Page 92 of The Boyfriend Experience

“Your girlfriend.”

“Well, that’s super weird.”

“She sent you to keep me busy, didn’t she?”

“No, Hanna. You invited me over, remember?”

“I don’t know what you two are up to, but I told you what was going on last night. And I’m going to give you five seconds to make a choice, Lawton. And if you make the wrong choice I will be forced to escalate matters. Because someone was on my hard drive and deleted all my beer recipes. So choose.”

“Choose what?” I ask, thoroughly annoyed now.

“Her. Or me.”

I laugh. I just can’t deal. “How about I choose neither of you? Huh? How about I pretend I never met you or her? And the two of you can both just fuck off and fight your little war without this soldier, How about that?”

Hanna sucks in a breath on the other end of the phone. Lets it out. “I wish it were that simple, Lawton. But it’s not. So if that’s your choice—if you’re not on my side—then I’m afraid we’re done here.”

“Great,” I say. “We’re done.”

I press end on the phone, open my front door, and take the stairs down to the parking garage because I’m so pissed off right now, I need to expend the energy.

I’m clicking the key fob to unlock my car when a blow to my head knocks me down to the hard concrete.

When I look up, stunned and confused at what just happened, I see two men in cheap suits standing over me. Late thirties, maybe. One has close-cropped brown hair and a neck tattoo. The other one has a pony tail and long face that makes me think of a horse.

“We were hoping we’d all be friends,” Neck Tattoo says, cracking his knuckles for effect. He glares down at me as his leg swings back, and then the kick to the stomach has me doubled over again.

“But it’s not turning out that way,” Horse Face says, swinging his foot to deliver the third blow.

But here’s the thing no one gets about me. They see me in this suit. They comment on my nice manners. But I’m built like an MMA fighter for a fucking reason. So just as that foot is coming towards me, ready to connect, I grab it, twist, and stand up at the same time. This makes Horse Face’s whole body twist, and now he’s off his feet, in mid-air, hands out trying to break his fall so he doesn’t crush that horse face of his on the goddamned concrete.

He doesn’t quite make it and there’s a sickening crunch as his mouth connects with the ground and blood puddles under him like a newly forming lake.

I look at Neck Tattoo, do one of those let’s-go-motherfucker motions with my fingers, and say, “No, it’s not turning out that way.”

He attacks. And he knows two things as he does this. One. I am trained. Two. So is he. Because he goes for my leg, lifts it up high, like he’s gonna trip me backwards. But whatever he thinks he knows about me, he’s wrong. Because this is my signature defense. The second he tips me off my center of balance, I flip my body around, plant both hands on the concrete, and kick him in the face with the free foot.

He goes reeling backward while I’m getting to my feet and then we attack each other. He goes high, because he’s taller than me, and reaches for my head, going for a snap down.

I deflect both hands, ram my head into his gut, and do a double-leg takedown. He’s on his back, I’m on top of him, and even though I know I’ve got him now, this motherfucker jumped me like a pussy. So I don’t take the high road and let him off easy. I ram my knee into his mouth, his fists flailing at my face. One connects with my eye so hard I almost black out, but now I’m pissed.

I double-punch him. Cheekbone, forehead, cheekbone, forehead. Over and over until he’s choking on his own blood.

I get up, breathing heavy, and look around for Horse Face. He’s running for a car, gets in, starts it up, and then squeals the tires as he aims the vehicle straight at me.

This is my cue that it’s over. I need to bail, and because the door to the stairwell has a security lock on it, I go for that. I reach into my pocket for the keycard as I run, and swipe it.

I look over my shoulder as I enter the stairs, but they’re done with me. Neck Tattoo is stumbling towards the car, and two seconds later he’s inside and they disappear up the parking garage ramp.

“Motherfuckers,” I say, still out of breath.

I look down at my shirt and find it bloody from the blow to the face I took. So I take the stairs two at a time, all the way up to my floor, then go back inside my apartment and scream it again.

“Motherfuckers!”

It’s fucking Hanna, I know it. That’s what her little phone call was about. That fucking bitch sent thugs to rough me up.

This shit is crazy. These girls are crazy.