The Infamous Ellen James(57)

"You love it." His grin is as wide as Texas and I can't fight the urge to smile back at him like an infatuated idiot.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I love it. Give me some more sugar, Casanova. This time no licking." I pucker my lips and he gently places his lips to mine, tenderly kissing me.

"Have a good night at work, Ellie, and text me later if your night isn't too busy. I'm on call for the rest of the week so I'm sure we're going to cross paths at Regency at some point."

"Okay." I give him a swift peck on the cheek before hopping out of the truck.

As I head to the lobby door of my building, I notice a disheveled and very dirty-looking man walking out of my apartment's parking lot and toward the main road. His back is to me, but I'd know that man anywhere. That's Frank. ER frequent flyer Frank. I'm praying he didn't see me getting out of Trent's truck, and I have a feeling that I'll probably be seeing him in the ER very, very soon. This poor man has had a lifelong battle with mental illness, his primary diagnosis being paranoid schizophrenia. He's definitely made me feel uncomfortable at times, and he can come across as a total creep, like Amy would say, but I really do feel bad for him. No one should have to suffer through a life that's a constant battle of trying to keep your foot in the door of reality's house while crazy town is constantly trying to pull you right back out to Never Never Land.

As I unlock my apartment door, I can hear Adele's Rolling In The Deep blaring from the stereo. I am little concerned about what this could mean. Amy and I have specific music that we play when we are pissed off about a guy. Rihanna when we're slightly pissed off; think angry texts and phone calls. Taylor Swift when we're definitely pissed; think egg his car or toilet paper his house. And Adele, well, she's the big guns, the "I'm going to rip his balls off, make a nice slow cooker meal with them, and then shove said ball-roast down his throat" kind of pissed. Yes, we totally go Hannibal Lector.

Nice Chianti and some fava beans, anyone?

So you can see my concern when not only is Adele blasting from the speakers in my apartment but Rolling In The Deep of all songs is playing.

I hesitantly head into my apartment, finding Amy and Lizzy sitting on the living room couch, eating ice cream. Amy is belting out the lyrics of the song like she's singing for a crowd of thousands into her giant ice scream scooper that must be serving dual purposes—spoon and microphone. My sister is just sitting next to her, digging into her pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, seeming to enjoy the impromptu concert that's taking place in my living room. I walk towards the stereo and pause the music.

"WE COULD HAVE HAD IT.... Hey! What the hell, Elle?" Amy scowls at me.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on. Lizzy and I are just enjoying some ice cream while we listen to Adele." She avoids my eyes and dips her scooper into the gallon tub of Rocky Road ice cream that is sitting in her lap.

"Don't be an asshole. I know you. And I know what Adele means. Lizzy has plenty of reasons to listen to Adele, but you, I need to hear your reasons." I point my finger at her as my voice raises.

"Stop pointing at me, dickhead!" Amy shouts with a mouth full of ice cream.

"Seriously, what's going on?" I look at Lizzy.

"James pissed Amy off—" Lizzy starts to say before Amy throws a pissed look her way, promptly causing her to shut her mouth.

"What happened with James?" I look back to Amy, impatiently tapping my foot. I need to hear this story and I only have a short time before I have to get ready for work.

"James… Nothing happened with James. Let's hear about your night with Trent! Did he bang your brains out?!"

"Yes, he did, in fact, bang my brains out, but you're not off the hook. Spill it, Amy, or else I'll be worrying about you all night when I'm at work." I'm trying to use the guilt factor to entice her into telling me what in the hell happened with James. I mean, it seemed like she was really hitting it off with him.

Amy sighs heavily and looks down at her ice cream, stirring her scooper through the melted cream on top. "He's an asshole, all right? A total dickhead douchebag and I don't ever want to speak to him again. He turned my pussy down! My pussy! My perfectly groomed, hot, sweet, tight—"

I cut her off before she starts to give me exact measurements of her labia. "He turned you down?"

"Yeah, Dr. Limp Dick turned me down. I basically threw myself at him, and he just dropped me off at our apartment." Oh god, she's already nicknamed him. This is worse than I thought.

"I don't get it. You two seemed like you were hitting it off before Trent and I left the country club." I'm definitely taken aback by this, but I feel like there's a piece of this story that's missing.