

Her mock salute elicited stronger reactions from me than the sexual suggestion, drawing me back as if I'd been struck. Hot tears pricked my eyes. Pain crumpled my wadded-up paper heart. White flashes blurred my vision, and my cheeks burned.

She was an insult to good people that do exist. She was an insult to assholes. Fuck, she was an insult to asswipes. With slow breaths and mental voodoo practice, I parked in the back of the lot. Lake French Roast and the coffee house's tissue-paper napkins turned my seat into a soggy mess. I hoisted both coffee boxes out and closed the door with my butt. Long steps shortened the trek back, but the viscous heat turned me into a sweat box.

My reflection in her windows was not pretty; not the flyway strands or sweat melting me into burnt butter, but the enraged look burning behind my sunglasses. Balancing the right box on my forearm, I rolled my wrist to hit the perfect, discreet angle. Humming, I dragged my key across Ms. Tongue Flicker's rear and passenger's side doors. "Such a shame."