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Fuck, I wonder if I belong in a nuthouse every time I think about it, and maybe I do.
Too bad my dick decided a long time ago it isn’t listening to reason.
I work out for more than an hour, breaking every major muscle group into a puddle of weeping jelly, and suffering a few more shitty one-liners from two guys who are supposed to be my friends.
No question, I’d trust them with my life, but I let them know their comedy routines suck elephant balls.
The workout doesn’t help, and neither do my denials every time they fling their crap.
I still can’t get Delia out of my head.
Hell, I haven’t even followed up on the family shit with Ma yet. Weirdly, I can’t get angry like before at her latest nosedive. I’m just disgusted.
Maybe there’s a silver lining in Bruce running after her and falling all over himself, helping enable her bullshit even if he doesn’t realize it.
Let him cry over her until she stabs him in the back like she inevitably will.
I can’t make tears for that woman anymore.
Especially when I’m too stuck on Delia and that last conflicted look she gave me. Like I finally stirred up something too bitter and disappointing to carry on with these games.
And I probably did.
I’m that kind of oblivious rockhead.
I wish I could say Evie was the only one in this family who gets hooked on bad habits.
Hers is heroin—unless she’s moved on to something worse.
Sex is mine.
And sex that makes me obsess over a chick when I ought to be dwelling on survival, poring over those maps and reports for any small advantage the brainiacs missed, may well be the end of me.
It wouldn’t be the first time we found a detour that saved lives at the eleventh hour, but only if Ilook.
Goddamn.
I need to quit her before I wind up dead.
Before I trample her heart like the emotionally deranged moose I am.
Delia doesn’t deserve permanent scars just because her pussy gets my rocks off harder than anyone else’s.
Or because it’s a struggle not to whisper about impossible futures and shit Ishould notfeel that can only get her hopes up.
That’s what makes this so difficult.
I shake my head, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off my face.
With the peanut gallery gone, I’m the only man left in the gym, working myself on a rowing machine until my arms feel like burning ropes.
I’m trying and failing to soften the broken glass rattling around in my skull.
It’s no damn use.
Nothing changes the fact that I’ll only hurt her worse by dragging this out, especially if I catch a bullet in Mexico.
I’m used to people disappointing me.
