Shaundi

I kick open the door with my boot — no point using the handle when the lock’s already busted — and step inside, glancing back at you like I’m doing you a favor by even letting you in. The place smells like stale smoke, cheap booze, and gun oil. Feels like home to me.

“Don’t just stand there like a dipshit, get in already. And don’t touch anything unless you want a bullet for a souvenir.”

The room’s a chaotic mess — weapons everywhere. Rifles stacked against the wall, grenades tossed onto the couch like they’re decorative pillows. A fucking RPG’s leaning next to my nightstand like it’s a goddamn lamp. Half the ammo's still in crates labeled in some language I can’t read, but I got ‘em from a guy who owed me, so who cares.

Plates are stacked up on the table, some still have old pizza crusts and whatever-the-hell takeout I was too lazy to finish. It smells kinda rancid, but I’m not cleaning it, and neither are you. I shoot you a look daring you to comment on it.

"Yeah, it’s a mess. Bite me. You try running the Saints and keeping this place tidy. I’m not your fucking mom."

My bed’s unmade — shocker — blankets half on the floor, pillow probably under there somewhere. A pile of clothes is shoved into the corner, half clean, half... questionable. My bras and panties are mixed in, not that I give a shit if you see ‘em.

But oh, the real showstopper? The "toy collection" — dildos, vibrators, handcuffs, even a fucking strap-on I definitely didn't buy for myself (probably). They’re all scattered across the dresser, some still in their boxes, others... well-used. A box of condoms sits tipped over next to them, wrappers crumpled and tossed like confetti.

I catch you looking. Of course you’re looking. Pervert.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, jackass. Like you don’t have your own stash. What, surprised a girl has needs? Sorry I don’t knit or whatever the hell you think women do for fun.”

I flop down on the couch — well, what’s left of it that isn’t covered in bullet holes — and kick my feet up on the coffee table, narrowly missing a loaded pistol.

“You think this is bad, you should see Pierce’s place. Pretty sure he’s got a whole section dedicated to ‘pimp-themed décor.’ Dumbass.”

I lean back, arms behind my head, and give you another look — the kind that says I’m trying really hard not to act like I care if you’re impressed or not.

“You’re lucky I let you in here, you know. Most people would get a boot to the teeth. But whatever. Don’t think this means I like having you around or anything. Asshole."

Shaundi's Pad – A Tour, Sorta

---

I kick the door open with the heel of my boot, and it swings wide, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Whatever. It’s not like the place can get any more fucked up.

“Alright, listen up — don’t touch shit unless you wanna lose a finger. Or an eye. Maybe both. I don’t really care.”

I walk in ahead of you, hips swaying like I own the world — because I do. Well, this shitty corner of it, anyway. The place smells like weed, gun oil, and stale takeout. I breathe it in like it's fresh air. Feels like home.

The couch? Yeah, it's buried under clothes, empty vodka bottles, and — oh hey, that’s where my purple thong went. I snatch it off the armrest and chuck it over my shoulder like it's no big deal. You’re staring. Of course you are. Perv.

"You act like you’ve never seen a bra on a couch before. Grow the fuck up."

I don’t even bother apologizing when you trip over a duffel bag full of AKs. That’s on you. I told you not to touch anything.

"You break it, you buy it — and by buy it, I mean I’ll shoot you and sell your organs to cover the cost."

I smirk. You’re still following me. Poor dumb bastard.

The bedroom’s worse. The sheets are half off the bed, pillows on the floor, and more condoms than a porn shoot scattered around. Open ones, closed ones, ones I’m pretty sure expired last year. Whatever. Safety first — I guess.

"And don’t fucking judge me. At least I’m getting laid."

My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to. Great. Like I care what you think. You probably couldn’t handle me anyway. Most people can’t.

The nightstand has more stuff on it than a goddamn armory — pistols, joints, a vibrator that I’m pretty sure still has batteries in it. It buzzed last night and scared the shit out of me.

I grab a random dildo off the floor and toss it at you. It bounces off your chest with a pathetic thunk.

"Catch, dumbass. You might learn something."

You look horrified. Good.

The bathroom? Let’s not even talk about it. There’s makeup everywhere, my hair straightener’s probably still on, and the shower smells like sex and coconut body wash. It’s not a bad combo, honestly.

“Don’t act surprised. What the fuck did you think my place was gonna look like? Martha Stewart’s house? Please. I run a gang, not a fucking daycare.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you take it all in — the mess, the weapons, the condoms, the whole chaotic package. My place. My life.

You don’t say anything. Smart. You’re lucky you’re kinda cute when you’re flustered.

"Yeah, well... don’t get comfortable, alright? You’re not staying. I don’t do roommates. Unless you clean. Or cook. Or — whatever, shut up."

I roll my eyes hard enough to give myself a headache, but I’m smirking anyway. Not like I can stop it.

"You can crash on the couch if you don’t mind sleeping in a war zone. Just — keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll break 'em. Got it?"

I push off the doorway and head for the fridge. It’s mostly beer, leftover pizza, and a suspicious-looking jar of pickles. I grab a bottle and crack it open with my teeth.

“...And don’t you fucking dare tell anyone I let you stay over.”