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The dream of being with her. And him. With them both. A fucking impossible dream, a fantasy that has my dick hard with desire and my heart hammering with emotion every damn night.
God, I need a stiff drink.
You just need to get laid, I tell myself as I gather my papers for another motherfucking meeting.
Or just head to the gym, work this obsession out of your system.
See, just because in the dream you feel so close to them doesn’t mean reality is like that. You know nothing about either one of them. Haven’t shared with them anything but a kiss, and in Riddick’s case a quick grope.
They don’t like you. It bears repeating: you’ve been a total asshole to them both. They probably hate your guts.
Then why does the thought of them make me feel warm and safe inside?
Don’t, Ryan. Just fucking don’t. This makes no sense. You are making no sense. Keep it up and you’ll get your very own straitjacket.
Don’t go looking for her during the day.
Don’t go looking for him during the evening.
Obeying myself shouldn’t be so hard. It’s logical. It’s what I’ve done all my adult life. I’m pretty damn sure it’s what’s kept me alive. No getting tangled with people. No stress.
No need to start drinking at nine AM.
I don’t go out for water or coffee or anything else that will allow me to catch any random glimpse of her.
The hours drag. I used to like my job, but lately I’ve grown to hate it, to hate this office, hate this breathless pace. Hate myself.
Back up. Everything’s okay. Let go.
Only letting go means relinquishing control, and control over myself is all that’s stopping me from marching out of here.
I don’t fucking need either of them. I’m fucking okay. I don’t need anyone.
My new mantra.
I’m already on the brink of shattering to pieces when I walk out of my office much, much later and see her talking with a guy. A different guy this time, Jamie from IT. Another loser. Another dimwitted asshole who thinks he has the right to talk to her like he owns her and stare at her tits like he’s seen her naked.
That’s my excuse for losing it, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.
By the time I stalk toward them, they have parted ways. She disappears around the corner of the reception hall, and he watches her go, a speculative look in his eye, when I punch him in the jaw.
He stumbles, but doesn’t fall. He swears at me, then punches me right back.
Totally didn’t see that coming, but I welcome the pain and the fury pouring out of me in punches and kicks. Cathartic violence, something I’d avoided just as long as I’d avoided coffee, alcohol and sex.
Goes to show how broken my control is. It’s in pieces. Nothing left of it.
Especially when instead of asking mysel
f what the fuck I’m doing, if this random guy will press charges and make me lose my fucking job, if I’m totally losing my mind… I think that I need to step up my game if I’m going to make this girl mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Zero-Fucks Chocolate
Brylee
Ryan is acting weird.
