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  Text 2 Lovers

  Copyright © 2017 K Webster

  Copyright © 2017 J.D. Hollyfield

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Prema Editing

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note from the authors

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements from K Webster

  Acknowledgements by J.D. Hollyfield

  About Author K Webster

  About J.D. Hollyfield

  This book is dedicated to the two cutest and funniest gals we know…us.

  Dear Reader,

  We hope you enjoy our cute romantic story! The two of us had an absolute blast writing together. One of us took the hero’s POV and the other took the heroine’s POV so have fun trying to decide who wrote what. The answer is in the back…no cheating!

  This book was nothing but laughter and fun on our end so we hope that you can feel that as you read along.

  It’s time to sit back and enjoy this funny, sweet ride. We hope you love reading it as much as we loved writing it!

  See you on the flip side!

  K Webster and J.D. Hollyfield

  “You do not find love. It finds you.”

  —Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem

  The Start of Nothing Good

  “THAT TWO-TIMING, LOW LIFE, SON of a bitch,” Andie, my best friend since grade school, yells while I take the double shot of tequila she insisted I drink and slam it. The burn traveling down my throat causes my eyes to water, but I raise my hand and wave down the bartender to get a refill.

  “Dani, I swear it, girl. I told you to dump his sorry ass a long time ago. I knew he wasn’t doin’ you right.”

  I turn to her and nod my response. Because I’m fighting not to cry and if I try speaking, I will most definitely break down and do so.

  “Honey, say something. You haven’t said a word in the last thirty minutes, and it’s starting to worry me.”

  And being worried is a fair assessment.

  “More tequila, please,” I say, my voice quivering. I can’t believe Daryl did this to me.

  Thirty-seven minutes ago, I walked—more like got dragged by Andie—into Bender’s Bar, a local hangout in our small town of Bensenville, North Carolina because Andie got a tipoff from a girlfriend, which led to me catching my cheating jerk of a boyfriend with his so-called neighbor. And I’m sure you can figure out that they were doing way more than being just neighborly. Catching him with his tongue down her throat was the first sign that I was right. He was a cheating jerk, but the closer I got, the better I was able to see the second sign: the shiny new ring on her finger that was practically blinding me.

  Thirty-five minutes ago, I set the record for how fast a girl could make a guy scream for mercy. Because I beat the living crap out of him. Okay, so I take that back. I just stood there in shock. Andie, the one with the backbone and stiff tongue of our friendship, did the honors for me. While I stood there like the polite person I was raised to be, staring at my boyfriend, with Stacey, his “we’re just friends” neighbor, Andie yelled and called him every lowlife name in the book.

  Every few purse whacks, I attempted to open my mouth and say something, but then that ring would flash in my peripheral vision and I would lose my backbone to fight. Because not only was he cheating on me, he apparently just proposed as well.

  And I know what you’re all thinking. This is for the best. Once a cheater, always a cheater. Get rid of him. And I would also say that I agree. Daryl had to go. I may have loved him, but he was no good. So I did what any girl would do and avenged my honor—in my head of course—because with the way I was raised, I couldn’t be rude to a fly. Having spent my entire life hiding behind my timid shell, I allowed him to choose his new fiancée over me.

  He didn’t try and plead with me that I saw it all wrong. Knowing me, he could have told me she was choking and he was just offering her CPR and I would have believed him. Because that’s the person I am. The one everyone takes advantage of. But no, with the help of a bouncer, he escorted his future bride out. That future bride not being me. And as he passed me, he told me we were over and to never contact him again.

  You know what I said? “Oh, um, okay…”

  Nearly a year of my life of devotion, and poof! Gone.

  I would have said more, but Andie was taking center stage, tossing salt and pepper shakers at his back, yelling things her mother would keel over in her grave about if she heard come out of her mouth. The second the door shut behind them, Andie was grabbing my phone and deleting his number.

  “He won’t have to worry about you calling him, that two pump, no good cheating asshole!” She handed me back my phone, and I numbly took it, with one thought in mind. Just last week he convinced me to fork up most of my savings for a loan he needed help on. Yeah. I just gave my cheating, now ex-boyfriend his down payment, which I’m pretty sure went to that ring.

  God, I’m such an idiot.

  “Another round! Come on! We’re dying of soberness here!” Andie yells across the bar to the tattooed brute working behind the counter. “I swear, we should go find him and egg his car. No wait, bologna his car. I hear that takes the paint off.”

  I should be agreeing with her, trying to muster up any sort of revenge, but I can’t. I’m sitting here numbly thinking that would not be nice, and I would feel bad for ruining his car. God, when did I become such a pushover?

  The bartender finally looks our way and his eyes catch mine. The way he’s staring me down makes me uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because he looks like he wants to eat me. But not in a good way. More like eat me up and spit me out.

  He makes his way over to us. “Since my only job is to service you two ladies, what can I get ya?” He wipes his hands off on a bar towel, tossing it over his shoulder. I notice his thick arms, covered in a colorful array of tattoos. His hair is dark and pulled back into a ponytail as he stretches his arms across his chest.

  “I’m so sorry, you’re right. Please, whenever you’re ready, we would—”

  Andie cuts me off. “No, fuck that. Yes, we would like two more double shots of tequila, chilled, pronto,” she demands and then slaps her hand on the bar.

  My eyes widen at her bold delivery. I turn to the bartender. “I’m sorry. Please just
whenever—”

  “DANI! For real! Stop being so fucking nice.”

  “I’m just being polite. He’s kind enough to serve—”

  “Oh my God! Dani, it’s his job to serve us.” She pauses to make eye contact with the bartender. “No offense,” she says, turning back to me. “See, this is why people take advantage of you. You’re too damn nice.”

  “I am not,” I lie because I’ve been told how nice I am my whole life. Can you let my dogs out, cover my shift, pick up the bill? Thanks, you’re so nice…

  “Dani, listen. Daryl’s an asshole. You did everything for him, and he still cheated on you. With his neighbor.” Her words are harsh, but true. I did do everything for him. Cleaned his condo. Picked up his dry cleaning. Cooked his neighbor food while she was sick and he was out of town on business. “You need to stop letting people walk all over you. You need to start standing up for yourself.”

  Not realizing the bartender left, I’m startled when he returns, placing two shot glasses in front of us.

  “I don’t think I should drink anymore,” I start to say, but Andie sticks her hand over my mouth.

  “You need to do just that. Fuck him. Let it out, girl. I know you’re upset. I also know you’re trying to be nice and probably wondering if he still needs his shirts pressed for Monday!”

  My lower lip begins to quiver, because I was thinking just that. “He has important staff meetings on Mondays and it’s critical he looks—”

  “STOP!”

  I jump out of my seat. I turn to Andie, who is pushing the shot glass into my hand. “Take this, or I call your mother and tell her you had a boy in your room in high school and he almost got to second base under her roof.”

  Oh my God…she wouldn’t.

  “If you’re asking whether or not I’d do it, then the answer is yes I would. Now drink.” She clinks my glass, swishing the liquid.

  My parents were very religious when I was growing up and if they had their way, I’d be ninety before allowing a boy to hold my hand. So needless to say, my sexual experiences and dating record was miniscule. If it wasn’t for Andie and her sweet scandalous smile, my parents probably would have never believed we were studying at her house instead of at the high school keg parties. Which I didn’t drink at. Because I wasn’t twenty-one.

  “Okay, oh my God. I’m not calling your mother. But take it now!”

  With a groan, I throw the shot back, letting the liquid once again burn. The taste is something that belongs in a gas tank, not a human body.

  I start to choke on the aftertaste, when the bartender hands me a lime. “Suck on this,” he says. Looking back at him confused, I see Andie already shoving it in her mouth, so I follow suit. The citrus assault mocks the burn and actually dilutes the awful taste.

  “Than—Thank you,” I reply, picking up a napkin and wiping my lips. When I grab for my wallet, he sticks his hand up and shakes his head.

  “Nah, it’s on the house. Sounds like you deserve it.”

  “I couldn’t possibly accept—”

  “Your friend’s right. You’re too nice. You need to toughen up.”

  My mouth drops open. Even a complete stranger is telling me I’m a total pushover.

  “Some guy do you wrong?” he questions, his face hardening a bit.

  Did he ever…

  “Her cheating asshole of a boyfriend just got caught, and not only did he get caught but proposed to another girl!” Andie shouts in disgust.

  Gee, thanks, best friend. Now I look like a complete fool to this stranger.

  “That why you look like your puppy just died?” He wears a look of pity.

  I bring my hands to my face. “I do not look like that…”

  “Babe, you look sad as shit. Besides the flush in your cheeks from the tequila.”

  I do feel a little warmer. I admit, I don’t ever drink. It was just another thing my parents frowned upon. I bring my eyes back to the bartender, and with renewed boldness I ask, “What would you do if you were me?”

  His lips draw up on one side while mischief flickers in his eyes. “Babe, a good lookin’ gal like yourself? I’d get even.”

  I gasp. Get even? “I don’t even know what that means.”

  The bartender leans forward, his large frame close. Andie and I both lean toward him as if he’s about to tell us a huge secret. “Get mean. Get ugly. Tell him you’ve had better, already gettin’ better. Shit, send him pics of your tits, tell him he ain’t gonna ever suck on those fine ass nips again.” We both gasp at his words.

  “God, that’s a great idea,” Andie sighs, while I punch her in her side, gently of course. Hard would be rude.

  “I cannot do that.”

  “Yes, you can.” That’s Andie and the bartender in unison.

  I look to the bartender and he’s lifting a bottle above the bar, refilling our shots. “You can do it. I’ll help give you the courage, darlin’.”

  I tell them both I can’t. That’s just not me. I would prefer to lick my wounds in private and move on. Daryl cheated on me. He felt our eight-month relationship wasn’t good enough, so he had to dishonor me, and what we had. And then use me and my kindness to sucker me into loaning him almost ten thousand dollars.

  It’s strange how alcohol really does fuel the anger secretly living inside us all. I begin to think about all the things I wanted to do with that money. How hard I saved. All the trips, lunches, and clothes I passed on so I could put that extra money in my savings. Gone, all because some no-good jerk scammed me and bought his new girlfriend a ring.

  “Uh oh, she’s getting quiet again. Earth to Dani…”

  “I paid for that ring,” I blurt out, the liquor kicking in. I turn to Andie, then to our new friend. “The neighbor. Her ring. My money.”

  “What do you mean your money?” That’s Andie.

  “My money. Daryl asked me last week to loan him ten thousand dollars. And I did.” Andie’s mouth drops so far down, I feel it would only be the nice thing to do and pick it up. I reach out, shutting her mouth for her and turn to our friend. “True story,” I say as I nod, and accidentally burp. Ew!

  “That son of a bitch! He is not getting away with this,” my best friend growls.

  “Well, he kinda already has. And looks like she said yes.” I giggle, covering my mouth, shocked at my out-of-nowhere humor.

  “Dani, give me your phone.” She reaches out and grabs it before I even offer it to her. Scrolling through my contacts, she mutters, “Shit, what’s his number? I forgot I deleted his ass.”

  “Why?” I question. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to text him and tell him what a small fucking penis he has and that you hope it falls off or that he gets attacked by a wild bear who rips his legs off.” I don’t know why, but I start laughing. Like hard. What’s wrong with me? The tequila has definitely kicked in. I grab for my phone and fumble with it, trying to get it unlocked.

  “Listen, this is my problem. I’ll text him.” I open up the phone and go into my contacts. I go to dial his number. 1-555-657-43… No, that’s not it. Backspace. 1-555-657-53…. No. Shoot, that’s not it. Backspace…

  “Dude, you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just… just didn’t have his number memorized. I’m trying to… Oh wait! I know. One, five five five, six five seven, five three four three. There! That’s him. Daryl Winston. Cheating jerk of the century.” I smile, looking at my audience. “Now, what do I say?”

  I sit there for a solid five minutes listening to them both shoot out ideas. All words that they should be ashamed of having come out of their mouths. I never understood the whole, let’s-get-vulgar talk. Strangely, though, they’re convincing me that it is one hundred percent the way to go.

  “Okay, so this sounds okay, right?” I put my phone up to my eyeballs because it’s easier to read this way. “You ass sucking motherfucker.” I can’t go any further without laughing. My mother would wash my mouth out with soap if she heard me. “Okay, okay, sorry. Y
ou ass sucking motherfucker, you made a big mistake today. No one breaks up with me.”

  They both take it in, their thinking faces in full effect.

  “I mean it’s good,” Andie says, tapping her chin with her finger. “Could be better, but oh well, send it.”

  I turn to Brett, who we learned during our conversation was the bartender’s name.

  “Short and sweet, babe. Send it.”

  I nod to them both and without another thought, I press SEND.

  And then I panic, grabbing for my phone, hoping it was a bad dream and I really didn’t just send such a horrible message to my ex. I feel like I’m going to be sick. This is not me. I may be hurt and he may have just royally taken advantage of me, my kindness, and my heart, but it doesn’t give me the right to lower myself to his standards.

  I put my phone down, waiting for the hurtful response I’m going to get. Five minutes pass, then ten, and still nothing. After everything I gave him, he can’t even respond to a text message? My legs begin to tap under the bar, and I’m feeling anger brewing in my belly encouraged by the fearless new inhabitant named Tequila. Brett pours another shot, and although I know I don’t need any more, I take it.

  “How dare he?” I demand, picking up my phone and typing in one of the many messages we rehearsed.

  Me: You were horrible in bed. I get more pleasure fingering myself than with your small dick.

  “There’s no way he won’t reply to that one.” But another five minutes goes by and nothing. My anger is getting the best of me, and before I know it, I’m shooting off message after message like a madwoman.

  Me: You suck cock and I’m telling everyone.

  Me: Man, your hairline is so far back, archaeologists couldn’t find it.

  Andie snorts over my shoulder.

  Me: Jump off a bridge you fat fucker.

  By the last text message, I’ve lost all grasp on reality, and get the hint that he isn’t going to reply. I make sure to resave his contact so I don’t forget it again. As the tequila swishes in my belly, I text him one last drunken time: