My hands-on experiment portion of the evening has officially crashed and burned. Dad and I may not have the same idea about what having a life looks like, but I know this isn’t the one I want. I want more than just getting off or silencing my demons with a quick orgasm. I want someone to look at me like I’m worth as much as I was in my heyday. The closest I’ve ever come to that was when it wasn’t possible to even entertain the idea—covert moments at night during college. A sexy, eageryoung man who let me do whatever I wanted to him and looked at me like I hung the fucking moon. God, that feels like another lifetime. In truth, it was.
After I went pro, I was too terrified of being recognized to seek anyone out. At least one positive about ruining my career is that it doesn’t matter who knows about my sexuality now. I’ve done the hook-up thing over the years when I was desperate to be touched by someone other than myself. Apparently, I’m not as desperate as I thought because the need to see deeper longing in my partner’s eyes feels like it’s the only way I’d get my dick to come back to life. Suddenly, I feel worse for having his hands on me. Worse than I know I’ll feel tomorrow, because the only thing worse than a hangover is a hangover while you wallow in the reality that no one will ever look at you again like the sun rises and sets because you’re in the world.
Swallowing, I consider my options for another second. Maybe I’m just being too emotional and all up in my head. As the guy leans in and sucks on my neck, however, I can’t muster any enthusiasm to even pretend. I’d rather be at home with Gale, my overweight Rottweiler. She gives better kisses and presses up against my spine in bed when she knows I’m hurting.
Shaking my head, I pull back and draw his hand off my cock. I move to leave, but bash into the stall door, compounding my utter foolishness of enticing him to come in here with me. I want something that doesn’t exist—someone to wake up next to who doesn’t mind what I am. Or rather, what I’m not. And I want them to look at me as more than some mundane decision on their shopping list.
For the second time this evening, I stagger away from a man shouting at my back. Fumbling through the crowd on the dance floor, I burst out of the club door, where the humid San Antonio air greets me. Thesewage-ysmell from the Riverwalk blows on a soft breeze as I lumber down the sidewalk and punch in arequest for an Uber ride. I’m already kicking my ass that I’ll have to come back tomorrow to pick up my truck for no other purpose than I was hiding from my father. The cab smells like vinyl and stale incense, hitting every pothole on the way to my house. Gale yips as I fumble to get my keys in the lock. The sound warms my heart. I give her some ear scritches and watch her pityingly as she zips outside to do her business. What did a good dog like her do to get stuck with someone like me?
Still, I stubbornly reject Mom’s worried claims that I wouldn’t be able to take care of a dog when I told her I’d brought a puppy home from an adoption event a few years ago. That animal has helped me more than any therapy I’ve tried.
“Come on, girl. Let’s go to bed.”
She looks at me warily, ears back. It’s like she can tell when I’ve been drinking, and I hate it. All of a sudden, her head whips to the right, and her spine goes rigid.
“Ah, shit.”
I blink, making out the distinct colors of a skunk in the neighbor’s yard. Gale lets out a deepwoofand starts toward it. I take a step and call out to her, but my porch gives way. Logic tells me it can’t give way. It’s concrete, but as I step into nothing but air off the side of it, I know just how bad of an idea self-medicating was tonight. My hips shift uncomfortably, and the harder I try to stop falling, the more awkwardly I topple over, my feet getting snagged against each other. My spine twists. There’s a popping noise, and a sharp sensation shoots up my back and down through my tailbone. I hit the ground two feet below as hard as a tackle. Mouth open, a broken sound comes out that doesn’t even come close to representing the paralyzing pain. It’s so debilitating that it steals my breath. All I can do is pant and lie in a snarled heap.
Something wet and rough laps my cheek. Gale whimpers and nudges me with her nose. She doesn’t smell like skunk. At leastthere’s that. I let out a pained laugh through the tears in my eyes and squeeze her shoulder. Flopping down in front of me, she licks my forearm like she knows.
“Yeah…” I pant. “Yeah, I think I’m good and fucked this time.”
CHAPTER 4
Remy
Well, I totally called that. Shaking my head, I chuckle at Jamie’s cry for help text on my phone.
I’ll be there Friday evening. If you don’t have a guest room ready, I’ll sleep on your couch. I don’t care. I need to get out of here for a few days.
To give him credit, he lasted longer than I thought he would. I’m an only child, so I can’t say I’d be able to handle having five additional people under my roof either. I shoot a reply off to let him know I will have the royal treatment awaiting his pampered ass whenever he arrives, and then pocket my phone to get back to work.
I barely get it tucked into my pants when Adam, one of the center’s PTAs, comes flying through the doorway of my office and makes a beeline for the trash can on the other side of my desk. Clutching his stomach, he drops to his knees and latches onto the plastic receptacle in a death grip.
“Oh, my God. Are you all right?”
I realize it’s a foolish question, given how pale he looks. There’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead, and his grumblings earlier about the new restaurant his wife wanted to try out now come back to me.
“No.” He lets out an unholy gagging sound. “Fuck. It’s food poisoning. I know it. Oh, God. I’m gonna die.”
He doesn’t die, but what happens next makes me forget about thoughts of going to lunch any time soon. I manage to get him up on his feet and help him to the bathroom. There are half a dozen patients in the center, but fortunately, they’re spread out in the large open space. Still, his retching sounds aren’t a pleasant soundtrack for an atmosphere where people need to either let their bodies relax or their minds focus.
“I’m sorry, Jeremy. I think I’m going to have to go home,” he pants, now leaning over the sink in the bathroom.
“Yeah, definitely. Man, I’m sorry. Do you need me to call anyone to give you a ride?”
“I’ll call my wife if she’s not sick. I swear that woman has never so much as had a stomachache in her life, though.” He pauses for a moment to catch his breath and lets out a few more desperate moaning sounds, splashing cool water on his face. “Shit. I’ve got someone in number four. I was just hooking him up to the TENS unit.”
“It’s fine. I’ll finish up for you. Just worry about yourself right now. Okay?”
“Thanks,” he heaves a breath of relief, and I have to say I’m grateful to have a reason to leave him in his misery. I’ve never had a weak stomach, but the power of persuasion is real.
“Just TENS therapy?” I clarify, heading toward the door. “Do they need heat for post-exercise or anything?
“No. Just TENS. Broken screws in the lower lumbar spinal surgery. And he had a fall recently.”
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, feeling a twinge of sympathy for more than Adam now.
