Blame It On The Pain Episode 10

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???? Blame It On The Pain Episode TEN:

(Jackson POV)

“If you want to go to the police after this, I’ll go with you,” I say when I open the door to my apartment building.

Hesitation, discomfort, and finally what looks like resolve flash in her eyes all in the five seconds it takes her to answer. “No.”

I say a silent prayer that Tyrone’s not home as we ascend the stairs to my apartment. Lord knows, he’ll have a lot of questions about this.

Especially since for the last 3 years he’s known me, I’ve never brought a girl back to our apartment before.

Let alone, one who’s already in handcuffs. I’d be lying if I said the vision of her bound and standing there in her hot pink thong didn’t make my thing twitch.

Until I reminded myself how she ended up that way.

With a sigh I continue leading her to my front door …then I hear it.

Fk me…this is not good.

“Look, I’m sorry. It turns out my roommate’s home after all,” I say while trying not to stare into those piercing hazel eyes of hers.

“How do you know? I mean, we’re not even inside yet.”

“I’m surprised you can’t hear it,” I mutter as I pull out my key and open the door.

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When we walk in, it’s even worse than I imagined it would be. He’s parading around the living room, Risky Business style…in nothing but a pair of green Hulk boxers, while Nelly’s- Country Grammar blasts from the stereo.

Alyssa’s mouth drops open and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s impressed by his dance moves, or him in general.

Truth be told, most women are impressed with him.

It’s probably the combination of his Southern accent and the fact that he’s built like a brick sht house. That, and Tyrone himself has been known to turn on the charm and be a bit of a player when the time calls for it.

And since I’ve had the liberty of not only being his roommate, but sharing a locker room with the guy for 3 years…I can, unfortunately, attest to the fact—that yes—it is true what they say about black guys and their equipment.

“From Texas back up to Indiana, Chi-Town, K.C., Motown to Alabamaaaa!” he screams before he spins around and faces us.

Beside me, Alyssa lets out a little giggle.

“Sht, Jackson. I’m sorry. I thought you were still at the club,” he says. He flashes Alyssa a coy smile. “And who is this lovely lady?” Before Alyssa can answer, confusion sweeps across his features. “Wait, you’re the ring girl. Aren’t you?”

Alyssa nods her head while Tyrone holds out his hand to her. “I’m sorry ma’am, where are my manners? We didn’t really have a chance to exchange pleasantries at the club, I’m Tyrone.”

She clearly can’t shake his hand, though, seeing as she’s still handcuffed and all. She looks down and backs away while uttering a cur$e. Tyrone immediately and understandably, looks offended, which just makes this whole situation that much worse.

He co¢ks an eyebrow at me. I know what he’s implying and since I’m almost positive that it’s not true, I really need to run interference. “She can’t shake your hand because she’s handcuffed, Tyrone,” I offer.

Alyssa begrudgingly turns around to show him.

“Sht, girl. You on the lamb?” he asks.

“No. There was a misunderstanding and I somehow ended up getting handcuffed while in the backseat of my car. But we can’t find the key.” she says.

She shoots me a glance that I can only interpret as ‘please, don’t say any more about what happened.’

I nod my head, while Tyrone looks at me, grins, and shakes his head while muttering, “Crazy a$s, white boy,” under his breath. I take a step behind Alyssa and give him the finger before asking, “Do we have a saw or something around here?”

He rubs his chin and grins. “No Jackson, we’re not all freaks like you. But you know who might have one?”

“Fk,” I mumble.

“What? What’s the matter?” Alyssa asks.

Tyrone rubs his hands together. “This is gonna be awesome,” he says before he opens the front door.

Alyssa quickly follows him even though I try stopping her.

I follow them both out into the hallway. Tyrone pounds on his front door. “Yoo-hoo. Ricky Ricardooooo, I know you’re in there. Open up,” he says in his mock Spanish accent.

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Alyssa nudges me with her elbow. “Ricardo? You mean—”

“My coach,” I finish for her.

The door swiftly opens and out comes a shirtless Ricardo…along with a barely dressed Lou-Lou close behind him. Lou-Lou props a hand on her hip. “Peppa? I thought you got canned?” she sneers.

TO BE CONTINUED