Free Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 by Cayce Poponea Page A

fuck out of that bar as fast as I could.

Being strong doesn’t always mean you have to fight the battle. True strength is being adult enough to walk away from the nonsense with your head held high.
    ~Anonymous
    W hite Egyptian cotton sheets; with incredibly high thread counts and an equally high price tag. Some women splurged on shoes, purses, plastic surgery or shelves full of books. For me, it was quality sheets. I worked three overtime shifts to afford the set I was currently wrapped in.
    When I moved into this apartment, I sat in the center of my living room and just listened. There was no arguing over the last slice of bread or who got the pullout couch for the night. There was no worrying about getting everything done before daylight disappeared and candles were needed to see. No bugs crawling across the floor or snakes hidden behind boxes. The water flowed freely from the kitchen faucet, toilets flushed with a press of a handle, instead of tossing it into tall grass. Hot water rained down from my showerhead; there were no worries of using too much or where it came from.
    Granted, for the past four years, I had these luxuries while in college, but this was different. It was legal and warm, and mine—summer vacation would be a time to celebrate, and not have to move to another dorm room. The only rules were the ones I created for myself, like good quality, soft sheets.
    Today was Friday, the first night of my three-in-a-row graveyard shifts, but I didn’t mind. See, one day a month, Ms. Georgia opened her front veranda door and hosted a community tea. All the residents of the complex were invited. It was nothing too fancy; no posh hats or gloves, simply a few of her tasty treats and hot or cold tea. It was a time to sit, relax, and catch up with everything going on. Ms. Georgia had a big heart and an even bigger set of ears. Nothing happened in this neighborhood she wasn’t in the know about.
    With tea time promptly at three, I had the entire morning to do whatever I wanted. Staring at the antique tiles of my ceiling, I recalled the events from last night. Sean knew my reason behind needing to attend the funeral. As I left the hospital the previous night, he’d invited all the staff working to come by his family’s bar. At first I didn’t want to go, but Kitty begged me. She wanted to expand her horizons. “You can’t meet the man of your dreams sitting on your couch.” Kitty was correct; at least for her, she was still full of hope and wonder.
    So I caved and met everyone at the bar. Shayla showed up with her friend Portia, I could swear that girl had a set of golden arches above her bed: over one million served. I was about to leave when Ms. Georgia waved me over. There sat Dylan Morgan and his family. Where his brothers were polite and shook my hand, he looked at me with disdain, as if he would catch something by shaking my hand.
    Once upon a time, I questioned if the stories Shayla told of fucking Dylan in strange places was a way of getting attention. After watching him leave the men’s room, with Portia’s naked ass on display trying to clean herself up, my questions were answered. One of the other nurses had asked if Portia was her given name or her stripper name. She denied being a stripper. Joey proved her a liar when he brought in his iPad to show us a video clip of her. She was performing oral sex on one guy while another had his penis in her backside. Evidently, she was doing low budget porn while trying to get a legitimate contract. He had many others of her, all of them with her ass in the air and either a penis or a toy filling her holes. Having spent more than enough time on thoughts of Portia and Dylan, it was time for tea.
    Carson and Georgia lived in one of Charleston’s older homes. Nothing famous ever happened there, so it didn’t qualify as a historic landmark. Which was just fine because Georgia didn’t want strangers lurking around her house.
    Two hundred years ago, homes in