Give My Girlhood Back, Mr. Don Novel – Jump into the Fire For ten long years, I’d been riding with Preston Atkinson, the kingpin who ran the streets like a lion. A decade of loyalty—dodging bullets, wading through the filth, always by his side. But the day he decided to go straight, hang up his outlaw hat, his crew started calling another woman “Donna.” Those hands of his—scarred, calloused, stained with blood and gunpowder—were now kneeling down, slipping a pair of crisp white sneakers onto her feet. “Cressida,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to mine, “she’s cut from a different cloth, you know? “You? You’d jump into the fire with me, no ring, no questions.
Her? She needs the white picket fence, the whole dream. I didn’t look back. Just kept my boots stomping, his words fading into the dust behind me. Preston never had a clue, but my family? They’d clocked my wild side from a mile away. They’d already lined up a decent guy, solid as they come, just waiting for me to give him a name and a chance at something real. ***** The night Preston swore he was done with the game, he dragged me into bed and we tore into each other like the world was about to end.
I stared at the shredded remains of my panties strewn across the floor, speechless for a moment. “Preston, what’s the deal? End of days coming or something?” I finally tossed out, half-joking. The way he looked at me—still ravenous, like he could eat me alive—had me thinking tomorrow might never show up. Preston was kicked back, sparking up a cigarette, his hooded eyes heavy, face clouded like he was drifting somewhere else. “Cressida,” he drawled, smoke slipping from his lips, “if I walk away from you, you’re not gonna go all psycho on me, right?” Ten years riding with Preston, I knew his deal.
He liked his women soft but with a spark of defiance, a little wild to keep things hot. So I snagged the cigarette from his hand, burying the chaos in my chest, and shot him a lazy grin. “Preston, you think I’m still that clueless eighteen-year-old?” Back in the day, I’d have torn through his world in my ratty sneakers, not giving a single damn if he tried to ditch me. I’d have been reckless, all heart, no brakes. But at twenty-eight, that girl was long gone. I froze, the rest of my words choking up, lost in the haze.
Preston just ruffled my hair like I was his kid sister, crushing his cigarette into the ashtray, the ember grazing his fingers. “Cressida, let’s call it. We’re done,” he said. “And quit those damn smokes. You’re not invincible, you know. We’re too old to keep screwing around like this.” My mascara streaked down my face, a total mess. Trying to keep it together, I grabbed my jacket from the floor, ready to bolt. But Preston’s arm hooked around my waist, pulling me back into his chest, warm and familiar.
Outside, the sky was a churning mess, clouds thick as ink. Rain was about to pour. His lips brushed my bare spine, hands deftly fixing the straps of my dress. Like old times, he nipped my earlobe, voice low and rough. “You hear me, Cress?” I stayed silent. He didn’t care. His words carried that quiet control, the kind that said he was the one in charge. “Storm’s coming. Stay a bit, huh?” Ten years could grind any fight into a fragile truce. But Preston must’ve forgotten my temper wasn’t just for show.
If we were cutting ties, I wanted it sharp and final—no messy leftovers. I straightened up, shoving his chiseled face away. A sharp laugh slipped out. “How long’s this rain gonna last, Preston?” If his heart w