Harriette lay in the corner, a paw covering her eye. Bingo! She didn’t like it when I jacked myself. I know, I know, she’s a freak of a dog.
Hey, I’m her master, and I assumed it was because she only liked to think of her and me.
Long story short, I’d been beating it pretty regularly all week.
I’d tried to drown my imperfections and insecurities in a cute, short-ish ginger after Charli hit the road—not the waitress, but a quirky, short, sci-fi-loving one more suited to me.
She laughed at my jokes and made googly eyes at me all night in the back of Bastion’s; enough so, I felt bold enough to take her home. She lived in the neighborhood too, and led me up to her condo where I proceeded to be unable to perform.
Like, not at all. There was no movement whatsoever. My dick was set on an unattainable sexy blonde, and no pixie redhead was going to replace her.
I chalked it up to whiskey dick and hit the road faster than I thought possible. Carrie insisted on typing her number in my phone, and my fucking dick demanded I delete it.
This was a true story. I was legitimately addicted to a woman I couldn’t have ... not to mention she didn’t want me.
Then I’d fucking heard from Charli on Tuesday, and while it was all business and nothing spectacular, my lower appendage was back to doing the thinking and making demands. Now I had a twice-a-day yank, Charli front and center in my mind, lithe and seductive but into me. Way into me. In my fantasy, she’d moan my name, scratch her fingers down my back, and tug on my hair.
Shit. And just like that, I blew my wad everywhere.
That was pretty much status quo. All because of a girl who couldn’t even let me know she was home safely until four days later.
After wiping up, I let Harriette out and went down to my studio to get lost in my latest contract. I waited for my slow-ass dog to lollygag over before shutting the door to the soundproof space. If not, she’d scratch on the other side of the door and I wouldn’t hear shit.
Slapping my headphones on my ears, I cued up the latest footage on my screen, rolled my mouse over several music selections, and double-clicked on the new song by some pop icon. The director wanted the song somewhere in the film, anywhere I saw fit, but definitely somewhere. It was probably his niece or some shit like that.
My computer was slow to load so I kicked my bare feet up on my steel desk and checked my e-mail on my phone, not expecting much for a Friday evening. Most people were out doing the happy-hour thing; I was sitting at my desk in a post-masturbatory funk like a complete loser.
Or maybe not? Because sitting right there in my in-box was an e-mail from Charli, using words likekismetandsorry, and just like that, I was on top of the world.
