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Then…
“And then he said…sorry, I need a minute,” snuffles Goldilocks as she unfurls an unsteady hand.
“Take all the time you need, Ms. Kibard.” I’ll just continue with my morbid doodle of a teddy bear getting his stuffing blown out.
When she finally regains her composure, she continues. “And then he said…if I bought one more teddy bear, he was going to leave me.” She clutches onto her eyeless, scraggly, diseased-looking teddy bear like it’s Lord Jesus himself. “Can you believe that?”
You bet your crazy ass I can. But I calmly nod, appearing stone-faced. This is my job, after all.
“I’m not here to pass judgment, Ms. Kibard. Let’s talk about why you have a…fascination with teddy bears.”
Yes, thisisas ridiculous as it sounds, but her crazy makes me forget the madness of my own.
It’s been ten days. Ten whole days during which I’ve lied to the most innocent, most honorable person I’ve ever met. For ten days, I’ve hated myself more than I thought I possibly could.
I’m not a good person, I know that. Before meeting Madison Roberts, I was questioning my humanity, questioning if I actually ever had any morals, ethics, or a soul. But for a split second, she made me feel as if maybe there was hope for me. As if maybe I could be a good man.
But that hope got shot to hell when the sins of my past blackmailed me into being her little lapdog. And now, my hands are tied. Tied by Juliet Harte—the Antichrist in heels.
This is my karma for succumbing to her sinful ways. But contracting Ebola while covered in smallpox and listening to Celine Dion on repeat would be preferable and less painful than what Juliet proposes I do. My cock curls in on itself and goes into retreat when thinking about touching that harlot ever again.
“Dr. Mathews, do you agree?”
Focusing on the train wreck in front of me, I try to backtrack to the last thing I remember her saying.
“Blah, blah, bear. Blah, blah, teddy. Blah, blah, Daddy.”
Pushing my miserable woes aside, I steeple my fingers under my chin. “I’d like to talk about your bear.” I drop my gaze to the diabolic fluff ball, hoping this works because I have not listened to a word she’s said. “Who gave you that little…”roadkill, I internally offer, but instead settle for, “that little guy?”
We human beings, we are such expressive creatures, and the smallest change in facial expressions usually reveals what’s lurking beneath the surface. And now is no exception.
As Goldie’s jaw begins to tremble, I know what her answer will be. “My father.” She draws the dirty teddy into her chest, hugging it tight.
How’d I know her answer was going to be just that? Well, I know because I’m a man. We men, we are right royal bastards. If we don’t fuck our daughters up, then someone else’s son will do it for us.
The thought has my stomach churning because if what Juliet says is true and sheiscarrying my child, then that child is doomed to grow up to be a conniving bastard or a psychotic, manipulative, batshit-crazy bitch.
The fact Juliet has slept with half of Manhattan and their dog makes me feel a touch better that this poor child might not be mine. But if it is…
I shudder.
I can’t deal with this. I need to focus on one drama at a time. And Goldie weeping about how her father used this bear as his scapegoat to touch her inappropriately is not one of them.
Tonight, I’m having dinner with Sebastian and Rachel at their lavish home in Westchester County. I liked them both instantly when we first met ten days ago, and under normal circumstances, I would be thrilled to spend an evening with Madison’s parents. But there is nothing normal about tonight’s proceedings.
The heavy cell in my pocket taunts me, reminding me that some twenty minutes ago, I received a text message from the bitchface herself. A text which shattered all hope that maybe she was joking.
It said,I’ve got an itch only you can scratch.It’s a line she’s used before.
But this time, I replied with,There’s a cream you can get for that.
I thoughtsuck on that, you smug, presumptuous she-devil, but she made it known just who was in charge and running this freak show when she countered a second later.
The only cream I want is the one that comes from your cock.
Romance truly is dead. Juliet Harte killed it the day she opened her venomous mouth and I happily stuck my dick into it.
I remove my glasses and massage the bridge of my nose with two fingers. How the fuck am I going to do this? I’ll have the woman I worship on one side of me, while the woman I despise will be on the other side, no doubt trying to give me a discreet hand job under the table.
