CHAPTER 2 #4
Denise’s fingers slid down Monique’s arm, her thumb hooking lightly into the cuff of Monique’s sleeve. "You sitting with us, baby?"
Monique’s gaze drifted over Denise’s shoulder, locking onto the central table where Josh Fraser was currently holding court, loudly telling a story about a three-pointer he’d hit against State while the redhead cheerleader giggled on cue.
Something cold, sharp, and perfectly clear crystallized in the back of Monique’s brain.
She looked back at Denise, her smile shifting into something soft, private, and utterly lethal.
"Yeah," Monique said quietly, leaning down to press a soft kiss against Denise’s cheek. "Just give me two minutes, babe. There’s a piece of trash on the floor I gotta sweep up first."
Denise’s dark eyebrows drew together in confusion, her grip tightening slightly on Monique’s wrist. "What? Monique, what are you—"
"Two minutes," Monique repeated softly.
She slipped her wrist out of Denise’s grasp, left her tray standing on the table, and turned toward the center of the room.
As she walked across the polished concrete floor, Monique loosened her shoulders, letting her arms hang loose at her sides. Under the cover of her bag strap, she cracked her knuckles—once, twice—a quiet, sharp sound.
Midway across the floor, she changed her demeanor entirely.
She dropped the hard, aggressive tilt of her chin.
She softened her eyes, let her shoulders drop into a hesitant, almost nervous curve, and smoothed her black crop top down over her stomach.
By the time she reached the perimeter of Josh’s table, she looked like a timid, regretful girl who had finally realized she was out of her depth and had come to apologize to the big man on campus.
One of Josh’s teammates noticed her first, nudging Josh hard in the ribs with his elbow. "Yo, Fraser... look who came crawling back."
Josh turned his head, saw Monique standing three feet away looking down at her sneakers, and his mouth instantly stretched into a wide, triumphant, filthy grin that showed every one of his white teeth.
"Well, well, well," Josh drawled, his voice carrying over the music, leaning back in his chair and spreading his arms wide like a king receiving a subject.
"Look at this. You finally come to your senses, huh, Monique?
Realized you can't be playing hard to get forever when a real nigga is right here in your face? "
Monique didn't say a word.
She took two quick steps forward, entering his space before he could react. She reached out with both hands, grabbed the front collar of his varsity letterman jacket, fisted the leather tight, and yanked his six-foot-eight frame violently forward and down.
Before Josh could process the movement, Monique leaned in and slammed her mouth directly onto his.
It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was an aggressive, hard, theatrical collision of lips.
She thrust her tongue past his startled, open teeth, deep and deliberate, making sure every single student in the food court—every teammate, every cheerleader, every security guard, and especially Denise Richards—had a front-row seat to the performance.
Josh’s eyes went wide with absolute, blinding shock for one second.
Then his massive ego took the wheel. He let out a muffled, triumphant hum against her mouth, his hands coming up to grab at her waist, believing with every fiber of his simple mind that he had finally conquered the toughest girl on campus.
The entire dining hall went dead quiet in patches.
Phones were hoisted into the air. At the window booth, Cindy nudged Denise hard in the side, pointing frantically.
Denise turned her head, caught sight of Monique’s body pressed against Josh Fraser, and froze completely—her brown eyes going wide, her face draining of color, her jaw dropping open in absolute, stunned betrayal.
Now.
Monique locked her teeth, drove her weight onto her left heel, and brought her right knee upward with everything her body could muster—an explosive, upward strike driven straight into the soft, unshielded center of Josh Fraser’s crotch.
THUMP.
The sound was dense, wet, and heavy, like a sledgehammer hitting a sack of wet grain.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Josh’s kiss dissolved into a high-pitched, broken, squealing gasp that sounded like a crushed pig.
His eyes nearly bulged out of his skull, his face turning an impossible shade of purplish-gray in less than half a second.
He released Monique’s waist instantly, his hands flying down to cover his groin as his six-foot-eight body collapsed sideways off the chair, hitting the concrete floor in a tight, whimpering fetal position.
He lay there on his side, curling into a ball, clutching his crotch, gasping for air that wouldn't come, making tiny, pathetic, wet weeping noises.
"You... you fucking... bitch..." Josh managed to choke out through his teeth, saliva trailing from his lips onto the floor.
Monique didn't back away.
She took one precise step backward to clear her angle, planted her left foot firm on the concrete, wound her right leg back like a punter on fourth down, and kicked him clean in the center of his jaw.
CRACK.
The sound of her heavy leather sneaker connecting with his face echoed off the high ceiling like a firecracker going off in a small room.
A white tooth skittered across the floor, spinning like a die before coming to rest against the leg of a nearby table. A spray of bright red blood burst from Josh’s split lip, painting the gray floor in a jagged arc.
Monique stood over his trembling frame, her chest rising and falling, her dark eyes cold, hard, and utterly merciless as she pointed down at his bleeding face with a long, steady finger.
"That’s for pushing me into the locker this morning, nigga," Monique’s voice rang out across the silent dining hall, crystal clear and heavy as lead. "And that’s for calling me a bitch one too many times."
For three long seconds, nobody moved.
Then, a lone voice near the sandwich counter shouted: "DAMN!"
An explosion of cheers, screams, and chaotic laughter erupted across the food court.
Students stood up on chairs, pounding on tables, clapping their hands, shouting out their support.
They had watched Josh Fraser swagger around Detroit College for two years like he owned every woman and every hallway; watching him get brought down by a five-foot-six freshman girl was the greatest spectacle the campus had seen all semester.
Josh’s teammates scrambled out of their chairs, completely bewildered, trying to drag his weeping frame off the floor. At the far end of the hall, two uniform campus security officers were finally pushing their way through the surging crowd, shouting for people to move.
Before they could reach the center, Denise broke through the circle.
Her face was a whirlwind of shock, disbelief, and fierce, burning pride. She grabbed Monique by the upper arm with a grip that left no room for negotiation and pulled her hard toward the side exit.
"Come on," Denise hissed against her ear. "Right now, Monique!"
They burst through the heavy double doors into the quiet service corridor, Denise half-dragging Monique down the hall until she shoved open the door to the secondary women’s restroom near the auditorium.
They tumbled inside. Denise turned around, threw her weight against the door, slid the heavy brass deadbolt into place, and leaned her back against the wood, breathing as hard as if she had just run a four-hundred-meter dash.
Monique leaned her hip against the row of porcelain sinks, wiping a tiny speck of Josh’s blood off the side of her leather sneaker with a wet paper towel, her pulse still hammering against her ribs like a drum.
Denise stared at her from across the small room.
For five seconds, neither of them said a word. The only sound was the hum of the exhaust fan overhead and the heavy, rhythmic sound of their breathing.
Then, Denise’s face broke.
A deep, rolling, incredulous laugh bubbled up from her throat—a rich, bright sound that filled the tiled room. She shook her head, her locs swaying around her shoulders, her brown eyes shining with something so intense, so fierce, it looked almost like anger.
"That," Denise said, her voice dropping into a low, resonant purr, "was the most insane, awesome shit I have ever seen in my entire life."
Monique let out a short, breathless grunt, tossing the dirty paper towel into the trash can.
"Had to teach that nigga a lesson. Bastard shoved me into the steel lockers this morning before my psychology class.
Kept putting his hands on my clothes like he bought 'em for me.
I had to humble him once and for all so he knows my name means no. "
Denise stepped away from the door.
She crossed the small space between them in two long, deliberate strides, her body moving with that smooth, athletic power that made Monique’s breath catch in her throat.
She didn't hesitate. She reached out, her hands coming up to frame Monique’s jawline, her long fingers pressing firm against Monique’s cheekbones, tilting her face up.
"Well, consider that nigga thoroughly humbled," Denise whispered, her dark eyes locking onto Monique’s lips.
Then Denise took her mouth.
The kiss was fierce, possessive, and deep—a direct, uncompromising claim that made Monique’s knees go instantly weak against the porcelain sink.
Denise pushed her tongue deep into Monique’s mouth, tasting her, claiming her, her hands sliding down from Monique’s face to wrap tightly around her waist, pulling Monique’s hips flush against her own.
When Denise finally pulled back half an inch, her breath was hot, ragged, and dangerous against Monique’s lips. Her brown eyes were dark with a serious, unyielding intensity.
"And don't you ever," Denise growled softly, her thumb pressing hard against Monique’s lower lip, "put those lips of mine on another man’s face again. You hear me?"