Текст книги "Thick Love"
Автор книги: Eden Butler
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Thick Love
Eden Butler
Contents
Copyright
Praise for Eden Butler’s Work
Also by Eden Butler
Dedication
Author’s Note
Thick Love Playlist
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Haitian Creole Words and Phrases
Hawaiian Words and Phrases
About the Author
Thick Love
Copyright © 2015 Eden Butler
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Author Publisher.
Edited by Sharon Browning
Copyedits by Karen Chapman
Cover Design by Steven Novack
Image Edits by Alleskelle
Cover Image by ShutterShock
Section Headers by Chelle Bliss
Formatting by Brian Morgan
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of any mentioned word-marks and references mentioned in this work of fiction.
Praise for Eden Butler’s Work
“Butler writes with a stylistic, descriptive flair that emphasizes the burdens of carrying physical and emotional wounds. She creates characters destined for each other and ready for life’s lessons. Chasing Serenity holds promise that the series roll-out will create Serenity-aholics.”
—Michelle Monkou, USA Today
“I loved this book! The hero is a tatted up Irish rugby player who has traveled to the states to play for college. Like the heroine he has a tragic past and when Autumn and Declan meet sparks fly! Nice to read a book that is anything but predictable.”
—Kele Moon, author of the Battered Hearts series
“This book explores emotional heartache, but on different levels. It’s not just about romantic love, but about the love of family (and “family” takes on a whole new meaning. It encompasses friends, too). From disconnect to possible re-connect. From old scars that refuse to heal, to potential emotional mending. You’ll feel it, deep.”
—Maryse Black, Maryse’s Book Blog
“Eden Butler has captivated my heart. From the town she created with its love of rugby to its foundation of friendship and family, I find I wish I could hop on a bus and stay there a while. The characters as flawed yet beautiful, broken yet unbelievably strong. Layers of intense feelings are still trapped in my heart.”
—Nichole Hart, Sizzling Pages Romance Reviews”
“Read [Thin Love] in one sitting! Without a doubt, my favorite dynamic of bad boy meets feisty good girl. Superb writing!”
—Penelope Douglas New York Times bestselling author of Bully and Until You
“Thin Love is more than just a book. It’s more than a story. It’s a journey—an experience that grabs you by the gut and won’t let go until it’s ready to release you. And damn, what a release it is. Eden Butler nailed it.”
— Lila Felix , bestselling author of Love and Skate
“By far my favorite Eden Butler novel. Keira and Kona’s chemistry is electric and leaps off the pages!”
—Chelle Bliss, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Men of Inked series
“I felt so connected to these characters and this story that it almost felt too personal to share it with anyone. But rest assured, I will be shouting the praises of Thin Love and Mrs. Butler from the rooftops so that I can make sure others experience what I have.”
—Lori Westhaver, Red’s Book Blog
“There is a bold mission when [Butler] puts pen to paper to grab our attention, open our hearts, and engage our imagination. Butler didn’t hold back with crafting these characters from different cultures, tossing in some major adversity, and challenging them to dig deep for inner strength. At the end of the day, Thin Love is hearty blend for the soul.”
—Michelle Monkou, USA Today
Also by Eden Butler
Chasing Serenity, Book 1
Behind the Pitch, a novella (Book 1.5)
Finding Serenity, Book 2
Claiming Serenity Book 3
Thin Love, Book 1
My Beloved, a novella (Book 1.5)
Thick Love, Book 2
Swimming in Shadows, a novella (Book .5)
Shadows and Lies, Book 1
For the readers who wanted Ransom to have a turn.
Thank you for waiting for him to grow up.
And for Karen who always talks me off the ledge.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader—
Thin Love was a second chance story about two passionate, a wee bit crazy, young people who lost and found each other many times. Thick Love is about their eighteen year old son and his own disheartening struggle to forgive, to love and to sort out what he wants and what he needs. He does this on his own long journey to becoming a man. It’s not an easy road. There are many hurdles, and some damn big potholes.
Thick Love is not Thin Love, part two. This is Ransom’s story, not a generational rehashing of his parents’ tale. The heartaches he gives and receives on his journey are his and his alone. Please trust that I have very specific reasons for telling you this and please know that this is not the last you will see of Ransom and Aly. That’s the beauty of fiction—it makes jumping to the future possible.
Be blessed and happy reading!
Thick Love Playlist
Knock 123 – Imelda May
Wicked Games – The Weeknd
Wild Horses (Kalsey Kulyk cover) – The Rolling Stones
You Won’t Let Me – Karise Eden
Stay – Rhiannon
Breathe Me – Sia
Woman’s Work – Maxwell
Shake it Fast – Mystikal
Ashes of Eden – Breaking Benjamin
Gravity – Sara Barrellis
Same Old Song – The Weeknd
Skin – Rhiannon
Prologue February, 2014 New Orleans
Everything I owned had fit into a twenty year old avocado green suitcase with a pink and white striped ribbon along the front. Six bucks at the thrift store on Camp Street, and I had something that would take me from my father’s tiny cottage in Tremé to the loft above the dance studio where I worked part time.
I carried two pictures in that small suitcase, slipped in between a manila folder and the few twenty dollar bills I had to my name. One of them was of my mother when she was eighteen, beautiful and full of the belief that her love for my father would silence any argument her family had about “taking up with the wrong kind of man.” She had died six months after that picture was taken.
The other was a Polaroid of me at six sitting on my grann’s lap at Café Du Monde. There was powdered sugar on my Tweety Bird tank top and my hair was held tight in pigtail braids. Grann died two years later, leaving me alone with a father who blamed me for both their deaths.
In my heart, those two women had been the only family I’d ever need. The photographs had been stashed in the kitchen junk drawer; my father would not miss them.
Seventeen and scared that my father had plans to marry me off, I’d done the only thing I could think of—I up and left without telling him. Rather than living with my high school friends in the Quarter—he would have expected that—I paid nightly for a dirty room at the Motel 6 on Old Gentilly Road and ate Dollar General brand Fruit Loops at night because they were cheap. But my boss could read the lies that lurked behind my excuses, and the tears that seemed to come so easily. When she figured out I had left home, she offered me the vacant loft above the dance studio. For now.
So there I was, with my pathetic green suitcase, looking around the loft, wondering if I’d be able to sweet talk my boss’s son, Tristian, into taking me dumpster diving to find a sofa, when a car horn sounded outside. At the familiar sound of it, the small inkling of ease I’d felt for the three days I’d been free from him started to die. That horn turned my insides cold.
Two more loud shrieks on the horn and I stepped out onto the landing, staring down the stairs at my father in his refinery work shirt. He stood next to the ’79 Chevy truck with peeling blue paint and rust on the underside of the bed. When I didn’t move, when his silent finger pointing at the empty space next to him in the parking lot went ignored, he laid on that horn again.
“Me zanmi, Papa! Enough,” I said, coming down the stairs. “They’ll call the police.” The area wasn’t residential, but there were small, upscale offices that kept late hours and a few of the accountants the next lot over had complained about the music and teenage girls’ squeals from the studio just a few weeks before.
“Dous, cheri, you come with me. I have no dinner, two days now.”
“Don’t you ‘sweet’ me, Papa.”
My father’s lip curled and he made a loud noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a grunt. “Petit se pa manti non!”
I didn’t care if he wasn’t lying. I only knew that I had left his home and there was no way in hell I would ever go back.
“Learn to feed yourself. I’m staying.”
My father was not a large man. But his slight stature hid the muscle beneath ill-fitting clothes. I knew the arm he flexed as he stepped toward me was corded and strong. I knew the grip of his hand, how tight he could hold on to someone when he was angry—and he was always angry.
Yet Papa wouldn’t touch me, I knew. He’d never needed a slap or punch to keep me afraid of him. He had never so much as spanked me. The fear I always felt in his presence came from that low, burning glare in his eyes and the tight, disgusted twist on his lips. His words were worse than any slap, and left deeper marks.
Now he approached me, frowning, angry, his expression lethal and threatening. “Ou ban m manti,” he said, stepping so close that I could just make out the heavy bags under his eyes, as though he had not slept in days. His complexion wasn’t its normal light brown, but flushed and splotchy.
He was right. I had lied to him. Telling him I had a dance retreat for work was the only way to keep him from following me when I left. “Yes, I did, Papa. And I don’t feel bad about it.”
And then, for the first time I could remember, my father reached out and grabbed a hold of me. The tight clamp of his long fingers on my bicep hurt. “Ungrateful, disrespectful…”
“Is there a problem?” A voice came from behind me and I cursed under my breath as Ransom approached, glancing between my father’s hold on my arm and his stubborn, suspicious expression. “You need to let her go,” he said, still with the same smile he’d worn when I met him earlier today.
No, that was wrong, it wasn’t the same smile. This smile wasn’t happy. There was nothing welcoming in it. This smile was a threat, one that my father seemed to understand. He dropped my arm, but didn’t step back from me.
Ransom’s gaze was still directed at Papa, but he tilted his head toward me. “You alright, sweetheart?”
Before I could respond, Papa clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, disgusted once again. “Modi, tifi, this your man?” Papa looked Ransom over, seeming to find nothing to approve of in once glance. His mouth tightened further and then he shook his head. “He’s a boy.”
Ransom was a boy, still in high school, but he still towered over my father. “He is not my man,” I told papa, wishing the earth would open up so I could jump inside it. From the moment I had met him that morning, I hadn’t been able to stop marveling at beautiful, massive Ransom. No, he wasn’t mine, but I kind of wished he was. Still, my papa didn’t need to know that. Oh, he wanted me to have a man—but one that he chose, one that was thirty-five years old and mean as the devil. That was the reason I left his home—the main one, at least. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”
“I will call the law,” Papa said, moving forward as though his words weren’t enough of a threat.
“Call them, I don’t care,” I flung back at him, and surged forward to match his threat, forcing Ransom to step between us. “They’re not going to make me go back with you. Besides, I’ll tell them where your weed is and then what will you do?”
Papa released a colorful list of foul words in Creole and tried moving around Ransom to get at me, but Ransom held him back with that massive palm pressed against my father’s chest. “You need to leave,” he told Papa. His smile had vanished. “Right now.”
“She’s my daughter,” my father spat out.
Ransom glanced at me over his shoulder. “You want him gone?” I nodded and he focused back on Papa. “She wants you gone. This is private property. You need to leave.”
The low Creole cursing continued and my father only backed away when Ransom stood fully in front of me. For a second everything froze, and despite the tension in the air I caught the rich, soothing hint of Ransom’s cologne and the spicy, delicious smell of his skin. It made me thirsty. It made me hungry.
Then, Ransom stumbled into me as Papa pushed him, but he recovered faster than I ever would have thought, grabbing my father’s arm, twisting the older man around to pin his wrist against his back and his chest cemented to the driver’s door of that old Chevy. I was amazed with how swiftly Ransom had moved—and how his protectiveness made a warmth work inside my chest. It was ridiculous to want someone you just met, but I could not deny what I was feeling.
Papa jerked away from Ransom’s hold, but they had no effect as Ransom just stood there without moving, waiting until the older man finally calmed down. Then he jerked Papa back, opened the truck door and shoved my father inside the cab. As one hand braced on the roof, he leaned in towards my glowering father and snarled, “Leave. Now. And don’t think of coming back. If I have to, I’ll give the cops a head’s up, give them your plate number, tell them you’re trolling around a place where little girls take dance class.”
Papa ignored Ransom and slammed the door shut, but I knew he wanted the last word. He always did. He looked past Ransom and fixed his furious eyes on me. “You’re a stupid little whore, tifi and will starve unless you spread your legs.”
Ransom grabbed his collar, pulling him nearly out of the open window. “That’s enough, asshole. I don’t care if you are her father. You don’t get to talk to her like that. Ever.”
We both stepped back as Papa spun out of the parking lot and I didn’t pull my hands away from my mouth until I saw his taillights disappear two stop signs away.
“Hey,” Ransom said, touching my shoulder. “You alright?”
“I…yeah. I, thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I don’t like bullies,” he said, glancing down the road. “I especially don’t like bullies who try to shove their weight around defenseless women.” When I cocked my eyebrow at him, he laughed. Back again was that warm smile, the genuine one, and the return of the sweet boy I’d met that morning. “Not that you probably couldn’t have held your own. I told you earlier, you’ve got that bad ass vibe. I meant that.”
“Well, that was kind of bad ass too, you muscling around a man whose about forty years older than you.”
Ransom shrugged, disregarding my compliment and then his face became serious. “You sure you’re gonna be okay here on your own?” He nodded toward the staircase behind me then moved his gaze around the empty parking lot. There were no other offices on this lot, just the dance studio and my loft above it but all around us were high-end buildings with new paint and stucco and perfectly manicured landscaping. It was a safe area; still, Ransom didn’t seem able to keep the worry out of his tone.
“I’ll manage,” I told him, wanting to disappear for a little while, to recover from the embarrassment my father’s outburst had caused. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Well,” he said, walking me back to the staircase, “I kind of have a soft spot for bad ass women wanting to make it on their own.” His shrug, that lazy smile, were both relaxed, and I wondered how he could manage to pull off that ‘it’s nothing’ movement and still look so intimidating.
“Mama’s boy?” I teased, knowing that the famous songwriter Keira Riley, Ransom’s mother, was, in fact, a bad ass.
“Yeah. Maybe a little.” Again he shrugged and stepped closer like he didn’t realize he’d moved at all. “I just think it’s cool when a woman knows what she wants.” He looked down at me for a few seconds longer, then blinked as though he’d come back to his senses. “My mom and my uh, girlfriend, they’re both bad asses.”
Girlfriend? Modi. Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone as big and good-looking and sweet as him? What else could I have expected? Still, my heart plunged into my stomach.
But, I managed to hide my disappointment well, brushing past it by stepping up on the stairs. “Whatever it takes, I guess. Thank you though, I really do appreciate it.”
Again Ransom looked around and scowled. “I still worry about you being around here on your own.” He looked up at me. “Don’t forget about the dead bolt and make sure the windows are locked too.” I laughed and Ransom shook his head. “Sorry. It’s not my business, but I can’t seem to help myself.”
“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry,” I told him walking backward up two steps before I turned away from him.
“Um, okay. If you’re sure.” I was almost to the top before he called after me. “I forgot, I can’t get the bed for you until tomorrow. Is it okay if I drop by then?”
I didn’t understand why my heart fluttered a little when he asked that. He’d offered the second-hand bed set that morning and I thought that once he’d delivered it, I’d likely not see him around much. But him coming back, well. That had my hopes higher than they had any business being. Ransom was still in high school. He was a full year younger than me. He was my boss’s cousin and he had a girlfriend. He was just being nice, I knew that.
“Sure. I’ll be around,” I told him, waving him off before I went into my apartment. But as I went inside and moved to the window overlooking the parking lot, I couldn’t make the smile leave my face or keep my heart from racing as I thought of seeing him again.
He’d rescued me when no one ever had before and all I’d thought about watching him pull his Mustang out into the street, was how the hell I’d ever be able to return the favor.
I wouldn’t. Not until over a year later. And when I did, it would change us both. Forever.
1 September, 2015
Shadows have weight. They reach and cover, they devour. Sometimes they seem insurmountable, all consuming. Every failure, every struggle, allows them to grow.
I was covered in shadows. I wore them like a grungy, dirty coat.
But that night, after our third straight win, I didn’t let the shadows overtake me and the only thing devouring me was the hot steam of shower water. It was the day, the worry that I’d fail, the relief that I hadn’t and the overwhelming reality of the clusterfuck my life was turning out to be that had me wanting to never leave that spray.
The hot water hadn’t taken the headache from my skull or lessened the constant bump of the bass line downstairs. Fuck, how I hated being forced to listen to Chris Brown.
After the game and telling my parents I just wanted to decompress at the team house, I’d managed to get away from Ronnie Blanchard and the bullshit music he liked to play by leaving the party. Nearly a month into my first college football season and I’d already learned one thing about Claiborne-Prosper University: these assholes considered partying a God-given right. But then, this was New Orleans. Partying was sort of an expectation.
The bathroom was small, with barely enough room for my big body and a full tub and shower and the hot water fogged up the mirror, filtered the air with heat so thick I hastily wrapped one towel around my waist and grabbed another one for my face, and swung the door open before even attempting to dry off. It didn’t matter. No one would see my naked ass in this room. It was mine, private—large enough for a queen-sized bed, oak dresser and desk—just one of the perks of having a high ACT score and a coaching staff that hoped I’d play as well as my father had when he was on the defensive line. Didn’t hurt that my father was now coaching that defensive line.
My dad’s shadow was massive, just like him, just like I was going to be someday. He was not an easy man to follow. His athletic records, his successes were overwhelming achievements fueled by the fear of loss, by desperate ambition. He’d struggled. He’d lost some big damn battles and somehow those hurdles urged him on, made him want more, need more. He’d told me once, “If you’ve ever been hungry, you’ll never be full.” That didn’t come from him. My father isn’t a philosopher. What he is, what added weight to that shadow of his, was accomplishment, gratification and the seemingly impossible reality of real, all-consuming, uncontrollable love.
Something I couldn’t have. Not again. That shit doesn’t come twice in one lifetime.
I left the bathroom, scrubbing the hand towel over my face to be rid of the internal bullshit whining, ready for a long sleep on my big bed, but stopped short, dropping the hand towel to the floor. “Private room” didn’t always equal privacy, a fact that became abundantly clear when I found a pretty girl I didn’t know sitting on the edge of my bed.
Why do they always send me the redheads?
I knew why. I always knew why, but wouldn’t think about it. Not Emily. Not now. It was pointless anyway.
The girl on the bed had really red hair, more auburn than orange, and it fell past her elbows with a wind-tossed vibe working through the strands. Her eyes were dark, like the color of wet sand that glinted against the street light beyond my window. She looked scared, like seeing me in nothing but a towel with water dotted over my shoulders and chest was some sort of threat to her. Hell, she was in my room and I still got that don’t hurt me vibe from her.
But I never could take a nervous woman; couldn’t stand to be the reason for making anyone uncomfortable, so I pushed aside that little flicker of irritation in my brain and tilted my head, hoping the smile I gave her came off as genuine. “You lost, sweetheart?”
“No.” That answer was barely a squeak and figuring she might be more relaxed if I wasn’t naked, I moved to my dresser to fish out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. Her voice came out louder, clearer as she moved from the bed. “They said…well, that Trent guy said you might…want to…” She stopped her explanation as a low grunt moved from my throat.
Trent Damn Marshall. That prick was always tossing girls in my room, knowing I wouldn’t be a bastard to them. “He trying to hook up with a friend of yours?” I watched the girl in the mirror over my dresser, tried to pull up my boxers without dropping the towel. But, shit, maybe I should scare her off. She didn’t even look legal.
“How did you know?” Tone light, distracted, her gaze lowered, following the towel as I dropped it. It wasn’t something that surprised me. Girls watched. They liked to pretend they didn’t, but they always watched. I turned to face her and the redhead jerked her attention back to me. “Um. He said I was your type.”
“Did he now?”
The shy, fluttering eyes killed me. You don’t see that often—a girl so nervous, so shy, one that tries to hide honest pleasure behind lowered eyes. Most girls I’m around on a daily basis are all swagger and style, confident women who take what they want and don’t apologize for it. That’s not a bad thing, in fact, women like that generally hold my attention. But sometimes it’s the shy, awkward ones that keep it.
Red was too damn pretty, nice curves, long legs, and skin she’d be grateful for when she was older. If it wasn’t for those curves, the roundness of her tits, I’d say she was maybe seventeen. I really hoped she wasn’t.
That flush against her pale skin grew the longer she raked her gaze over my body and I felt annoyance creeping in. She only nodded in response, played with the hem of her skirt as though she needed to keep her hands to herself.
“He said…” She finally started speaking, deciding, I guessed, that rubbing that small charm from her necklace against her lips would distract me and give her time to snap some sort of sense back into her pretty head. “He said that you…”
Those splotches on her cheeks darkened, telling me her nerves were totally shot. “Hey.” I stepped in front of her, making her look up at me. “You okay?” I doubted the nod she gave me. It was all bravado. Someone must have laid it on heavy and thick and this girl seemed eager to see if the rumors about me were true. I wasn’t immune to a pretty smile, but God knows I didn’t deserve this kind of attention. If any of them knew me, the real me, how damaged, how twisted I could be, not one of them would come tapping on my door.
The only thing you will ever give anyone in this life is heartache.
I should get that tattooed on my forehead. It had been an insult that I took like medicine, an insult that I tried to prove wrong every time some random girl came around me wanting a taste. Maybe I wouldn’t get anything out of it, but at least I could give them what they asked for. Couldn’t I?
When the girl moved her head down, looped her silver chain around her finger, I rubbed my eyes. “Are you even legal?” No matter what, I wasn’t going to jail for any damn body.
This time when she nodded, I believed her. “I made eighteen last month.”
“I’m not trying to get arrested.”
“I can show you my I.D.”
There was always a moment when they came to me, when I hesitated, waiting for them to realize I was not worthy. Of anything. For them to realize they could say no, that they could back away from me and I wouldn’t try to convince them to stay.
I always waited for the brakes, but all I ever got was a green light.
I didn’t think about what I’d get out of her being here. I never did anymore, because it really didn’t matter, but it always blew my mind when girls hit on me, when they begged to be with me like I was some sort of big Hawaiian rock star and not the dumbass jock I knew I was.
She watched as I tugged on my shirt, ran the towel through my damp hair and gave her a second to change her mind.
“I heard things…” she started, her voice following me as I sat on the desk next to the door. She seemed more relaxed now, more curious than nervous.
“I bet you did.” Those rumors had inflated my reputation to stupid proportions. I wasn’t the whore of CPU. I didn’t fuck anything that offered it to me. That much, at least was all bullshit. But yeah, I touched. I serviced and girls, I guess, talked just as much as guys did. Maybe more. Word got around, some of it ridiculous, along the “Poor, broken Ransom” variety. Some were spot on. “He won’t let you touch him.”
No. I wouldn’t. No one touched me. Not ever.
“The thing is, I didn’t believe them.” The shrug was cute, a little self-effacing but I didn’t think it was an act. This girl was genuinely curious. “I just wanted to know if it was true.”
She watched me close, eyes sharp, focused as I nodded, but didn’t ask for any explanations. She only stared back at me as I assessed, wondered if she wanted what they all did. Hoping she didn’t. Knowing she did.
My lips felt thick and chapped as I licked them and I caught how Red straightened her shoulders when I stood in front of her, attempting to keep my tone light, curious. “You wanna know if I can make you come?” That shy, embarrassed downward cast of her eyes returned and just then I didn’t care why she was in my room. The innocent, sweet bit wore me down. “Has anyone ever done that to you?”
“No.” Red pushed her hair off her shoulder, looked at her feet and when she spoke, I had to twist my head down to hear her. “Not really.”
“Alright.” She took my hand when I offered it and glanced up at my face like she wanted to make sure I wasn’t messing with her.
“My name is…”
“No.” She didn’t recoil or step back when I dropped her hand. “I can’t know it.”
“So. It’s true then?”
“Is what true?” There was a little challenge in my tone, something there that dared her to get in my business, but she didn’t. Red only nodded, took to biting on that chain again and I felt like an asshole, like I’d just deflated whatever bullshit ideas she’d had about me.
Her skin felt like satin, pale and soft and fine to the touch when I brushed my fingers over her face and there was a faint hint of cinnamon from her breath and the sweet scent of lilac in her hair. Sensory overload had once been my downfall. I liked all mine engaged, the sights and sounds and smells that women put out. It had always been that way until…well, the accident.
Back then my anger, the temper I tried to keep on check fired quick and steady. Now the shame and guilt replaced that rage and I took it down within myself, feeling every prickle, every inch of hurt I deserved. But there was another side effect. One I couldn’t be rid of. Now it didn’t matter how good a woman smelled, how sweet her skin was, my body would not react. It would ignore everything inside me, all those natural urges that every eighteen year old guy has to feel and touch. Pushed back, ignored, whatever it was, I was immune. Even if I wanted this woman, wanted all of her, my body wouldn’t listen.
My mom said it was psychosomatic. My dad was horrified that I’d even told them about this little problem. But when my mom meddles, she puts the CIA to shame. That conversation ended with my parents yammering about seeing a doctor and me feeling like some kind of flaccid joke.
The doctor agreed. Offered me meds. Jackass.
Red’s warm breath against my wrist when she kissed me there forced me to pull away from her, to take control, to tell myself not to forget that I didn’t deserve pleasure, not after what I’d done at sixteen.
“Lay on the bed and I’ll show you what I can do for you.” She wasn’t overly eager, didn’t shoot straight to the bed and I liked how cautious she was, how she kept her eyes up, straight at me as she climbed in the middle of my black sheets. She even lost her shoes, tucked her feet under and kept her hands on her lap, like she needed me directing her. I appreciated how perceptive she was, how she let me take the reins, but she sat with her back too stiff, with her shoulders too straight. That wouldn’t work. I needed her relaxed.
