Dirty Dix (Hard Love Romance #1)

by Monica James

  “I’m lucky, too. Anyway, I better go. I’ve got a mountain of homework with my name written all over it.”

  “Oh, okay, cool. Well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, sounds good,” I reply, picking at a loose thread on my comforter.

  “Bye, babe. And I mean it, I’m so lucky to have you met you.”

  I feel like an ass, but this is getting too much.

  “Thanks, um, bye.”

  Sighing, I rub my temples and take a moment to center myself before I go back out there. What the hell did I just agree to? I’m so confused, and I hate to admit the reason why is sitting in my living room right this second.

  Before Dixon re-emerged, I was beginning to open up and could see things with David actually progressing. But now that Dixon’s back and almost kissing me, I don’t know what to do. Maybe this was a bad idea and I’m kidding myself into thinking we could ever just be friends. I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s the first guy I have ever felt this way about. He’s the first guy I can actually think about in a physical way and not freak out.

  I just want to be normal, and Dixon makes me feel that way.

  Wiping away a stolen tear, I toss my phone onto the dresser and look at my reflection. I look like a complete mess, as my hair is sitting in a lopsided ponytail, and my T-shirt has a cheesecake stain on it from when I missed my mouth. Yet the sophisticated man just beyond my door wanted to kiss me. Why?

  Taking a deep breath, I open the door and hope my flushed cheeks don’t give me away. Stepping into the living room, I see the sofa is empty and Dixon is nowhere to be seen. I didn’t hear him go into the bathroom, but I do a quick sweep just in case he wanted to stretch his legs. After I’ve checked my house—twice—I come up empty. Unless he’s hiding in my closet, he’s gone.

  Looking over at my wooden grandfather clock, I see that I was on the phone for twenty minutes.

  I should be pissed he left, but I’m actually more pissed at myself for not wrapping things up with David sooner.

  Not in the mood to study any longer, I decide to pack up, take a hot shower, and crawl into bed, hoping to dream this day away. However, a loose piece of paper on my coffee table catches my eye and I bend forward, reaching for it.

  In an elegant script are the words: It means, you’re an angel.

  I bite my lip and hold the paper up against my chest, not able to look at his sweet words any longer.

  18

  Food for Thought

  DIXON

  “Good morning, Dr. Mathews,” Susanna says as I barge through the door, my rain-soaked coat making a mess on the cream carpet.

  “Ms. Vale.” I run a hand through my wet locks.

  “Oh, you should have called. I would have met you downstairs with an umbrella,” she says, quickly standing up and handing me a box of tissues.

  “It’s June, for Christ’s sake! Why is it raining?” I gripe, accepting a few and wiping down my drenched face.

  My briefcase is sopping wet and failed as a makeshift umbrella. “When will this blasted construction be over with?” I ask, brushing down the damp lapels of my gray suit jacket.

  “It is New York. Once this one is finished, another will take its place soon enough,” she wisely says.

  “You’re right. I just wish they’d hurry up so I can park my car in the garage I’m paying thousands for,” I snap.

  Susanna nods with a smile. “Bad start to the week?”

  If this were anyone other than her, I would be telling them to mind their damn business, but Susanna is practically family.

  “You don’t want to know the half of it.”

  “Go. I’ll get you a coffee,” she says, waving me toward my office.

  * * *

  My morning doesn’t get any better and by midday, I’m convinced I’ll murder my next patient. I’m barely refraining from banging my head on the desk when a soft knock sounds on the door.

  “Come in,” I bellow, giving up on reading over my notes for my next appointment.

  “Dr. Mathews, sorry to bother you,” Susanna says as she pops her head through my door.

  “It’s fine. Come in.” I motion for her to enter.

  “This just arrived,” she states. She holds a small, white box in her hand.

  “Oh?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s it from?”

  “I’m not sure. The courier said there were no sender details recorded.”

  “How strange,” I reply, my curiosity piqued.

  “I thought so, too.” She walks over to my desk and hands me the package.

  Looking at the top and both sides, I still have no idea what could be inside this small box.

  “If this is a severed ear, I’ll be extremely pissed,” I say, and Susanna laughs.

  Unclasping the lid, I open it apprehensively and peer inside, while Susanna leans forward so she too can see what’s inside the box. The moment I see the slice of cheesecake, I know who the sender is.

  But why?

  “There’s an envelope,” she says in anticipation, no doubt wondering what the hell is going on.

  Reaching for it, I open it up. Inside sits the same piece of paper I left for Madison. However, underneath my handwriting are the words: I saved you a piece—from one angel to another.

  “Dr. Mathews, are you okay?” I remain mute, as the note in front of me has my full attention.

  Why did she send this?

  Sadly, Madison’s walls are paper thin, and I heard the majority of her conversation to David. There’s no doubt she’s into him, I mean, she said so herself. I just need to forget the fact she nearly kissed me, because her actions surely don’t match her words.

  I couldn’t stomach a second longer of listening to her canoodling that lovesick fool, so I left. But I left her a note because I didn’t want to just bail yet again. I had no expectations, and yes, I could have chosen something else to write. But I thought this was better than the alternative of, “Your boyfriend is a parasitic dick.”

  Eyeballing the cheesecake and note, I honestly don’t know what to do. I’m drowning in two women who are both toxic to my health for entirely different reasons, but toxic nonetheless.

  Slamming the lid shut, I push the box away from me and place the folded letter into my pocket. Kicking the waste bin out from under my desk, I slide the box across my desk and am about to throw it in the trash when Susanna stops me.

  “Aren’t you going to eat that?” she asks, obviously confused by my distaste toward a harmless piece of cake.

  I shake my head. “Nope. Would you like it?” I offer the box her way.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I reply. Susanna happily takes the cake from my outstretched palm.

  “Are you sure you don’t want it?” she questions, and I can’t help the dry chuckle which spills from my lips.

  “That’s the problem, Ms. Vale,” I vaguely reply, no longer referring to the dessert.

  Susanna looks puzzled by my ambiguous response, but she doesn’t push. She takes the box and makes her way toward the door. However, she suddenly stops, and with her hand poised on the handle, she raises the box above her head and says, “Food for thought, Dr. Mathews.”

  She gently shuts the door behind her and I sigh, because she’s absolutely right.

  * * *

  The rest of the week is no better than the start, and come Saturday afternoon, I’m dying for some S&S—scotch and sex.

  Juliet has been MIA all week, and after my blow-off last weekend, I really shouldn’t be expecting anything less. But having easy, freaky sex on tap for the past three months really spoils a man, and my hormones are in overdrive.

  I guess I could call Juliet, but I feel we’re both on the same page and realized we’re nothing more than fuck buddies who got a little carried away with a Disney HEA.

  But now I’m stuck. Do I go out and look for someone to burn some of this pent-up sexual frustration with? Or do I just call Juliet? She ticks al
l the right boxes sexually, and she’s familiar and uncomplicated, but for some unknown reason, I can’t seem to make the call.

  As I pass a jogger, I know the reason is because of Madison. I can’t get that damn image of us almost kissing out of my head, and the more I try to forget it, the more lucid it becomes. I haven’t heard a peep from her after she sent the cheesecake, and I’ve purposely stayed away. I need to clear my head of both women, and to do that, I need to get laid.

  Reaching for my cell from my jacket pocket, I quickly dial Hunter, who answers on the second ring.

  “S and S?” he asks, and I hum in agreement.

  “Let the games begin.”

  * * *

  Sadly Finch hasn’t joined us, so it’s only Hunter and me, which is never a good combination when we’re both horny and drunk. However, I’m designated driver, so I’m only one of the two, but it’s still enough to have me seeing double.

  Hunter has dragged me to Cherry Pop, the club where I saw Madison looking like a total goddess on the dance floor.

  Although I wish he’d chosen somewhere a little quieter, I can see why he selected this venue. The girls are barely clothed and barely legal, and with the amount of cheap alcohol flowing through their veins, I know this will be an early night.

  Hunter seems to also be on the prowl, and our joined bachelorhood must be a magnet, because I already have five random phone numbers in my pocket, two of which I have no idea how they ended up in there.

  “So, what do you feel like? Brunette? Blonde? Redhead?” Hunter asks, bowed over the railing, looking at the dancing prey below.

  “I’m not sure.” I also peer out into the sea of gyrating bodies.

  “I’m thinking redhead, myself,” Hunter says, rubbing his hands together sinisterly.

  I chuckle, and when I glance at him, I figure now is a good time to ask what’s been bugging him, as he’s drunk and usually all for the sharing.

  “You okay, man?” I ask. “You’ve been acting weird. Well, weirder,” I correct with a smirk. “I’m detecting some hostility coming through when the opposite sex is involved.”

  Hunter takes a quick sip of his beer and I know I’m onto something. But he shrugs it off, obviously not wanting to talk about his feelings.

  I decide to press. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Dude, I’m here to fuck, not to talk. So unless you wanna put out, quit it with the psychobabble. And besides,” he adds. “You’re drowning in pussy, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Understand what a lucky son of a bitch you are,” he plainly replies.

  “Lucky? Please explain how,” I say, scratching my head because from where I stand, I’m far from lucky. I’m obsessing over one girl who is totally unattainable, while trying to wean myself off another.

  Hunter reads my thoughts. “At least you have them coming back for more. What do I get? I’m lucky if I even catch their names. Am I ugly? You’d tell me, right?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink.

  So this is what’s eating him. Could it be my friend, a bigger man-whore than me, is looking for a steady girlfriend? That’s got to be it. Problem is, he’s choosing the wrong women. I should know.

  “Dude, you’re not ugly. If I swung that way, I’d totally bone you,” I say, slapping his shoulder playfully. “So you what, want to settle down?” I ask seriously, wanting to make sure my theory is right.

  He shrugs, which in Hunter’s language means yes.

  “Hunt?” I ask again, determined to get him to speak.

  “I dunno, maybe!” he snaps, most likely annoyed with the twenty questions. “I just…they’re all so flaky. Are all women like that? If so, fuck that bullshit. I’ll stick to one-nighters,” he says, running a hand down his face.

  “Maybe the problem is the women you find aren’t exactly ‘bring home to your mom’ kinda material,” I suggest, hoping I don’t appear judgmental. “And besides, the way you talk, walk, dress, act…Jesus, your entire being doesn’t reflect you’re looking to settle down.”

  “Maybe my whoring tendencies are a cry for help?” he quickly suggests, and I don’t know whether he’s being serious or not.

  Just as I’m about to address his statement, he cuts me off. “Let’s just get laid, already.” He pushes off the railing to look at me.

  I know a brush-off when I see one, but I let it slide. He’s done talking, but at least I know what’s been bugging him.

  This conversation, however, will have to be put on hold anyway, as a set of twins are headed our way. And yes, I mean girls, not boobs. And yes, they are identical.

  “Punch me,” Hunter whispers from the side of his mouth.

  “Are you fucking high?” I whisper back, puzzled by his randomness.

  “I will be after I fuck twin one, or two. Either way, I don’t care which it is because I won’t be able to tell who’s who, because they are fucking twins,” he states, his excitement clearly evident by his shit-eating grin. “This isn’t a dream, right? Those two blonde bombshells are really headed our way.”

  I roll my eyes and sip my beer. “Yes, you moron, they are real and they’re headed our way,” I reply, watching their fake tits barely wobble as they walk toward us.

  “Punch me just in case,” he quickly says, but I refrain from the violence as both girls stop beside me.

  “Hi, I’m Mandy, and this is Marisa,” Mandy says with a smile, her perfect teeth glowing under the fluorescents.

  Before I have a chance to reply, Hunter steps forward and takes charge. “Hi, Mandy and Marisa. I’m Hunter, and this ugly bastard is Dixon,” he says, hooking his thumb my way.

  I sarcastically smile at his charisma and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you, ladies.”

  The way Marisa is eye-fucking me and my hand, I know she would prefer me to put my hand someplace else. She’s attractive—I mean she’s blonde, big busted, and easy—but I’m suddenly craving a brunette.

  Screaming at my subconscious to shut the hell up, I forget that a certain brunette exists and focus on getting laid.

  “So, can we buy you girls a drink?” I ask, and both of them nod eagerly.

  “We’d like that,” they say in unison, giggling.

  Hunter looks like he’s just died and gone to heaven, and me, I feel like I’m in hell.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m regretting the fact I offered to drive. However, there’s no amount of scotch that could ever, ever, make what the titty twins are proposing be okay.

  This is the third time Hunter has kicked me in the shin under the table, and if he does it again, I’ll take him up on his earlier suggestion and punch the living hell out of him.

  Mandy, twin number one, who is older by two minutes, has not so discreetly hinted at us having a good ol’ fashioned gangbang. Hunter, no surprise, is all for the idea, but me, not so much—hence, the under table violence on his behalf.

  Now, I’m no prude and I have engaged in a threesome or two in my time, but never a foursome with my best friend and two horny sisters. This is gross on all accounts, but more importantly, I’m not interested in seeing Hunter live out his Hugh Hefner dreams with these wannabe incestuous bunnies.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Mandy says, offering a hand to her sister. “We’re just going to visit the little girls’ room.” They both giggle, blowing us kisses before they leave.

  The moment they’re gone, Hunter quickly reaches over the small table and flicks me in the junk.

  “Ow! What the fuck?” I yelp, holding onto my nuts. “What the hell was that for?”

  “Oh, I dunno, I just wanted to check if your balls were still intact and you didn’t grow a vagina overnight!” he replies in a huff.

  “Jesus, calm down.” I chuckle, still protecting my family jewels. “They just referred to the restroom as the little girls’ room. Do you not see what’s wrong with this picture?” I ask, shuddering.

  Hunter does not appreciate my humor, however, and rep
lies, “The only thing that’s wrong around here is you being a big pussy. I will not let you ruin this for me,” he says, jabbing his finger into my chest. I swat his hand away. “This has been my dream since I found out what boobs and vaginas were capable of,” he reveals in all seriousness.

  I can’t help but laugh at his melodramatics. “It’s your dream to catch chlamydia?” I playfully counter, and Hunter goes for another round on my nuts, obviously not seeing the funny side to VD.

  “Stop hitting me in the dick,” I wheeze. “At this rate, I will have a vagina.”

  “What’s up with you, Dix? You’d usually be all over this offer like a fat kid eating free cake. But now it looks as if these hot, frisky twins have just asked you to donate a kidney. You’re not into them?” he questions. I can see the confusion behind his green eyes.

  He has every right to be confused. Hell, I’m confused, but this just feels wrong. Juliet’s offer of a random threesome didn’t sit well with me, and neither does the titty twins’ foursome suggestion. It just feels so sleazy and sad. Two thirty-two-year-old men contemplating having a foursome with a couple of horny twins is as seedy as it sounds.

  “This is what we came here for, right?” Hunter affirms and I nod.

  This is indeed why we’re scouting the dark corners, looking for a willing victim to help dull the loneliness for a night. But as fate had it, our “victims” have found us and they come willingly, offering more than we ever expected. But I’m just not feeling it. Both girls are becoming more and more unattractive by the minute, and I’m quite certain if I were to agree to this little proposition, I would be below par in the sack.

  “Listen, I’m not stopping you from living out your Hugh Hefner fantasy, but me, I’m pulling out,” I state while Hunter scoffs.

  “Yes, you could be pulling out…of Marisa, but you’ve gone soft. You don’t deserve a dick,” he says, but his smirk reveals he respects my decision. “Oh well, your loss, more for me,” he concludes with a detached shrug. His implication of wanting to settle down just got shot to hell.