I feel like I’m being romanced by a stranger. Manipulated like I manipulated Brooks. Of course, I don’t love this man, this guy I’ve known less than a day. But I’m endeared to him, fascinated with him. He gets me, doesn’t he? He knows my struggles. And throughout the entire night, one thing resonates above everything else—the fact that Brooks has never once tried to call me after I ran from his house, my heart shattered into pieces. I haven’t gotten even so much as a text.
“I’d say you dodged a bullet.”“You know what, Ron, maybe you’re right.” I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the mock therapy session, but I’m feeling better. In the wake of devastation, I’m not dead.
“You mean, Mr. Ronderful.”
I smile, our eyes connecting. I want to feel better. I want to do awesomely, not just okay. I want to forget Brooks and everything he has ever meant to me. I want to erase his mouth, forget his cock, lose the love that I’ve steadily watered over the years.
Without thinking, I am on Mr. Ronderful’s lips, but I pull back, unsure if this is the right thing.
“Wow,” he says, a smile tugging a corner of his mouth.
My cheeks heat, and I blush before I wipe my lips. “I’m sorry … I don’t … I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Do it again.”
Maybe it is the right thing. Maybe two people meeting in a bar, getting a little buzz, and then making out is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe him coming home with me would be even better. He can bang the sadness out of me, screw the love from my body, choke the words of adoration I have for Brooks from my throat.
“Come home with me,” I whisper.
Instantly, I regret the invitation. It isn’t that Mr. Ronderful isn’t great, but I know I’m fucked up. I could wake up tomorrow and wish I could take it back. I’m impulsive by nature, and mix in some alcohol lately, and I’m a fucking train wreck. I’ve all but ceased taking my medication, have totally abandoned my mental health in that regard.
Still, the way he slides his hands over my thighs, the arousal in his eyes … it’s enough to allow me to destroy myself.
We Uber to the house and stumble into my room. I lock Lucy out of it. Command her to shut up. His hand pushes me onto the bed. He unbuttons his faded jeans, and kicks off his shoes. He climbs on top of me, and I want to be sick. Nothing is wrong with him, but I’m feeling the pangs of remorse already. But regardless of whether I want this, Brooks needs this. He needs to be hurt, needs to feel something. And how can he not hurt? How could this not bother him, me fucking another man? Even though he’s done the same to me, men can never handle having it done to them. Women roam gardens of double standards.
Ronderful kisses my neck, slides my shirt above my breasts, trails his tongue down my belly.
Yes, Brooks deserves this. Every thorn of pain I can wedge into him, he deserves. I will my thoughts of him away, train my brain to focus on what’s happening. The tug of my pants. The slipping on of a condom. The tongue between my legs.
I allow myself to come in his mouth. He is talented, skilled from all the Match bitches he’s banged. I pull him up, and roll him over. I remove my shirt and take off my bra, allowing my breasts to bounce and move as I straddle him.
“Shit, you’re hot.”
His eyes aren’t kind anymore. They’re hungry, horny. He needs this, too. His cock stands for me. Begs me to fuck it. I lower myself, riding him with an intensity I never have while he rubs my clit. His hands guide me, pulling on my ass as he thrusts his hips upward. I allow the pressure to build, not caring whether I come too soon. This is strictly for me, all me. My therapy. My medication. My destruction of the love I have left for a man who doesn’t love me back.
I grind on him, and crumple, my body riding a wave as Mr. Ronderful plays with my tits. He jerks, his dick pulsating inside me, the slight vibration thrilling.
I crash on top of him, our mouths pressing together in a mess of satisfaction. Then, I free him. Watch him walk to the bathroom to discard the condom. I roll on my back, tuck my hands behind my head, and sleep.
The bed is empty, the sun peeking into the sky. My head hurts. I reach up to touch it, wincing at the sharp pain that radiates through it, followed by a dull throb.
What’s his name? It’s Ron, but … something else.
Oh, yeah. “Mr. Ronderful?” I feel stupid saying it, like I was duped into some role-playing shit, but I know I wasn’t duped into anything. I did it all myself.
A note on the table next to the door.
You were great. Good luck with everything. You know where to find me.
My heart sinks into my stomach.
God, what have I done?
I’m tainted. Fucked by another after the cock of my lover. All because of a misunderstanding with Brooks. And it is a misunderstanding. It has to be. Why are women like this? Why am I like this? I could have given Brooks a minute—could have allowed him to explain. Maybe he lied. Maybe he was already seeing Kate. Maybe he was only trying to figure out how to tell her he didn’t love her anymore.
My eyes widen as I remember … Kate recognized me. She didn’t look like she knew, but she recognized me somehow.
I can’t let her be the end of us. Brooks made a mistake. Whether he lied about seeing someone from the start, or whether he was confused by the intensity of our love and needed a distraction, he made a mistake.
I won’t let her get in the way. I won’t let her ruin us.
Tires screech as I close my mailbox. I turn, Deacon’s teeth snarled like an animal as he jumps out of his car.
“You’re fucking Emily, dude?”
His hands connect with my chest. I drop the mail, stumbling yet managing to steady myself before I hit the ground. I still haven’t fully comprehended the fact that he knows, because I say, “What?”
“Emily!” he screams. “You’re. Fucking. My. Ex. Girlfriend!” Spit flies from his mouth, his face red, veins bulging everywhere.
Instinctively, my eyes flit to his pockets to look for any signs of what could be a concealed weapon.
“Deacon, I—”
His finger points in my face, his breath flowing over me because of his proximity. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, you piece of shit,” he says through gritted teeth.
I swallow. I don’t want to fight Deacon, but I will if I have to. “I’m not. I’m not fucking her.”
“Oh, now you’re not? Not in this moment, maybe, but you have fucked her, yes or no?”
I’m trying to keep my cool, keep my voice low and even. I look around, searching for any passersby who might witness my fucking murder, but the street is nothing but greenery and flowers. Deacon is obviously doped up again. His eyes are bloodshot, head shaking, breath smelling like liquor.
I decide it is best not to lie. He knows, and it doesn’t matter how he found out. “I’m sorry. It was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” He spins around, fingers locking behind his head as he kicks his tire. Our eyes meet again. “That’s all you have to say to me? Really? I’m your best fucking friend, and you’ve been fucking my girl.”
Stupidly, I point out a fact that he’s all too aware of. “She hasn’t been your girl for a long time, man. You know that.”
His fists clench, and he grabs me by the neck of my shirt, his jaw tight. “Oh, let’s get something straight right now, asshole. Emily is more mine than she’ll ever be yours. You got that?”
I don’t know what happens. Something about the malice in his eyes or maybe that he seems so possessive over something that is no longer his. But I shove him away from me, my hands catapulting him on the pavement of the driveway.
Instantly, I regret it, and extend a hand to him—try to help him because, even though I know the hate he is feeling right now, he is still like a brother to me.
He slaps my hand away, and pushes up on his own. I see it coming, and I let him do it. His fist makes hard contact with my jaw. My hand reaches up to wipe the drop of blood that se
eps from my mouth to my lip. I don’t hit him back. My feet stay firmly planted, eyes looking at him with regret.
“You’re dead to me.”
This kind of fallout isn’t quite what I had in mind, and this could have terrible ripple effects on the company.
“I want my fucking dog back, by the way,” I yell. “Tomorrow!”
He gets in his car, tires skidding as he peels out, a puff of smoke left behind. As I rub my jaw, I suddenly become worried, and wonder if he has already visited Emily. Maybe that’s how he found out. Maybe she told him because she is upset with me, though she can’t be nearly as upset with me as I am with her.
Jesus, if he didn’t already come from her house, what if he is on the way? If he will punch me, what will he do to her?
A sudden horror falls on me, and I run to the house and grab my keys.
I am relieved when I pull up to Emily’s and there is no sign of Deacon. But if he has already been here, there is no telling what he could have done. I saw the feral look in his eyes, the desperation.
I rush up her steps, and knock on the door. “Emily!”
I realize it doesn’t matter what she did or how much she manipulated me or attempted to. The only thing that matters is that she is okay.
“Emily!” I shout, my knuckles rapping on her door and then the side window.
The door flies open, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in two weeks. The color is gone from her cheeks, the fire typically present in her eyes now extinguished.
“Brooks.” She smiles delicately, but something is not right.
“We need to talk. Can I come in?”Her chest sinks, and her smile widens, but it isn’t authentic. “Yes, of course. Let me just freshen up.”
I nod.
She opens the door and disappears down the hall while saying, “Give me two minutes.”
I sit on the couch again, hunched over my knees, my head drooping. I try not to dwell on the book. For now, it is irrelevant.
She returns a few minutes later, having traded her pajamas for some shorts and a tank, and having thrown her hair into a pony tail. Even without makeup, she is breathtaking. She sits across from me. Offers me something to drink, but I say no.
“Deacon knows.”
“Knows … about us?”
“Did you tell him?”
Her mouth twists, the accusation hurting her. “No. Of course I didn’t.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe she’s crazy, but at least she isn’t vindictive. For a bit, I considered the fact that maybe she wanted Deacon to know so he could come kill me or something. Honestly, I put nothing past women anymore.
I sink back into the couch. My fingers tap on my jeans. “Well, I don’t know how he found out, then. But it’s bad. He confronted me at my house, and he was acting completely insane.”
I consider how funny it is that I am talking about Deacon’s moment of insanity with a woman who is also probably insane. Who buys a book with the purpose of manipulating someone from point A to point B? Is that not crazy?
“Okay...” Her head tilts in confusion, as if she doesn’t understand why I am here telling her this. “Wait, did he hit you?”
I nod, seeing the concern rise in her eyes. “I’m fine. But I was worried about you. I thought he—I mean, I am sure it was just my imagination running wild, but I could see him going crazy on you, too. The way he was acting … I think he was definitely high.”
Her eyes narrow. “On what?”
“I don’t know, that’s not important. He just wasn’t himself. But I am glad you’re okay. Hopefully he is just going to blow off steam somewhere.”
“Thanks for checking on me. I have Lucy, and I do have a gun, so I think I’ll be okay.”
“That’s good.”
I stand up, ready to spend the day looking for Deacon, making sure he calms down. I think I should warn my parents while I am at it, but it is possible they already know.
Nah, they would have called me.
“Are you leaving already?” She gets up from the couch, her long legs looking even longer in her tiny shorts.
If only she weren’t crazy. As hot as she is, the craziness of stringing me here and there with some voodoo book is too much for me.
“Thanks for letting me in. I am sorry I bothered you, I was just concerned.”
I turn to head to the door, and her fingers grab for mine. “Brooks, wait.”
I spin on my heel, the magnitude of what has happened between us evident on our faces. We had something, we did. Whether she orchestrated events or not, I still felt what I felt. She didn’t sprinkle magic dust over me and make me care about her.
“Do you think we could talk soon? I’m sorry for the way I acted at your house. I wasn’t expecting—”
She stops, her face beginning to twist. Today has been shitty enough. I am exhausted, and completely drained. I really don’t want to get into another argument with anyone, and if I start spouting off about the book, I don’t see how there won’t be.
I lie. “Yeah, but let’s let things cool down with Deacon first.”
The flame ignites her eyes again, and if I were stupider I would kiss her. But I can’t merely sweep things under the rug. What were her intentions with that book? I think that is what scares me the most—the thought that she may have ulterior motives.
Money? It is plausible. Even a rich person can’t get enough. Come to think of it, I need to do some digging on her family. She seems to avoid conversation about her parents.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’d like that.”
When I turn to walk out the door, I spot something on a table. It’s a note, and I am not a nosy person, but generally when a human sees words, they read them.
You were great. Good luck with everything. You know where to find me.
- Mr. Ronderful
I get déjà vu as I read that note. Panic floods back as I remember the drama with Kate. Even though it doesn’t matter anymore, and even though I think I believe her now when she says she was set up, I will never get over that feeling. I went through hell over that note on her locker, thinking she had slept with someone else.
“What’s this?” When I bend to pick it up, she tries to snatch it, but I hold out my arm to block her.
I read it again. I read it several times.
“It’s nothing.” But the pulse raging in her neck says she is lying.
“Who the fuck is Mr. Ronderful, and what the hell are you great at?”
She doesn’t have an answer for me. Her mouth opens, but the words don’t come. But I know.
I know.
She must see it in my eyes. She must see that I know exactly what this note means, because tears start flowing down her face like a running faucet. I crush the paper in my fist, and drop it on the floor. I know I have no business telling her who she can sleep with, but it still kills me to think of her with anyone else after she was just with me.
“It—it was nothing.”
“How do you explain fucking someone a week after we slept together?”
“We didn’t … but Kate—the woman at your house...”
My eyes narrow at her, waiting on her to justify what she has done.
Her eyes melt from sadness to anger. “So, you can sleep with someone, and that’s okay, but I can’t?”
I laugh. “What? I didn’t sleep with anyone.”
She peers at me. “What do you mean? You were both naked! You showered with her, didn’t you? You fucked her in the shower, just like you fucked me.”
“Wow. Actually, we were swimming. We were both wearing swimsuits underneath.” I pause, and shake my head. “I can see how you thought that, but—you know, the only reason I had her over is because I was fucked up about that book, and I was just trying to get my mind off you.”
“Book, what b—” Her eyes dart rapidly as she realizes exactly what I’m talking about. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “Oh my God.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything yet. I wanted time to
think about it, figure out how I felt. But this—I kind of feel like everything has been decided for me now. I mean, would you revenge-fuck someone every time you get pissed at me?”
“No, it—you don’t mean that. I thought you were with her. I thought you were done with me. I swear to God, Brooks, that’s what I thought.” She collapses on the ground, and puts her hands over her face. “It wasn’t for revenge. I was hurt, and it just happened.”“Yeah, that’s what Eliza told me, too.” My words are cold, but I want to pick her up. I want to hold her and erase the last week. I should have hunted her down, explained why Kate was there, but in a sick way, I felt like she deserved to be upset.
She drops her hands from her face. Her eyes are red, staring blankly. “So, I guess this is it? We’re just done?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I need some space to think, but I am just not sure this is going to work. Maybe it’s best this happened. It isn’t what I want, but—well, as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.”
My words pierce her. She brings her knees to her chest, and buries her face between them. I kick the note, and then walk out the door, almost certain that I am walking out of her life.
Brooks and I hang by a thread, our life expectancy unknown. But maybe there’s hope. He’s angry right now, in shock, but I think if I give him the space he asked for that he’ll come to his senses. Realize the book isn’t that big of a deal. But I can’t have pregnant cunts snooping around my house because they’re holding some unfounded grudge. I know Eliza is the person who broke in. Who else would it be? Obviously, she can’t handle the fact that I’m with her former piggybank. I’m sure she knows, because nothing is private anymore, and word spreads.
I came here to threaten her—tell her the cops took fingerprints from my house. Tell her I’m ready to turn her ass in for the shoplifting, for the assault she committed on me, for the break-in. I’ll scare her, say if she doesn’t stop fucking with me, she’ll be in jail. Her karma is long overdue.
The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2) Page 22