No. It doesn’t make me an asshole. It’s perseveration—for both of us, because the sexual tension between us is so heavy, we’re bound to combust. You can’t be friends with someone when all you think about is stripping them bare and fucking them senseless.
And whether or not she realizes it, that’s new for me.
I don’t think about sex. It is just another tool in my arsenal of avoidance, and I try to avoiditfor as long as I can. It’s just never long enough. But I rely on drugs, alcohol, and fighting to give me my escape. They just often lead to the other.
Because sex? It feels good for a moment, but then it brings the worst of the nightmares, trapping me inside my mind where memories mix with reality and pain mingles with pleasure in the worst way. Because I can’t tell the truth from a lie.
It’s not worth it, but I cave to the carnal urges every single time, giving my body what it wants, knowing the repercussions will hurt.
But when I indulge, I almost always return to the familiar as I did with Renee for so long, or to a total stranger—usually the paid kind. Though why anyone takes what I offer is beyond me.
There’s no eye contact. It’s impossible when I shove them face down into whatever surface I bend them over. I don’t touch them beyond what’s necessary, and I never let them touch me. The handcuffs aren’t sexy; they’re a necessity, no matter how I played it to Poppy.
There’s no concern for their pleasure or whispered words of seduction because it’s not about them. Hell, it’s not even about me beyond the primal need to release endorphins. And most of the time, I’m high as fucking hell. Just not high enough to have whiskey or coke dick.
It’s a long session of fucked up. Ritualized destruction, each act a brick added to the wall I’ve built while I wreck a piece of theirs. I imagine I’ve caused far more esteem issues than I could ever cure, but it’s never been intentional.
Just more reasons Poppy shouldn’t waste her time on me, and I should leave her alone.
And all of this…They’re all things I’ve never considered when it comes to women. I don’t worry about the effect I have on them. Stressing over whether I might hurt them doesn’t happen. Except for Casey, I care nothing about the female gender at all beyond what they can offer me because I don’t trust them. They’re malicious, conniving, deceitful, and the worst type of predator…the kind no one ever suspects because they appear soft and fragile and incapable of harm.
That’s what they want you to think. The villain disguised as a victim.
The only difference between a man and a woman is perception.
My head falls back against the headrest, the confusing, conflicting emotions rolling through me like a tidal wave, but without her near me, it mixes in the deadly hurricane of my other emotions. Everything is too much. The weight, too heavy.
The contents of my center console scream at me, begging me to indulge. At four a.m., it’s the only thing I can indulge in. Oxygen inflates my lungs as I wrestle with indecision.
My hand hovers over the console. Pain throbs at my temples. Temptation’s seductive promise beckons me.
Fuck it. That’s why I have it. The confrontation with Poppy shouldn’t change that.
The latch clicks and sounds like a beautiful lie, promising peace when I know it only lasts a minute. I lift the leather-covered lid, reaching for the destruction inside.
It’s in my hand, and I’m about to pour a bit on the tray I keep at the bottom, when a glint of silver catches my attention. A heavy canvas bag sits on the floorboard of my passenger seat with P R C monogrammed on the side in red and pink.
I battle with myself for thirty seconds before I toss the drugs out of my window, grab her bag, and exit the car. The doorman smirks as he pulls the handles. Holding the bag up for the security guard to see, I give him Poppy’s name and her floor.
It should be concerning that he just lets me up, but I’ve been to this building a time or three over the years. Just never the same apartment.
Another baffling mystery that I’ve never met Poppy until now.
The restless tapping of my foot echoes off the walls of the elevator. Impatience tightens my muscles as I wait for the ascent to end. Steel doors slide open on her floor, and I step out, hooking a right as if I’ve been to her apartment dozens of times instead of once.
Determination sets my pace as I make my way toward her apartment, but when I see what should be her closed door is still open, my steps increase until I’m jogging the remaining twenty feet.
Her apartment door is open, her silhouette frozen beyond the frame. Dread swims in my belly, and the final inches between us are erased. I allow a breath—just one to calm my growing temper, to take in the sight around me. Splintered furniture and shattered glass. Photo frames twisted like broken memories.
I call her name to announce myself. She jumps, startled by me, and spins to face me. Startled fury streams down her face before morphing into sad relief.
Then I’m the one who’s stunned when she throws herself into my arms. After a second, I collect myself and hold her close,stroking a hand over her head. “Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?” My gut twists at the thought of anyone touching her, igniting a burning fury that promises pain to anyone who dares to lay a finger on her.
And at this moment, I get it. I know what has brought me to her all day long. Understand why the disappointment and anger in her eyes over the drugs felt like a sledgehammer to the chest. Even if it makes no sense.
I fucking like her.
I had no clue that any part of me was capable of caring for anyone beyond the release they provided. I thought that part of me was ruined long ago, before it had a chance to truly develop.
