Copyright 2013 - Zahra Brown (pseudonym: 'Zia Black')
All rights reserved.
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
www.ziablack.com
Image: dolgachov/bigstockphoto.com
CONTENTS
The Dead Weight
Dear Reader
About the Author
Dedications
This book is written in British English.
****
The Dead Weight
"I'm leaving you," she mumbled. He cupped a hand to his ear. Louder this time, she said, "I'm leaving you." She sighed a little before dabbing her sweaty, brown brow. More sweat trickled from her afro and slid into her eyes. Neil hoped it stung. She winced, showing it did. That made him feel a little better.
"So, can I take the dog?" she asked. "I am the one who bought her. I mean, I withdrew my dosh...You never did pay me back."
Neil gripped the armrests so hard his nails pierced the new leather. He took several deep breaths, inhaling that new leather smell. It reminded him of the two years left to pay for the new furniture. It also reminded him of whose name was on the contract.
Here's a clue: It wasn't her.
"I'm leaving you, Neil." She sounded angrier this time.
He walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Sitting in his driveway was her brand new sports car. His name was on it, too. His narrow, green eyes motioned outside, so she shifted away and shook her head.
"You're not listening to me."
He sat beside her on the sofa and put an arm around her. When she rested her head on his hand, her wet lips slid over his skin. He couldn't stop the tingle down below. He let it grow as her tongue traced his knuckles. Then she sat up abruptly and pushed his hand away.
"Always about sex, ain't it?" she snapped. "Do you see me at all, you know, the real me?"
He rolled his eyes.
"Bonnie said--"
He zoned out. His ears had heard enough. Bonnie, her best friend in the universe, always dished out the worst advice. No wonder Bonnie never had a boyfriend. Neil couldn't understand how any man could stand Bonnie's constant, monotonous, repetitive male-bashing.
"Bonnie said a good relationship should survive without sex."
Which was easy for her. Bonnie hadn't had some good dick since...
"Bonnie said we should talk more. She said that's why I keep sleeping around."
So why on earth did she keep coming back?
"I'm leaving you," she said. "Do you even care? Do you give a shit?"
Of course he did...but he couldn't show her that, could he? No. She wasn't the only one who'd gotten some friendly advice.
Don't beg this time, his best friend Greg had said. Play it cool, bruv. She'll come running back.
And that was why Neil turned on the TV and watched a comedy. While the love of his life was packing her bags, he laughed until he cried. He had to force the tears out. The laughter was convincing enough. He didn't even flinch when she took his DVD collection. It'd be back in a few hours. She'd be back too.
She always came back.
First she would run away. Second, hide at Bonnie's house. Third, call him and reminisce. Fourth, show up in the driveway, in tears with a nose clogged with snot. She'd stink of beer, wine and vomit. And Bonnie's husky perfume that reminded him of his grandfather.
She'd say sorry. He'd forgive her. After hours of hot sex, everything would be normal again...until the sex drought began. Then the arguments. Then the fights. Then another break-up. The cycle was endless. No matter how well-endowed the other man was, or what shitty "independent women" advice Bonnie dished out, she always came back.