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LOCKY
Most people are familiar with the characteristics of a Type A personality. Hard-driving. Ambitious. Meticulous. Perfectionist.
That's not me.
At all.
I'm a total Type B. A typical, laid-back Aussie dude. Easygoing. Relaxed. Flexible.
Most of the time, that's a pretty good way to be.
Can't make it to the movies by six? No worries, we'll catch the later session.
Had a shitty day? Tell me all about it.
Need help with something? I'm your man.
But sometimes, people misinterpret you being laid-back and carefree as a sign that it's okay to steamroll over you, disregard your feelings, and spit you out like chewed-up gum.
People like my soon-to-be ex-husband and reigning king of cheating asswipes, Bailey Chadforth.
I approach the front porch of the house I kicked him out of exactly six months ago today—but who's keeping track?—and start to shake my head.
Oh no.
Hell. To the. Fuck.No.
Thiscannotbe what I think it is.
I reach the stoop, halt, and grip the handrail so tightly my knuckles drain of all color as I glare at the five pieces of luggage stacked by the door.
Five pieces ofmyluggage.
There's a piece of paper taped to the front suitcase with two words scrawled on it with a black Sharpie.
GET OUT!
I glower at the sign, my vision turning red. Who the fuck does Bailey think he is? Cheating on me wasn't enough, now he's forcing me out of my home?
I lunge up the steps, death stare the note taped to my luggage, and shove my key into the lock.
"Fucker," I grunt, slamming my fist into the door.
He's changed the locks.
Fine. Have it his way. If he wants to hurt me, I can hurt him right back.
The other misconception people have about Type Bs?
That we don't get angry.
While it may not happen often, and it takes something pretty damn huge to piss me off, it does happen.
And when I go off, I go all the way off.
With my heart racing, I storm into the garage through the side door I always keep unlocked.
"Fucking lying, cheating, scumbag piece of shit…"
