Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“Hi,” they both answer without looking at me.
“And then what happened?” Ant asks Blake.
“It’s her.”
“Who’s her?” I ask as I try to catch up with the conversation.
“Guess who Holly is?” Blake raises an eyebrow.
“Who is Holly again?” I frown.
“The girl I’ve been seeing.” He widens his eyes as if I’m stupid. “The hot one.”
“I can’t keep up; they are all fucking hot.”
“This is true.” Antony sips his beer.
“Supersoaker,” Blake replies.
“What?” I frown.
“Supersoaker is Holly’s sister,” Blake snaps. “And now I’m totally fucked because I’ve had a million threesomes with her, and she’s going to tell Holly every sordid detail, and Holly thinks I’m holier than God.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You hurt my brain, do you know that?”
“Wait . . .” Antony frowns. “How do you know?”
“Because Holly showed me photos of her sister on her phone, and it’s the same nasty girl who squirts like a fucking fire hose.”
I chuckle as I remember the finer details. “That’s right. It’s all coming back to me now.”
“Does Holly squirt?” Antony asks.
“I don’t know. I haven’t slept with her yet,” he scoffs.
“What?” We both gasp. That’s unheard of.
“Holly is a”—he holds up his fingers and air quotes—“nice girl.”
Ant’s eyes and mine meet as we try to decide if Holly is also a squirter.
“I reckon it would have to be genetic,” I say.
“Surely,” Ant agrees.
Blake rolls his eyes. “You are not listening to me, you fucking idiots. We have bigger problems than if Holly is a squirter.”
My mind goes to Juliet, and I exhale heavily. “You’re right, we do.”
“I don’t think she will say anything. Nobody tells a family member that they gangbang,” Ant continues.
But my mind isn’t on this conversation.
It’s off wandering with sweet Juliet, thinking about how perfect she felt the other night . . . of how badly I fucked it all up.
I wonder what she’s doing right now.
Fifteen minutes later, my peace is interrupted, and I glance up. “Huh?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you today?” Ant snaps. “You haven’t said a word all morning.”
I shrug. “Sorry, distracted.”
“By what?”
“Nobody,” I snap a little too fast.
“Wouldn’t have something to do with that hot little neighbor of yours, would it?”
“Nope.” I cut into my breakfast and shovel in a huge mouthful. “We’re done.”
“Why? I thought you two were going to do the friends-with-benefits thing.”
“I’m no longer interested.”
“Bullshit.”
I shrug as I try to act casual. “I’m serious.”
Antony sits back in his chair. His assessing eyes hold mine. “Someone is going to swoop in and steal her from right under your nose, you fucking idiot.”
“Don’t care,” I fire back.
“We’ll see about that.”
“She’s not after a relationship anyway,” I tell them.
“Until she finds someone else to be her friend and he falls desperately in love with her. You’re a fucking idiot, man.”
The conversation turns to Blake’s work, and my mind goes back to her.
Always back to her, and I’m fucking sick of it.
I need her out of my system.
I sit at my desk and stare into space. The week has been long and depressing.
Every night before I fall asleep I tell myself that tomorrow I am going to go over to Juliet’s and apologize and beg to see her . . . but then tomorrow comes, and I just don’t.
Why am I like this? Or what could possibly be wrong with me to make me such a selfish prick?
Why do I torture myself the way that I do?
All I want to do is see her, to hold her in my arms and tell her that I missed her.
That shouldn’t be hard. It should be the most natural thing in the world.
Logically I know that, so why can’t I do it?
I open the top drawer of my desk and rustle through it, and I catch sight of what I’m looking for at the very bottom, buried under everything. I pull it out and stare at it in my hands.
A A R O N S T E V E N S
P S Y C H O L O G I S T
I’ve had this card for years. He’s supposed to be the best of the best, supposed to be able to fix anyone.
Call him.
It won’t help. What could he possibly say to make this all better?
Call him.
With shaky fingers I dial his number and wait as it rings.
“Aaron Stevens’s rooms,” a woman answers, and when I hear her voice, I immediately hang up the phone.
Fuck.
I drag my hands through my hair. I don’t need that shit. I’m fine. I just need to stop thinking about her, that’s all. If I’m not near her, then she can’t make me feel this way.
Onward and upward.
Juliet
I carry the towels up the hall and slow down when I get toward the end of the corridor. I’m at the nursing home tonight. And even though I know that he doesn’t remember his son, I know it’s his dad.