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“A true friendship is not bound by convenience. It’s not about how far this person will go to help me achieve my goals, or how this person is full of drama, but they are popular so they’ll stick around for the sake of what could be a potential benefit to them,” she says emphatically.
I stand in front of her, covered in sweat. I’m practically pacing to the point where I just want to haul ass out of here. Not because I’m afraid… I’m just a tad worked up. However, her impassive eyes keep me hooked. She’s obviously pissed off.
“Grab that chair and sit your ass right down. Now, Rayden!” Brooklyn commands, looking at me square in the eye. When I sit, she continues. “A true friend is the one who offers their shoulder to let you cry. They are the ones who hold the tissue to your nose and ask you to blow. True friends are those who sit you down –like I am now — and tell you things like it is. They don’t sugarcoat anything, and are the first to call you out on your shit.
“In this world there are fakers, and there are makers. The fakers are merely pretenders, they say they are your friend, they are “there” by your side, and they “support” you but only when it’s convenient to them. The makers are the ones who don’t boast titles. They aren’t the ones who claim to be your friend, why? It’s a given. They’ve been there for you in the worst time of your life, and have been there during the highlights. They don’t need your permission to help you. They don’t care about success, or failure. They care about you. Not what you can bring them, but you, heart and soul.
“I call them makers because they make you smile through tears. They make you evaluate things from a different perspective, and make you feel like the fight isn’t over, and that it’s time to get back into the ring. They’re the ones screaming in the corner motivating you be better. Do I make myself clear?”
Well shit. She just put me, and my goddamn theories to shame. I nod twice, but keep my trap shut. I mean, Brooklyn is right and all. All these goddamn sharks swimming around me aren’t my friends. I know that better than anyone. I’m just “The King” to them. The money-maker, the steppingstone between having zero dollars in their bank accounts to adding five or six zeros at the end of it.
Still sitting in my chair, I look at her closely. Her breasts rise and fall with every breath she takes. I have no clue what got her so worked up, but damn, she needs the kind of medicine that will shut her right the fuck up. Feeling rather anxious, I rub my hands against the satiny material of my training shorts. Up and down, down and up. I think for a moment the consequences of the actions I’m about to take. Do I really want to do this?
Rising from my chair, I walk towards her, and judging by the crazy look in her eyes I’m confident Brooklyn can see where this is going. For each step I take, she takes another back, until her ass hits the wall. She looks to her sides, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head as she thinks of ways to bolt from me.
“Brooklyn. I’m done playing games with you,” I mutter under my breath.
Her lips part slightly, her breath cooling the warmth of my lips. Her breathing is erratic; small, nervous whimpers escape her throat. Resting my palms against the wall, I lock her in. There’s only an inch separating us, and through my thin layers I can feel the heat of her body. Her neck looks so inviting, but so does her lips which are a nice shade of pink. My lips suddenly feel parched so I lick them, wishing it were hers I was wetting. To my wonder, Brooklyn’s blues watch me closely, following the movements of my tongue against my lips like her life depends on it.
The intimate feeling behind our stares is too much to take in, so I close my eyes; a meager effort to keep my impulses under control. I don’t know Brooklyn the way I should, but one thing I do know is that I want to be more than just her friend. I want to be the one to be there for her. I just don’t know how, and this urgent need has me all kinds of fucked up and twisted. Opening my eyes I scan her down, and notice through her little white tank top her nipples are hard. She likes me. Wait. No. She wants me.
I move my head, stopping at her left earlobe. Inhaling a long drawn breath, I take her scent in, loving the flowery smell of her skin. I think about what I’ll say to her. The build-up over the past few years has filled my patience bucket to its brim. I’ve done right by this woman, even though she doesn’t know it, and I won’t flake out on her like everyone else does.
“Brooklyn,” I whisper into her ear. ©2015, Imy Santiago — ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Kings’s Reign COMING SOON.