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“Don’t you have a wife to nag?” His wife’s an author. Thrillers.
“You know I’d rather get at you,” he says. “Anyway, Melinda’s in Cali. Had to go talk to someone about a script.”
I pace around and end up in the kitchen with my back against the refrigerator. I cast my eyes into the living room and lower my voice. “Quit calling every damn day.”
“I’m just standing in for my brother. He’d be doing the same thing.”
It’s true. Breck would. He might even be here with me. I sigh. “Well, you’re not him.”
“I know, man. But really, what the fuck is going on down there?”
I exhale—away from the phone, so Mr. Happy can’t hear it. “I wanted to tie up some loose ends. Do things right so it comes off clean and I have options. Like you claim to want.”
I glance down at my pants, where I’m still throbbing and half hard, then squeeze my eyes shut.
I hear Dove sigh. “You know, man… Did I tell you Bluebell’s been stateside?”
“No.”
“He went to Breck’s parents’ place, right? I talked to him, happened to mention where you were. That was two days ago. Since then, he just disappeared. I don’t know where the fuck he went.”
“Except you do.” I roll my eyes.
“It’s just a guess,” Dove says. He doesn’t even have to tell me what the guess is: that Bluebell’s coming here to interfere with my shit. Working together as long as we all did, I can read his mind, and he mine.
“How long’s his leave?” I rub my brow.
“Don’t know. But I can’t see how any good will come of this. You drawing that shit out with her.”
“You don’t have to, do you? It’s my shit.”
He doesn’t have the balls to argue—even though he could. Because it’s not just mine. Because of what I did, it’s all of ours.
But Dove feels guilty. He was covering for Breck and me when everything went down in Syria that day. It’s probably the only reason he still talks to me. Dove won’t blame me for Breck because he blames himself. For Breck, and me as well.
Finally I get him off the phone and walk across the living room. I lean against the slider door that leads onto the back deck, and I look out at the darkness.
I can smell her on me. If I swallow, I can taste her sweetness. I look through the glass, out at the nothing of the night, and I can see her satiated smile. I like her smile. The way the one cheek curves. It doesn’t look messed up to me. It looks funny, kind, and sometimes sly.
I bring my hand up near my face and inhale deeply, hoping to imprint the scent of her in my brain.
I’m such a sick fuck. A pathetic fuck.
I pull my right fist back, then punch the glass door. The fucking glass sheet actually cracks. The outer side of my right hand lights up like a blowtorch.
“Fuck me! FUCK!”
I walk over to the couch and sink down onto the rug in front of it. With a quick glance back over my shoulder—stairs are empty, thank fuck—I grab my hair and pull until my breaths are coming slower.
I can do this.
I can do this.
When she wakes up, I’ll take her home, and after that, no more.
I look down at my throbbing hand. At least it’s not my fucking cock.
It’s over.
