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The usual tigress, one of the most important cogs in my clinic and who turns my body from a smoldering flame to a roaring inferno, comes to stand beside me. She’s fragile, broken, and alone.
My instinct is to wrap my arms around her and make sure she is loved and supported. My dick, well, he’s on a one-track road, but my brain acknowledges the truth of the situation. I need to leave. This is not giving up. It’s giving her the respect and space she deserves.
I make my way toward the beach. Every nerve and cell in my body, and this includes my dick, screaming for me not to go. I stomp across the bridge. I need a wank and a beer. A decent store-bought beer, not some shed-brewed crap.
“Hey, you done, bro?”
One of the fuckwit twins slaps me on the back as I stalk past the super drunk and stoned party goers toward the path that leads to the beach house I’m currently renting. I stop dead in my tracks.
“Warmed her up for us, did you?” the first fuckwit twin dares to ask.
Fukwit number two is feeling up the sweet, pretty-faced woman who tried to get into my pants earlier.
“She’s all wet and ready…” He lifts his heads from where he was sucking her exposed nipple.
I can’t help it. I’ve tried. Anger management. Calming teas. Yoga. But God only knows, when someone asks for it, why in the name of all things is it seen as violence? I take a deep breath.
Just walk away, Jay.
“I’m dying to fuck that little O ring of hers. Have been all night.” Fuckwit twin number one says.
Everything goes blank.
I come to with Steven holding me back and the two blonde dipshits laying in the sand cupping hands over bloody noses and swollen lips.
The sweet, pretty-faced woman from earlier is gripping her shirt, looking up at me in shock. I shrug, grunt, and make for home. I offer no explanation, nor do I owe them one.
