Catch My Fall

CATCH MY FALL

By

MICHAELA WRIGHT

Michaela Wright’s newsletter is the absolute best way to stay up to date with new releases, free books and special offers from Michaela Wright.

Sign up here – 
http://eepurl.com/bEvjiH

Follow her on social media.

http://www.facebook.com/michaelawrightauthor

Would you like to receive Michaela Wright’s new releases for FREE, in exchange for an honest review? Sign up here for Michaela Wright’s Review Team – 
http://eepurl.com/bwpge9

Copyright © 2016 Michaela Wright

All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblan
ce to actual events, locals or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Please note t
hat this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

DEDICATION

To Mom.

Thank you for putting up with me while I floundered through life, putting off doing the thing I was meant to do.

Also, thank you for not doing nude yoga.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Billy Idol, Cyndi Lauper, Sweden, and my hometown of Concord, Massachusetts.

I’m expected someone to steal my bakery name idea and open the place within ten years. They better give me credit.

I’m just saying.

CHAPTER ONE

H
ow do you identify a girl by a picture of her hoohah? I’m serious – is it even possible? If you were mugged by three naked women, all straddling you as they robbed you blind, do you believe you could identify them in a lineup? Could you pick them out of a book of cooter mug shots? I’m pretty sure I couldn’t. I’ll tell you though, I was trying my damnedest. Standing on that cold tile floor with a cell phone inches from my face in an attempt to proclaim, yay or nay, that this offending crotch shot was in fact a picture of my crotch.

You’re mocking me, aren’t you?

Fine, I should probably bring you up to speed before I embarrass myself further.

My name is Faye, and I don’t spend a lot of time inspecting ladies’ nether regions. Personal choice, really. Yet, I’d woken up that morning beside my boyfriend, Cole, elated to be in just such a situation. It was getting light outside, and I snuck out of bed to head home. Might sound cold to you, but we’d agreed on it the night before. Ever since the company I worked for went bankrupt, and I lost my job (and in the resulting four months of destroying my savings while looking for another, lost my condo) I’ve been living back at home with my mother. That miserable fact resulted in my spending almost every weekend curled up in this bed – Cole’s bed - pretending I’m not an utter failure. The arrangement worked, but he said he found it impossible to get out of bed when he had the warmth of my company next to him. Not a problem on the weekend, but on a workday? In our three years together I’d never woken next to him on a weekday. This was an exception. This was a step in the right direction, I’d thought. Still, the only way he agreed to my spending the night was my offer to be out of the apartment before his alarm went off.

Like the miracle of a girlfriend I am, I rose with the sun, silently gathered my things and slipped into the bathroom to get dressed without disturbing him. Feeling a wee bit frisky that morning, I decided to leave him a present for later that day. I snuck back out into the bedroom and took his ancient cell phone from the nightstand. Then I slipped back into the bathroom to take a risqué picture. I unbuttoned my shirt, pressed the camera button, aimed the thing at my tits and clicked away. No shutter sound. I posed again, making a face somewhat reminiscent of a duck. I pressed again. Nada. I finally turned the bastard around to see what was wrong, and the aforementioned twat shot offended my eyes.

Now I don’t know why it popped up when I pressed the camera button, I wasn’t going snooping through his phone, if that’s what you’re thinking. And no, I don’t know what kind of phone it is – it flips open, it has buttons and it takes cripplingly high resolution pictures of Labia. If I knew the brand I’m sure you’d run right out and buy one, wouldn’t you?

Cole hasn’t exactly updated his cell phone in a while. Pretty sure they don’t even make the thing anymore. Joke’s on you.

So there I was in his pristine bathroom trying to convince myself that this was my hoohah, and I had somehow gotten so severely drunk that I’d let him take it and forgotten. Kind of pathetic when you consider that the offending Vagina was pierced. No amount of alcohol will magically put a metal rod through my clitoris.

I stood frozen for longer than I care to admit, buttoned my shirt, texted the picture to myself, and slipped back out into the bedroom. I stared down at Cole’s dark hair, imagining the sound his cell phone would make if I chucked it full force at the back of his head. I imagined it would be very satisfying, but I didn’t do it. Instead, I propped the open phone with picture up onto my pillow beside him. When he woke, it would be there – a picture of the little man in a boat floating in a white sea of bamboo sheets

I carried my shoes to the front door before putting them on, still taking care not to wake him and left his apartment. I made it all the way to my car before the tears came.

Now you might envision me careening down the road sobbing, but I didn’t drive for a while. I sat there in the parking lot of that tired, three story brick apartment building, and I wailed. Didn’t even start my car to cool it down. I just sat there keening until snot was dripping into my lap. I didn’t stop until my phone buzzed. I snatched it up and found Cole’s text.

Good morning, baby.

I laughed, and I sounded batshit insane. And you might be thinking, what the hell is he doing texting you like nothing has happened? Well, let me just tell you, that’s how he rolls.

Cole’s Magic Get Out of Trouble Card (patent pending) – pretend nothing happened.

I had a feeling he might do exactly that – find a way to explain the shot or simply pretend it didn’t exist and that I was crazy. I’d been on the receiving end of these tactics before, and I hated them. Unlike every other time, I wasn’t going to put up with it that day. I quickly went from a sobbing, snotty mess to a tempest of rage. I pulled up the twat shot and texted it to him. No words, no text acronyms and emoticons – the picture could speak for itself.

You were wondering why I texted the twat shot to myself, weren’t you? I plan ahead, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t fuck around.

Once it was sent, I chucked my phone onto the floor of the passenger’s side to keep myself from reading his response and drove my ass home.

I pulled up outside my mother’s house. I had angry break up songs blaring so loud, I’m sure I announced my arrival to the entire neighborhood and if that didn’t alert them to my presence, the sound of me swearing as I slammed my car door on the seat belt might have done the trick.

I parked in front of my mother’s house and paused before storming inside. I didn’t want my mother to see me like this. I stood at the bottom of the steps and pretended to inspect the plants.

My mother’s house was one of the nicer houses in the neighborhood - not because it was larger or better landscaped, but because it was memorable. Let’s be honest, there’s probably more weed than there is rosebush by now, but it still doesn’t deter from the appeal. My grandmother planted the vines at the base of the porch in several different spots. We, of course, left the things to grow like fungus after she passed, and Ivy and Clematis peppered the columns and rails of the porch like some floral apocalypse.

I stood on the sidewalk, blowing each breath through tightly pursed lips as I tried to calm the tears. I looked up at the farmer’s porch, and didn’t move.

Still wasn’t ready.

There were Adirondack chairs on the porch, and I considered plopping down in one and rocking like a mental patient until I got it out of my system.

I hovered, hoping my mother wasn’t about to see me hovering like some creeper. Once, if I wanted to go home and throw things while flash dancing in the living room, I could do so. Now, if I attempted such a thing, my mother would appear and ask what was wrong or for me to turn the music down. I felt a moment’s relief when I realized it was early Monday morning. My mother was already on her way to work. I trudged up the steps and opened the front door. The house was quiet. If I’d been thinking straight, I could have parked in the damn driveway.

After texting my misery to my three closest friends, I spent my morning in the shower or in bed, listening to 80’s music. I punched my mattress to the angry songs and wailed into my pillow to the emotional songs – if you can call Billy Idol emotional. I assure you, on that morning, I could.

That’s the problem with music – it just fucking knows. For example, I would like to take this opportunity to say “Fuck you, Journey.” I would punch the song ‘Separate Ways’ in the face, if I could.

About halfway into the keyboard intro of Corey Hart’s “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night,” I heard the doorbell. I glanced at the clock – 11:30.

I stumbled out of bed in my penguin pajama pants and a sweatshirt cut to match that of Jennifer Beals in “Flashdance.” Yes, I may be more than a little fixated on the 80’s, but god damn it, that sweatshirt makes my collar bone look like hot sex. I padded down the stairs and spotted Meghan through the window. She’d come, and knowing her, it was probably her lunch break. The iced coffee from dunks only further hinted at her rushed tripped over.

She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. “Oh, honey! That bastard is gonna feel this one.”

Meghan Trotsky was, by far, the sexiest big woman I’d ever known. Actually, she’s probably the sexiest woman, at any size. She might be a big girl, but she knows how to work it, and she takes her time every day to look like a catalogue model. Today she was wearing a navy sweater with a belt just under bust and the most flattering pair of jeans on the planet. Her hair was perfect, with a curl at the end of her highlighted blond hair. Meghan has long eyelashes and crystalline blue eyes. She’s also been on a ‘diet’ the entire time I’ve known her.

She dragged me to the couch, demanding I tell her everything, only to have the doorbell ring again around noon. This time it was Jackie Antunes, or Jacinta Antunes if you wanted to get punched. She joined us on the couch, and I was forced to retell the whole thing. The two of them listened and hemmed and hawed, riling me up and getting me righteously indignant. They brought up every little shit thing Cole had ever done, every time he’d been an asshole, swore they’d never liked him, and began regaling me with how stunning and special I was and how instantaneously I’d be swept off my feet by some roguish Highlander. Their company felt good, and I needed them desperately.

Finally, the moment came - the undeniable and somewhat relished moment when Meghan, my go to girl for inappropriate curiosity, finally asked. “Did you delete the picture yet?”

I paused. “No.”

Both of their eyes lit up, though Jackie tried to hide it. Meghan demanded my phone, and I handed it over. The thought of the rest of town seeing this girl’s shebang appealed to me. Judge if you must.

“Oh, Christ! What a skank!” Meghan said.

“Let me see!” Jackie snatched the phone from her and made a sound that was a mix between a gurgle and a cough, covering her mouth while she gazed up the offending vulva.

Meghan shook her head, her lips pursed. “Seriously, what a skank! If you’re going to let a man take a picture of your pussy, at least require that it be classy. And did you see that landing strip? It’s the sloppiest wax job I’ve ever seen.”

“I bet she has Chlamydia,” Jackie said, throwing wood on Meghan’s fire.

“Hell yeah, she has Chlamydia! And if she doesn’t, she still has a fucking amateur for a waxer.”

Jackie nodded. “It is a little ragged.”

“And for Christ’s sake, what kind of foul slut gets her Clitoris pierced? I mean seriously.” Meghan directed her question to both of us, and I nodded. Listening to them fight for nasty things to say about this complete stranger was better than contemplating what about this ‘foul slut’ surpassed me, and why.

I was ready to join in when I noticed Jackie’s face. She was blushing.

Meghan spotted it too. “Oh no! You’re kidding me?”

Jackie shrugged. “It was a spur of the moment thing!”

“Wait, you have your hoohah pierced?” I asked, and believe me I was truly shocked. Jackie Antunes was a light skinned, half-Latina with freckles. She wears glasses when she reads, enjoys watching Jeopardy with her grandmother, spends most of her time baking and living the life of a feminist housewife, and apparently having a perfect stranger handle and stab her girly bits. I was flabbergasted.