Simp No More

Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin.

I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun.

When he street raced, I rode shotgun.

When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup.

When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them.

Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked.

They all said I must be madly in love with him.

Even Charles started to believe it.

So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed.

Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me.

But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country.

He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed.

I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier.

"Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love."

That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog.

I was getting an IV drip at the hospital when Charles Mankin's text came in.

I had acute gastroenteritis, courtesy of his jealous little girlfriend from last night at the Hedo Lounge, who got me drunk out of spite.

"Rhyn wants ice cream from H.J. Desserts. Bring it to Hedo, Room 1808."

His voice on the call that followed was lazy, bored, trailing the sharp laughter of a girl in the background.

"I'm sick. On an IV," I said.

"If you're not dead, then get it done. Mindy, I'm saying this once—if I don't see you today, don't bother showing up again."

He hung up.

Just before the call cut, I caught someone on his end giggling, "Lucky Charles. I wish I had a dog that obedient."

I stared at my phone for a moment. The date blinked back at me from the screen. I sighed, looked up at the IV bag that had just been hooked above me, and then, in the nurse's startled gasp, yanked the needle out.

Before she could stop me, I'd slipped out of the hospital, flagged down the first cab I saw, and headed straight across town to H.J. Desserts—ten miles out, easy.

Charles had a gift for cruelty.

H.J. sat on one end of the city grid. Hedo was on the opposite end.

In the dead of winter, ice cream? I said a silent prayer for Rhyn not to catch a cold.

No one stopped me when I stepped into Hedo, dessert bag in hand. They all knew who I was by now.

Not that I liked what they called me.

Charles's lapdog.

I took the elevator up. Just as I pushed the door open a crack, I heard his voice from inside. "Mindy? She'll do whatever I tell her."

His tone was dry and distant, utterly devoid of emotion.

"Obedient as a dog. If it were you, would you throw something like that away?"

Laughter rippled through the room—those same people who'd mocked me at countless gatherings, now falling into easy agreement.

"Honestly, I'd keep a dog that loyal too."

I stood there, unmoving.

The conversation went on.

"Charles, aren't you afraid you'll push too far and she'll bolt one day?"

He chuckled, leaned in and pinched the cheek of the girl beside him. His voice dropped to something low and flirtatious.

"Dogs are loyal to the end."

More laughter.

"That said, Mindy's face is a prize. Body too. You've tasted her yet?" someone asked.

"Too dirty," Charles said casually, lighting a cigarette. "Would you screw a dog?"

And they all burst out laughing again.

It was in the middle of that laughter that I walked in, smiling as I met Charles's eyes.