Shams. She got shams next. What the fuck is a sham? Where the fuck do I even put one of those? The bathroom? Guess what? They're fancy fucking pillowcases. Yeah, blew my mind too. What the fuck? Does she think we're French Royalty or some shit? Her reasoning for that was that it made it homey in here for her. I'm a fucking sucker for that bitch. I let my baby have her goddamn shams. Fuck, she can buy one for each room of the goddamn house if it makes it feel homey to her. I can't complain either, comfy shit ain't too bad.
So from then on, shit just spiraled out of control. One thing turned into another. Her and her bitches started bringing shit into our house, and now it's what she calls a home. It was that before, wasn't it? We now have a house full of shit I could care less about, but that shit puts a smile on Lala's beautiful fucking lips and I'll do whatever the fuck I gotta do to keep it there.
Currently I'm standing in what used to be my bedroom. With its now black bed set, dressers, nightstands, pictures, and something Lala called, "Chevron patterned curtains" on the windows. Now, she's painting an ‘accent' wall ‘dove gray.' What the fuck does that even mean? I feel like I need to make a trip to the strip club, maybe even a shooting range before I lose my man card indefinitely. It's been a year, and she's slowly, but surely, taken that shit away from me, but I said fuck it a long time ago. I don't have to do it, so what the fuck ever.
Want to know what it all means for me? It means a content and happy as fuck Lala in my life. It means she smiles, it means she's comfortable, and it means she has a place to call hers. Happy Lala means dinner and pussy every night, and into the near future. So guess what? I've got an accent wall in my room, Chevron curtains, and I'm not fucking sorry about it. She wants me to paint that fucker myself I will. Whatever the fuck she wants, whenever the fuck she wants it.
///
****
Sitting in the kitchen I watch Lala do her thing. I watch her yap to Sis about God knows what. Shit I don't care about. They're making me food and really, that's all that matters.
Sometimes I watch her and wonder how the fuck we really got here, one goddamn year later and she's still here with me. Nothing was discussed and nothing was said. Shit just progressed the way I guess shit is supposed to progress. Weeks turned into months, months turned into a year, and I guess shit is exactly how it's supposed to be.
I'm fucking lucky. I get every goddamn day with her. She lets me take care of her. She lets me fuck her. She's let me be a part of her life, and that shit is exactly how I want to spend the rest of my fucking life.
"Rampage?" Lala snaps at me from the kitchen counter. Christ.
"What babe?"
"Tank needs your help settin' up that bounce house." A what?
"The fuck is that?" Lala looks at Sis and they both start laughing. What the fuck am I missing?
"For the party." Sis laughs at me. This is nothing new. These two are so goddamn annoying together. I avoid them like bitches with herpes.
"Care to elaborate?" I snap.
"It's a thing that you blow up so kids can bounce around inside of it. It's for Dallas's birthday party." Yeah. Don't care.
"Yep." I'll do whatever I have to do to get outta the house and away from these two.
I hate all this girly shit. Drives me crazy that all of the old ladies take over my goddamn house. I put up with all the decorations, pillows, paint, and candles in my fucking space, but Sis and the girls in my face and in my space all of the time drives me fucking insane. Instead of saying shit, I just let it go. It's Lala's space too.
****
One year of Lala to myself hasn't done shit to dull the fucking rage that blinds me when motherfuckers put their hands on her. No one gets to touch her without, at the very least, losing a goddamn finger. I've been known to kill for less. Touching my woman will get you a painful end with no funeral.
"You gonna smash his face in or rip his head off?" Stitch tips his beer at the overly friendly asshole rubbing on an uncomfortable as fuck Lala. I can see her uneasiness by the way she pulls away, shoulders tight and back straight. I hate that shit.
There's a reason I took her ass out of the stripping game. It was because I hated the idea of men looking at her with anything other than the respect she deserves. I also hated that look in her eyes when she did it, and it's the current look she's sporting right now. Lala is too good for that shit.
"I'll decide when I get there," I grumble back. Head, arm, or finger. I'm not fucking picky.
"What the fuck you waitin' for?" Stitch fires back. A little blonde haired girl is what I'm waiting for. "You see Dallas standing there with Lala ‘n Sis? That's what the fuck I'm waitin' for." I'm not about to go over there and raise hell with that little thing watching. I won't control myself in front of anyone when I get over there.
As far as these kids here are concerned, we are the fucking best. We can do no wrong and I'd like to keep shit that way. Dallas loves us all, just as much as she loves her dad, and I'd like to keep her liking me for a while, or at least until she figures out we're all a bunch of animals.
"Dallas! C'mere, baby." Tags hollers.
A mess of sticky hands and hair comes bouncing up to us. "Uncle Rampage! Uncle Stitch," she giggles. "Daddy!" She starts leaping all over the place to get to Tags. I've no fucking clue how he deals with all that. Little girls with their pink, girly shit really scares me.
"Go play inside, baby."
"Daddy, daddy, daddy!" She hollers when he turns her toward the house.
"What?" Tags asks her.
"That man smilin' at auntie Lala is icky." Hearing that shit from a little girl makes me see red.
"Go inside now, Dallas."
Fuck I try. I do. I try real fucking hard to keep my shit bottled inside, but the second Lala shoots me a look from across the yard, I can't hold that shit in. Those big blue eyes are uncomfortable and worried. She should be worried – worried that I'm about to get that fuckers blood on that hot as fuck dress she's wearing.
My fist meets flesh, and the motherfucker has a hard ass face. The little puke wearing the unpatched cut stumbles back, his hand flying up to his mouth.
"What the fuck?" he grunts in pain.
"You like your arms? Fond of your fuckin' face?" Hand over his mouth, he pulls it away and sees blood. I love that hue of red.
///
His eyes get big when he looks from his hand to me. I know he doesn't want to, but he has to defend himself. If he falls back, there is no way in hell he'll get his colors. At least if he tries, they might let him keep prospecting.
I let my fist find his nose this time. The crack of bone feels like an ice-cold beer on a hot day.
Lala used to try and stop me when shit would get wild. She would have gotten teary eyed or upset when I started using my fists to solve problems, but not anymore. She doesn't like it, but she deals with it. After I'm done beating faces, she'll clean my hands and let me fuck her stupid.
The little shit swings on me through blurry eyes and a bloodied face. He misses by a goddamn mile. Why even try? His sad attempt fuels my rage.
I let my fist connect with his ribs, dropping the little shit to his knees. Why does this shit gotta be so fucking easy anymore? Where the fuck's the challenge? It's like half these men are pussies.
"Get up!" I kick at his side. "You want to touch my woman, you better be ready to defend that stupid fuckin' decision." Sweeping his leg out, he tries to knock my ass down. I'm too big and too fucking heavy for that shit. Nice try.
"Fuck that, man. I don't want that stupid cunt," he groans.
He gets a good taste of my boot before I start getting a little carried away. Call my woman a cunt and you'll be spitting teeth into next week. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, motherfucker. Stay the fuck away from my woman." I wanna keep hitting the piece of shit until Lala calms my shit down.
"Baby, you're gonna kill him."
The only thing on this planet that can bring me back and calm me down is Lala. Her sweet voice and that soft body bring me right the fuck back to her. I'm breathing heavy and having a hard time letting this shit go.
Running a hand down my arm, she grabs my bloody, busted up hand in hers. She holds it up to get a good look at the damage while I glance at her perfect face. When her eyes meet mine, she rolls those blue beauties at me.
"We're out of Band-Aids," She says with a smirk.