Текст книги "Addicted to Sin"

Автор книги: Monica James

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

10

Stranger

DIXON

So, I’m either the smartest, or the stupidest motherfucker known to mankind.

I’m betting on the latter.

I’ve somehow managed to find myself in a predicament where I am interested in two women. A couple of weeks ago, the thought of being interested in one woman was comical, but here I am, a few weeks later, sitting at my desk, fisting my hair in frustration, as I don’t know what the hell to do.

After being ridden into next year by Juliet, I fell into an exhausted heap and slept like the dead. The only thing that woke me was a fire engine zipping past, at a little past 1 a.m. After my sleep and post-coitus clogged brain decided to play catch-up, I realized I had stood up Madison, as we agreed to meet to exchange numbers and whatnot.

A sense of utter regret passed over me, and before I knew what was happening, I was running toward her work like a bat outta hell.

So the question here is, why? Why did I feel guilty? I mean, I just slept with another woman six hours prior. If I was going to feel guilty about anything, it should be the fact that I still had Juliet’s scent all over me when I met up with Madison. But with Juliet, it was just sex—with Madison, it was…more.

So the obvious answer here would be to tell Ms. Harte to hit the road and see where things go with Madison. But I can’t—sex without strings is so much easier than a relationship. And I have a feeling a relationship with Madison wouldn’t be smooth sailing, as call it doctor’s intuition, but I think she has some serious baggage buried underneath her sweet smile.

So what do I want? Sex? Or a possible relationship? Because at the moment, I’m currently presented with both options, but I don’t know which I want more.

I know this all stems from my damaging breakup with Lily the bitch. But I am as much to blame as she is. No, I never forced her to fuck my best friend, but I never dealt with my emotional scars at the time, and now look what I’ve turned into—a commitment phobe.

Massaging my temples, I really am in no state of mind to be counseling anyone today. The wise thing to do would be to take the afternoon off. Just as I’m about to call Ms. Vale and ask her to cancel the rest of my appointments, she buzzes me through the intercom.

“Dr. Mathews,” she frantically says, which is very uncharacteristic of her.

“Yes, Ms. Vale?” I quickly reply. “Is everything okay?”

“Dr. Mathews, a patient who doesn’t have an appointment insists on seeing you.”

I hear Susanna cover the receiver and address whoever is outside, making it quite clear she’ll have to make an appointment if she wishes to see me.

“Oh, stop right there! Miss, you can’t go in there,” Susanna states, and before I know what’s happening, my office door flies open and in charges a hysterical Juliet.

Susanna is chasing after her, her face filled with irritation and concern, but I wave her off, as Juliet looks like hell.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Mathews! She just barged in here,” Susanna apologizes, while glaring at a sobbing Juliet.

“It’s fine, Ms. Vale. Please shut the door on your way out.”

She looks at me, slightly confused, but she does as I ask, as she knows I don’t mince my words. The moment the door closes, I stand behind my desk, watching Juliet as she weeps uncontrollably. I stand motionless, as I don’t know what to do.

Professionally, I’m not to hug or canoodle her, as I’m not her friend. I’m not here to cuddle her and tell her everything will be all right. But as her lover, that’s exactly what I should be doing. And this is why you do not get involved with your patients.

“Juliet, is everything okay?” I ask, still standing behind my desk, using it as a barrier between us.

“What does it look like? No, everything is not fucking okay!” she cries, her tear-stained eyes meeting mine.

Clearing my throat and adjusting my tie, I round my table and point to the sofa.

“Please, take a seat.”

“I’m not here to get fucking psychoanalyzed, Dixon.” But she thankfully slumps onto the couch, and her sniffles lessen.

Taking a seat near her, I place my palm on her bare knee. “What’s happened? Why are you so upset?”

“No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be good enough,” she whispers, her lip trembling as she lowers her face.

“Good enough for whom?” I gently ask.

“For…anybody,” she replies, and her slight pause has me wondering what she originally wanted to say.

“That’s not true,” I rebuke. “You just have to believe in yourself, Juliet. I know how messed up that sounds, considering our current circumstances. But any man would be lucky to have your affections.”

“You think?” She sniffs, raising her face.

“I know,” I confirm. “All these awards on my walls confirm I know what I’m talking about,” I add with a small smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

Thankfully she laughs, and reaches into her clutch for a tissue. As she dabs at her eyes, I wonder what brought this on. The doctor in me has long gone, and I’m speaking to her purely as her lover.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, reaching forward and brushing aside a strand of blonde hair.

“Maybe we could, I don’t know, talk?”

This is the first time I’ve seen her be…vulnerable, and it’s a look that suits her.

“Sure, I’d like that,” I reply, as I realize I actually don’t know anything about her.

I know how to make her come with my mouth in five quick seconds. And how she likes to be fucked, but I don’t actually know who she is and what she likes that’s non-sex-related. I thought she was happy just being fuck buddies, but that was my screw-up, as I should have never assumed—looks like my mother was right once again.

“Do you think we could grab a coffee after work?”

In this moment, the Juliet Harte I thought I knew has just flipped my beliefs onto their ass, and this person sitting before me is a complete stranger. This stranger is one I actually want to get to know better.

“Sure,” I reply with a nod. I owe her this.

Juliet takes a deep breath, patting down her hair and face. “I’m really sorry for storming in here like a crazy person. I should have called first.”

“It’s fine, it happens all the time.” I smirk, and she laughs, her beautiful face no longer clogged in tears.

“Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to work.” She stands, ironing the crinkles from her dress. “I’ll meet you at around seven?”

“Sounds great,” I reply, also standing, my hands dug deep into my pockets.

“Great. Well, see you tonight.” She throws me completely off-guard as she steps forward and hugs me.

It’s the first time we’ve embraced, which is utterly ridiculous and shameful, seeing as I’ve embraced her insides on more than one occasion. I slowly remove my hands from my pockets, and as I wrap her into my arms, I’m shocked at how fragile and vulnerable she feels. I’m not used to this Juliet, and I have a feeling it’ll take some getting used to.

She breaks away after a moment and bids me farewell with a chaste kiss on my cheek. I watch, dumbfounded, as she leaves my office, because that woman looked like Juliet, but that person is not the Juliet I thought I knew.

I take a seat behind my desk, still flabbergasted at what just took place. The moment I met Juliet, I knew she’d cause a storm. But where does that leave things with Madison and me?

My cell beeps, alerting me to an awaiting text, and I welcome the distraction. Swiping through my messages, I groan, slapping my palm against my forehead.

Reading the message over, I feel like the world’s biggest asshole, because the sweet words just taunt me with what I have to do.

I haven’t eaten all day :p

See you tonight. Can’t wait.

Maddy x

11

Famous Last Words

MADISON

“What do you mean ‘he can’t make it?’” asks Mary from the end of my bed.

I shrug, tossing her my phone so she can see the proof for herself.

As she reads over the message, she curses. “What does he mean, ‘something came up?’ Like what, exactly? The only forgivable excuse here would be that his mother died,” she barks, scrunching up her face in obvious disgust that Dixon asked for a “raincheck” on our date.

“His mother is dead,” I reply, sadly putting away the beautiful blue dress I was planning to wear this evening.

“Oh, whatever. This is horseshit!” she cries, jabbing her finger into the phone screen.

“I know, Lamb.” I sigh, because it really is horseshit.

Over three hours ago, Dixon messaged me, claiming something came up and he wouldn’t be able to make our date. He apologized a number of times, and asked for a raincheck. Other than that, he gave me no other reason why he couldn’t attend, or when this alleged raincheck was to take place.

I feel so stupid. I can’t believe I actually thought a man like Dixon would be interested in a girl like me.

“I’m an idiot. Dixon probably doesn’t even think of me like that. I mean, look at him, and look at me,” I say, doing a sweep down my body.

“No, he’s the idiot. We’re going out,” Mary angrily states.

She jumps up from my bed, storming over to my closet and rummaging through my garments.

“I don’t want to go out.” The thought of socializing with anyone sounds like a horrible idea.

“This isn’t optional,” Mary barks, her head buried in my closet.

“Lamb,” I warn, but Mary turns her head, pinning me with a look that screams finality.

“Fine,” I huff, throwing my hands in the air, as there really isn’t any point arguing with her.

“You won’t regret it,” she says with a crooked smile.

Famous last words.

So when Mary said we were going out, I thought we were going out for pizza, or to a movie. I didn’t realize she meant out, out.

I’m sitting at a table which overlooks a huge dance floor, completely and utterly out of my comfort zone. I watch as Mary bumps and grinds against some pierced rock god without a care in the world. She recently broke up with her high school sweetheart, Corey, and I know under her tough exterior, she’s hurting.

The man she trusted, the man she gave her virginity to, turned out to be a lying, cheating jerk wad, so I really don’t blame her for being so bitter. But I like to believe that not all guys think with their dicks.

I mean, yes, Dixon is an ass for totally bailing on me, but not once did I ever feel objectified when in his presence, nor did I ever feel like he was talking to me because he wanted to get into my pants. I actually felt like we had a genuine connection, and that maybe he was different than all the other guys I’ve met.

But I guess I was wrong.

Reaching for my tequila, I decide to drown my sorrows in this sunrise, as I don’t have class till late tomorrow afternoon.

Just as I begin to feel a buzz, the barstool next to me scrapes along the floor and I turn to look at who has stolen Mary’s seat.

“Hey, is anyone sitting here?” asks the hot, green-eyed stranger beside me.

I nod with a smile. “Actually, yes, there is. You see that crazy redhead on the dance floor?” I point to my best friend, who is currently surrounded by a group of eager suitors.

The hottie next to me nods as he narrows his eyes, looking Mary’s way.

“Well, that’s who was sitting here,” I conclude with a grin.

My stranger gives me a dimpled smile, and leans closer to yell into my ear, as the music is blaring over the speakers. “I don’t think she’ll be back anytime soon,” he replies, and I laugh because I think he just may be right.

I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, or the fact I feel a little rejected by Dixon’s “raincheck,” but whatever it is, I extend my hand and smile.

“Hi, I’m Madison.”

“Hi, I’m David,” my stranger says, and I try not cringe at the fact his name reminds me of another name which starts with D.

“Nice to meet you, David,” I say, quickly recovering from my Dixon depression.

“You too. Can I buy you a drink?” David asks, his long bangs falling into his eyes.

I chug down the rest of my tequila, and smile. “Sure.”

David laughs and I instantly feel at ease with him.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and I watch as he makes his way through the crowd, impressed with what I see.

Maybe there’s hope for me yet. I mean, everything happens for a reason. Maybe I just haven’t figured out what my reason for meeting Dixon is.

Act II

Two and a half months later…

12

Apple Pie

DIXON

“Is the garlic minced or chopped?” I mumble to myself as I flip through this wretched cookbook, trying to find the recipe for the confit of salmon with crab crush and dill drizzle.

How can one’s life change in the blink of an eye?

In one moment, Juliet was my fuck buddy, and in the next, she’s my…snuggle buddy?

I really don’t know what to call Juliet, as she’s not really my girlfriend, but she’s not really my booty call, either. I haven’t slept with anyone other than her for over two months, and the reason for that is because being with Juliet is easy. I don’t have to put in the hard yards with her, and she satisfies my every need.

She tells me she hasn’t slept with anyone else either, which is a big thing for an ex-sex addict. However, we both agreed it was best she continue therapy for her addiction, because once an addict, always an addict. We also agreed I wasn’t the best person for the job, as that was all kinds of messed up, as I didn’t fancy hearing about how badly she wanted to deep throat her aerobics instructor.

So, what are Juliet and I? Honestly, I don’t know.

I’m too old to use the word girlfriend, and partner makes me sound gay, so I don’t refer to Juliet as anything other than Juliet—the woman I am currently “sort of” seeing, but definitely not dating.

The night we had coffee changed our “situation” dramatically. Juliet and I did the unthinkable: we actually spoke. Of course there was a blowjob involved, but after all that, I got to know the real Juliet Harte.

I must admit, I was afraid to know who the enigma was behind the golden cooch, but once I peeled back her layers, I actually liked who I saw. It also didn’t hurt that she fucked like a rabbit and kept me sated beyond belief.

That moment of weakness, however, was the last I ever saw. Juliet’s back to being guarded and confident, and honestly, I don’t know who I prefer more.

Our conversations are occasionally wooden, and our drawn-out silences are becoming more frequent, but who needs conversation when our bodies fill the static?

A major regret is that I felt I chose Juliet over Madison, because I haven’t spoken to her since I bailed on our date. If Madison and I had met under different circumstances, then things could have turned out differently for us. We just met at the wrong time and place because I’m not a total bastard, and I would never play both women that way. And honestly, I could never do to Madison the things I do to Juliet. My need for depravity would soil her innocence, because in the end, my dick won out over my good sense.

Therefore, I like to think it’s for the best, and I wish Madison all the luck in finding someone better suited for her. Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy, and putting her boob purse to good use. That thought still has my dick twitching in interest, because although Juliet’s rack is spectacular, Madison’s was fucking epic.

The burning smell has my thoughts crawling out of Madison’s luscious tits to the here and now. “Shit!” I curse, as my salmon is starting to resemble a doorstop.

The fact I’m cooking for my non-girlfriend on a Friday night really is appalling, and I know if Hunter were around, he would be sounding the invisible whip, because it’s true: I’ve turned into a complete and utter pussy. But it’s because of the pussy that I’m becoming this domesticated douche.

But Hunter isn’t around because, somehow, Friday night has turned into mine and Juliet’s night. Friday night was usually reserved for the boys, but Juliet has taken precedence over my comrades, and I’ve tapped out more times than I care to admit.

My rule is slowly becoming nonexistent, as Juliet has slept over a few nights. The best thing about having Juliet here is that memories of Lily, memories I thought I so desperately wanted to hold onto, are now becoming so faint I can barely even remember them. I actually feel like I’m finally moving on and closing that chapter of my life. A chapter I should have closed a long time ago.

So things with Juliet, although not conventional, work. Neither of us have any expectations of where things are headed, which suits me perfectly. But am I happy with this arrangement? Am I happy being this civilized, monogamous, neutered little bitch?

My phone dings, indicating I have a text, so I reach for it from off my marbled countertop while eyeing my salmon and deciding whether it’s salvageable or not.

Distracted by my burned meal, I don’t fully understand Juliet’s message until I read it twice.

The message is direct, which is fine, as neither of us go for texting.

Got held up at work.

See you this weekend sometime.

Well, I’ll be damned. This is the third Friday night she’s been busy, and although I shouldn’t really care, I sort of do. I was looking forward to sitting down to a glass of red and dinner, and then having dessert, in the form of Juliet.

But now that she’s not coming, I feel like a chump, sitting at home with a meal I cooked for my ex-fuck buddy. If Hunter were here he would be questioning my masculinity, and expressing quite loudly that I don’t deserve a dick.

That thought gives me an idea, so I send a text message of my own.

Looking at the sad, shriveled salmon, I reach for the saucepan and toss the contents into the trash, along with the rest of the ingredients I had prepared earlier.

Whistling, while making my way into the bathroom to get ready for the evening, I realize now, I’m happy.

“You’re a pussy-whipped little bitch, Dixon, and you’re lucky I’m speaking to you right now. You hear me?” Hunter declares for the umpteenth time as he clutches the scruff of my collar and draws our faces together so we’re inches apart.

“Yes, you Neanderthal, I heard you loud and clear. Now either kiss me, or let me finish my damn drink,” I tease as I pull out of Hunter’s grip.

Finch laughs, looking over the moon we’re together once again.

“I really missed you, Dix,” he says, sipping his beer.

Finch is on the hard stuff tonight as Heidi is out of town for the weekend. This can really only equate to one thing—trouble.

“I missed you too, man,” I reply, slapping him on the back.

“Oh, enough with the touchy feely crap,” Hunter barks, slamming a twenty onto the bar to pay for our drinks. “Let’s go see some titties!’

Finch blanches and quickly shakes his head. “No titties for me, thanks. And besides, I’m sure Juliet wouldn’t want Dixon going to a strip club.”

“Oh, fuck the nympho!” Hunter cries, passing us a fresh round of drinks. “Last I checked, Dixon was still in possession of his balls, unlike you, Finch.” I laugh, although I’m not sure how true that statement really is.

Being out with the boys has made me realize that I’m actually in a “sort of” relationship, without knowing I was in one. I don’t know how, or when it happened, it just did. Although it is in no way normal, Juliet is the closest thing I’ve had to a girlfriend since Lily. And I don’t know how I feel about that.

“Hunter, when you meet the right girl, you’ll change your tune.” Finch nudges me in the ribs, egging me on to support his claim.

“Oh please, I’m more of a compatible partner for Dixon than Juliet is,” Hunter scoffs in disgust. “Once the novelty of Juliet’s hungry pussy wears off, Dixon will realize there’s plenty of pie out there.”

“What in God’s name are you crapping on about?” I ask, almost afraid to hear Hunter’s pie analogy.

This is the part where I should be defending Juliet’s honor, but for some reason, I can’t. Could it be because there’s some truth in Hunter’s uncouth, but accurate statement?

“What happens when you eat the same ol’ apple pie, day in, day out?” he questions, raising a brow.

“You become a diabetic?” Finch says seriously.

“No, you nimrod,” Hunter scoffs, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “After a while, that apple pie loses its flavor, and before long, you begin to hate apple pie, because all the apple pie wants to do is cuddle on the couch and watch reruns of Friends while you question when the exact moment was when you handed the apple pie your nuts on a platter.”

This is, by far, the most ridiculous analogy, but in a weird, warped way, I totally get what he’s saying.

“So once you’re done satisfying the apple pie—missionary position, I might add,” Hunter says, scrunching up his face. “You begin to think about cherry pie, and how much you’ve missed it. And suddenly, all you can think about is the plump, sugary cherries, and how good they taste compared to the bland, mushy apples, the ones you’ve been forced to eat for the past two months. Before long, you’ll hate apple pie, and you’ll move onto cherry pie, totally forgetting apple pie ever existed.” He takes a sip of beer, his food-inspired parallel over and done with.

Finch looks to be mulling over what Hunter just said, trying to figure out what the hell it means, while I almost choke on my beer because I’m laughing so hard.

“You are an idiot.”

“No, I’m a genius. And tonight we’re going to find you some cherry pie,” Hunter adds with a mischievous grin.

I don’t know how I feel about that, I mean, I would feel kind of bad, boning some random girl just because Juliet couldn’t see me tonight. But it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. This “thing” with Juliet has crept up on me and yelled “pussy whipped,” and I suddenly don’t like it.

Although I’m not interested in eating “cherry pie,” I don’t see the harm in simply viewing what other pies are on display. Hunter tosses back his beer and hollers when he sees I’ve made my decision, while Finch looks to have finally understood the analogy.

“Holy shit, Hunter! You’re one messed-up bastard,” he says in disgust.

Hunter’s deep chuckle rumbles low and he cocks a cheeky brow. “You think that’s messed up? You really don’t wanna know what happens when you eat pecan pie, day in, day out then.”

Finch takes the bait, and I bite back my smile.

“What happens?” Finch asks, totally falling for it.

“You become addicted to nuts,” Hunter explains with a grin. “And before long, all you can think about is nuts. You’ve got nuts in your mouth. Nuts on your face. Nuts on your tongue. Nuts at the back of your throat,” and I burst out laughing, tears filling my eyes.

Finch blanches, finally understanding. He throws him an appalled look while I fist bump my best friend.

We really are a bunch of nutjobs.