Page 1 of Second Go-Round
Chapter 1
Christine
Nothing like Saturday mornings, a pot of coffee, and sports radio on TV. While Nick and Nate chatted about the upcoming football season onscreen, I sucked down caffeine, hoping it would infuse my bloodstream with wakefulness so I wouldn’t have to prop my eyelids open with toothpicks to make it through the day.
A guy had kept me up too late but not because of mind-blowing orgasms. Talk about a lousy lay.
I swallowed down more coffee and shook my head, my mind flitting to memories of my dating app dude from the night before. The sexually charged energy over the dinner table. The grinding of his huge hard-on against my ass while we had danced amidst strobe lights and thumping bass. The anticipation heating my blood as I’d dragged him into my house at one in the morning.
We hadn’t made it into the bedroom, ending up going at it right there on my couch because I’d been too damn hungry for cock to even think about christening my new king-sized bed.
Unfortunately, the guy didn’t know how to use the package he’d been blessed with. That and his complete lack of hand and mouth use on my body killed it for me. And not in a good way. He had just stuck his dick in and went to town, getting his own rocks off and leaving me scrambling to keep up. The entire affair had been passionless and forgettable.
Boring with a capital B.
Stifling a yawn, I frowned and shuffled into my living room. I shouldn’t have been surprised by my night’s end. Every man I’d been out with since losing my virginity back in high school had pretty much proven to be the same. Energy, hype, then disappointment because men need a clit road map. I climaxed most of the time, but only because I had to help them get the job done.
You’d have thought I had ripped the guy’s heart out when I showed him the door after finishing—and declining his suggestion of going on a second date.
Broken heart number fifty? Sixty? Whatever the number, he joined all the men I’d left hanging or begging for another chance at rocking my world. The very few who happened to talk me into one more tumble between the sheets ended up as a similar blip on the radar of my past, blocked and ignored.
I’d been called all kinds of nasty names over the years for my playgirl ways, but they weren’t wrong in their conclusions of my being a cold-hearted bitch who just wanted sex. I liked men. I loved to fuck. But my heart wasn’t available, and one-night stands ensured no feels got involved.
Having witnessed my father lose the love of his life and seeing the emotional hardship he endured for all those years since Mom had passed made me wary of commitment. While he claimed it was better to have loved Mom and lost her than to never have known her love, I disagreed. I couldn’t imagine a soulmate being ripped away with such violence. She’d been my mother, and that had been hard enough of a loss to endure.
Countless hours of therapy with and without Dad had taught me how to deal with the sorrow, but it lingered. Always would—same as my nightmares of engulfing flames. Smoke. Screams I’d never actually heard outside my dreams.
But watching Dad break down had been the deciding factor that had shaped my life when it came to relationships. No way in hell would I allow a man to burrow his way into my soul and stake a claim on my heart like my mom had done with my dad then leave me devastated at their loss.
Huffing an exhale over my latest failed attempt at earth-shattering sex, I sprawled on the couch and turned my focus on the TV. Nick informed those listening in that the Patriot’s rookie tight end, Jackson, had messed up his knee at practice the day before. They weren’t sure he’d be on the field the next afternoon to help kick off the season.
Jackson had been a first-round draft pick, and I’d had high hopes since Dad and I would be sitting in the stands as always, getting to watch him rule the field.
“Shit,” I muttered at the same time my cell dinged.
I fished my phone from my robe pocket and flipped it over. Dad knew better than to contact me before nine on a Saturday morning, but this update from our favorite sports radio talk show host would have him chatting up a storm. I swiped my thumb over the screen and sipped.
Dad: Have you seen the news?
I used one hand to reply, Just now. Think he’ll be able to play?
Dad: Huh?
Me: Our rookie with the injury. Aren’t you listening to Nick and Nate?
Dad: Shit. No, I haven’t heard about that. I’m talking about the latest bomb threat.
“Fuck.” I set aside my mug. He wouldn’t be texting me unless a business our family insured was involved.
I quickly texted Dad back that I hadn’t, dropped my cell, and clicked the TV channel over to NECN.
There had been a few bomb threats to some of Boston’s downtown queer-owned businesses in the previous weeks, one of which had led to an explosion. Although no individual—or group—had claimed responsibility for the tragic loss of sixteen lives, I expected it was probably some religious fanatics believing they needed to cleanse the world of so-called sin.
The latest had threatened the Blushing Cherry, one of our long-standing customers at Gemberling Insurance. No evidence of a bomb had been found according to the news anchor and everyone had been evacuated safely, but still. I’d bet the owner lost a shit ton of money that night because of it. I also wondered how many faithful patrons would stay holed up at home in the coming weeks.
“Damnit.” I put my empty mug on the coffee table and texted a mad face back to my dad.
The police needed to catch the bastards robbing Boston’s nightlife businesses and traumatizing their LGBTQ+ owners. While the bomb hadn’t kept me from visiting my favorite dance clubs and bars downtown, the crowds had certainly lessened since the threats had begun earlier in the summer.
