Cree (My Way Series - Book 1) (Volume 1) (2 page)

I had the experience of catching my Prince Charming screwing his secretary on his desk doggystyle while pulling her hair and slapping her ass. All he was missing was a Stetson cowboy hat. It was National Secretary Week, so who’s to judge, right? He was such a gentleman for giving her such a kind and generous gift.

Let’s see, then there was the waitress at the country club in the back seat of his cherished Audi. There he received a life-altering blow job while I was stuck inside the club cleaning up after an event for his law firm.

Oh, and let’s not forget the good ol’ dentist! Guess you could say the prick really has a sweet tooth. And if you were wondering, when he was busted, he of course cooed with the typical, “Oh, honey, it’s not what it looks like!” Oh really, because last time I checked the dentist didn’t need to be naked spread eagle in the chair with her legs wrapped around her neck while you relentlessly banged her to fill a goddamn cavity!

The million dollar question you’re asking yourself: “Why stay with the Bastard and not slash his tires and put
muy caliente
salsa in his shampoo?” Ironically enough, a certain lady kept me in his life. His mother, Frances. It was the one thing I never had growing up, but so desperately wanted, and the Bastard gave it to me.

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HAPTER 2

My Mother on Loan

Frances was the sweetest little bubble of joy, all wrapped up in one very obnoxious polyester suit. She was just one of those people that could just light up your world no matter how dark it was. She loved and loved with all she had. She took in all walks of life and never judged. She just shared her undying love with all.

I still remember the first time that the Bastard brought me home to meet her. Frances was busy in her kitchen fixing us lunch; however, she had her panties in a complete twist because her “damn” potato salad just wasn’t setting up the right way.

It took her twenty minutes of fussing with the potato salad before and I quote, “To hell with this mess! I followed that damn recipe that Carly Carleson gave me. I just know that hoochie screwed with the recipe! Homemade potato salad is way overrated. Son! Frankly, I just got a case of the Fuck-Its! So fuck it, let’s go to Dairy Queen. You know the chicken strip basket is on sale for 3.99!”

That’s how I met the true love of my life. The woman who taught me how to be strong, roll with the punches, cry when I needed to, and above all, to love myself. And that it was okay to get a good old-fashioned case of the fuck-its every once in a while!

The last six years of my marriage have only been manageable because of Frances. We developed a very close relationship and an unbreakable bond over the years. I never spoke of her son’s indiscretions to her out of respect. I just lived life to its fullest while around her. We had our fun scheduled down to a fine science. When I wasn’t attending events with the Bastard, I was living life with his mother.

On Mondays we would go out for lunch and then go shopping. Our game while shopping was to see who could find the most disgusting and grotesque piece of clothing, and then we would have to get a compliment on the piece of clothing from a worker or another shopper. Frances would always win with her amazing charm and personality. I hated shopping, but had to keep up on the styles to maintain my sparkling arm candy image. Honestly, I would rather stick needles in my eyeballs than shop for clothes.

Tuesday we would volunteer our time at the local soup kitchen. We would help prepare the meal for the evening. We donated several tubs of homemade potato salad to the soup kitchen. Frances loved harassing Big Boy Larry who ran the kitchen. Deep down I do believe she had a crush on him. I saw the way she always made sure her girls were hoisted up for him.

Wednesdays were our day to lounge around the house and try new recipes (mainly potato salad recipes). Since we were next-door neighbors, we would alternate between houses. Lots of wine, laughter and fucked-up potato salad were the result of Wednesdays.

Thursdays were our day for pedicures, manicures, nail refills, eyelash refills, haircuts and color and waxing. Just depended on what we needed. We loved our salon and everybody who worked in it. It was our “little secret” nestled in downtown Sacramento with the mysterious name, “The Garage.” We always caught up on the latest gossip and the newest smut novels. Hell, we even had merchandise shipped to the salon. We were just all so intrigued by those damn silver balls. Nail tech Wanda confirmed the mystery of the silver balls, and said that they work freaking miracles. Needless to say, the next Thursday there were ten sets of silver balls delivered to The Garage.

Fridays were our “Wild Card” day…whatever happened, happened! Frances joined the Bastard and me every night for dinner, and stayed to help clean up and visit with me while the Bastard went to his office to work. Life was fun, simple, and just plain remarkable with Frances.

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HAPTER 3

Time Is Up!

The shittiest day of my life was about three months ago when Frances sat us down to inform us that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She carried on by telling us that the doctors informed her that her cancer was in the latest stages, and that treatment wouldn’t even help her. The diagnosis was very grim. Of course, the Bastard had to lecture her about prevention and annual check-ups. After he was finished with his dickhead lecture laced with no compassion, Frances stood up and adjusted her lime green terry cloth jogging pants and said, “With all this information I have decided to say ‘Fuck It’—I will fight this cancer and win!” Yep, she chose treatment. She was going to kick cancer’s ass and at the very least, have a damn good time trying to do it.

We’re currently sitting in room 121 at Benjamin Morrison Memorial Hospital while my lovely Frances receives a round of chemo. She has insisted that I paint her “piggies” pink today. I’m trying to paint her toes while she’s tinkering around on her iPad that I bought her when we started her Cancer Ass-Kicking Campaign three months ago. Frances never called me by name; she always insisted on calling me her Cinda-rell-y. I asked her one day why she always called me Cinda-rell-y and she simply replied, “Because you are my tailor-made princess that stormed my castle and saved the day.”

Once Frances’ “piggies” were drying, I cuddled up next to her on the bed and then we initiated our crazy addiction of pinning on Pinterest. Our biggest board was our Potato Salad board because by damn we (more Frances than me) were on a mission to nail down an orgasmic potato salad before she died. However, today we accidentally found a board named “Passion.” With our curiosity piqued, we started looking. It didn’t take long until we were rolling on the bed laughing, and I mean a good belly laugh that makes your tummy muscles work. This Passion board had all kinds of body parts exposed and couples in the most compromising positions!

Finally, I had to cry “Uncle” and holler PMP (our code for Peeing My Pants…only used in extreme cases of comedy). I watched that sneaky li’l Frances click on the red link labeled “Follow.” It was finally time to go home, so hand in hand we walked to the car and went home to prepare dinner.

Our days were spent like this during Cancer Ass-Kicking Campaign. The Bastard never attended chemo with his mother, claiming he was always too busy at his law firm; he just couldn’t make the time. (Bastard!) He would join us for dinner with little conversation, but I would always find Frances admiring him from across the table. I knew it made her heart happy to have us both with her. I wanted nothing more than her heart to be happy, no matter the cost.

After dinner, Bastard would head to his office while Frances and I would cuddle up on the couch to indulge in our very freaking serious addiction to reality TV. I always made sure she made it to her bedroom every night. I would stay to tuck her in and whisper in her ear so only she could hear me. My soul needed this private moment with her every night. I knew our nights were becoming numbered… “I love you, Frances May Crazy Pants. You light up my soul and fill my heart to the brim. Love you now and forever.” Then I would kiss her forehead. She would always gently squeeze my hand and reply, “Sweet Dreams, Cindarelly.” These were the only words needed to share our exchange of feelings towards each other, and we knew that in each other we had everything.

I knew that my days were becoming quickly numbered with the love and light of my life. Leave it to my Frances May Crazy Pants to go out with a bang. She insisted on shopping for her outfit to wear that she would be buried in. When I say outfit, I mean down to the damn wig! In true Frances fashion, she chose a hot pink dress with cap sleeves that gathered at the waist, then flared out, hitting her right at the knees. She also purchased a pair of hot pink 6-inch spiked heels. She claimed she could never walk in heels without falling on her arse or looking like an elephant on skates, so by hell she would be buried in a pair. She finally settled on a wig that was styled to perfection.

She let me pick out her jewels. I didn’t hold back; I went balls to the wall, selecting cotton candy pink jewels to adorn her ears, neck and ring finger. We even had matching bracelets made that day with an inscription inside that read, “Cindarelly + Frances May Crazy Pants=PMP.” The outside of the bracelet was a simple sterling silver plate adorned with cotton candy pink jewels and bling. The message was hidden on the inside of the bracelet. We didn’t wait for the funeral to put these bad boys on, we pimped them right out of the store. That was the last outing I shared with Frances.

We spent the rest of her precious time huddled up on her hospital bed in the middle of the living room watching reality TV. It was at her house because the Bastard refused to have a hospital bed taking up room in his house. We didn’t speak much, but instead held each other in silence. I needed Frances, and I couldn’t bear talking or thinking about losing her. When the hospice nurse informed me that she would be gone very soon, I called the Bastard. He managed to make it home within an hour, grumbling about some important case. It was time for me to get out of her bed and let go of her forever because her son was here to let her go. He was the one that should hold and comfort her as she passed. He was her only child and she loved him dearly.

It shattered every fiber of my being to let go of her. I needed her to function, to breathe and to be. If I thought the pain of the affairs my husband inflicted on me were bad, well—there was no comparison. This absolutely tore my soul and heart from my body and crushed them both. I knew I was losing the mother that never belonged to me, but touched my life in every way possible from the dark, scary corners of my world to the brightest, most cherished parts.

I leaned over and whispered in her ear ever so quietly, “I love you, Frances May Crazy Pants! You light up my soul and fill my heart to the brim. Love you now and forever.” Then I kissed her forehead for the last time. To my surprise, she gently tugged on my hand and said, “Sweet Dreams, Cinda-rell-y.” It took everything in me to make my body climb from her bed. Just like that, I lost the love of my life, standing four feet away from her while her son held her precious, fragile body. I watched my hero draw in her final breath.

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HAPTER 4

Sweet, Sweet Justice

Attorney Hugo Smith called me yesterday telling me that he had something of high importance to tell me regarding a matter that pertains to the Montgomery family. I’m not sure what it could be because I already filed for divorce from the Bastard. With him owning the biggest law firm in Sacramento, I knew I stood no chance of coming away with anything from my piece of shit marriage.

In all honesty, I just wanted my cotton candy-colored bling bracelet and that was it. I didn’t even care if I had to walk to the nearest Wal-Mart naked to buy an outfit. I would leave naked if that meant parting ways from the heartless, cheating bastard. I knew he would sign the papers when I asked for absolutely nothing in the divorce. He would then have the freedom to bang as many random women as he wanted without having to be sneaky, because face it—I guarantee there were way more than just the three I knew of. Within 24 hours of filing, I was officially divorced from the Bastard.

I guess he had connections and was more than willing to lose his extra baggage. He also made sure I left with nothing, and I mean nothing…dignity included! I had $167.89 tucked away in a coat pocket from my shopping spree with Frances. No car, no clothes and no hope. However, I felt lighter than I had in years. There was a small, nagging victory dance working its way up from my toes because I was free of the Bastard forever! I may have to sell my body to make money, but at least I was free!

So here I sit across from the squatty, older Hugo Smith, wearing my new zebra-striped flip-flops, denim capris and my new lace hot pink ruffled tank top from the local dollar store. Without saying a word, Hugo slid an envelope to me. When seeing the wonder on my face, he gently said, “It’s a letter from Frances. Please read it and then we’ll discuss the content of the letter.”

I didn’t want to read this letter in front of him. I wanted to take it and cherish it in a dark corner somewhere. I can’t do this! Finally, I mustered up all the courage I had, slid the letter from the envelope, and I immediately recognized Frances’ beautiful cursive sprawled across the page in purple ink…

To My Sweet Cinda-rell-y,

This letter is my way of apologizing to you. I was so very selfish in our relationship. I knew how my son treated you and the many affairs he participated in. I saw the hurt and devastation in your eyes, and I only recognized it because I too knew the feeling. Aaron’s father had several affairs while we were married. I had high hopes that my son would one day treat and respect his wife better than his father did. When his father died, Aaron was only 14. I did everything I could to instill the importance of commitment in my son.