That night in the parking lot, Hadley sat in my truck with the door open. I stood against her legs, silently pleading with her to want me like she wanted him. But deep down, even though they had broken up, I knew Hadley would never. But if she had wanted us to be a couple, I would’ve settled for fucking second place.
Before I could stop myself, I took the chance. I leaned in and kissed her. She wasn’t just a fantasy anymore. Her lips were begging mine to kiss her faster. Harder. And fuck, I did. I couldn’t help it when my hand went to her leg, touching her soft, bare skin. When she opened her legs and skirt, pulling me closer, I nearly lost my fucking mind and my load. I was harder than usual, jerking off to her picture on my phone, which is something I had started doing recently. I mean, I thought about Hadley a lot, but I hadn’t taken it to that level of depraved until after she had broken up with her boyfriend. I always make sure to take new pictures of her, whether she knows it or not, just for that purpose. Little does she know how often I come on her face.
I licked her lip, tasting her, and I had no control when my fingers dug into her skin. But maybe she didn’t either when she put her hand on mine and pulled it under her skirt. Since my restraint was long gone, I pushed even farther, until my thumb grazed the crotch of her underwear. When she gasped, I was toast. She wanted me. Or at least, wanted to use me. I didn’t want to be used. It brought back severe flashbacks of a night I’ll never purge from my fucking brain.
Still... Still.
It was Hadley. I wanted her to forget her problems, even if it brought more problems for me to endure for the rest of my life.
I moaned. Hadley moaned. In her apartment’s parking lot, I fingered her. It wasn’t planned. We weren’t together. But after facing off against Morgan and with Hadley being recently single, we were drawn to each other that night. I pressed my thumb into her, with only her underwear stopping me from totally feeling her. Even so, I had no idea what I was doing. At 27. Laughable, yeah.
For the first time in my life, I wanted more. Jesus Christ, I wanted her. I had never been so goddamned hard. Our bodies were close as we kissed, I fingered, and she begged. She didn’t have to with words. Just by the way she was trying to fuck any of my fingers she could, that was all she needed to say.
We were in a rhythm, only she was oblivious to me humping the inside of her thigh, near my hand. When she came, I came. We were breathless and dripping on each other. When I moved my hand away from her, I dragged it along her thigh, feeling how I left her wet there.
She suddenly whispered, “Go upstairs with me.” I wanted to. But...
“I can’t.” Shit.
“After what we just did? Why not?”
“Because.” Because I’m not him. And because I didn’t want her to see my fear.
And since I didn’t go, claiming it was my principles—I wanted her to be mine before we went there—we argued, and I stormed off. That’s the night I lost Hadley to another understudy.
We didn’t talk after our argument. Instead, Hadley fucked the other guy. He went past her underwear when I couldn’t.
There are so many things I’ll never forgive myself for, and that’s number one right there.
Still, I had another chance with her weeks later. Yeah, I fucked that up, too. All because I’m a broken pussy.
Hadley and I have come a long way in our friendship since that night.
Only, I stalled somewhere.
Hadley laughs, giving me a questioning look. “What’s your deal? Amos ride you too hard this morning?”
I glance at the wall while I stifle a sigh for the complex and go with the simplistic. “Don’t make me snap your neck or yack my breakfast.”
As she walks in front of me, her hips sway slightly in her red-and-black plaid pencil skirt, like a naughty forest ranger responding to a horny camper. Hey. Don’t judge me. Forest rangers like it in the bush, or something like that. Only, I did it in poison ivy.
“Where’re you going?”
I stop, jamming my eyes shut, realizing I just walked past the kitchen. I need to get my ass with it since my dick is apparently a goner.
Taking backward steps, I swing into the kitchen, bracing my hands on the doorframe. Hadley looks at me with amused doubt. Her soft lips slightly pucker when she tries not to smile. I hate how her lips are inviting. I had a temporary pass to them for a short time. Too bad my long-term invite was lost to another male. Or two. The night in the parking lot has been the most significant highlight...and one of my worst failures...of my life so far.
Tilting her head, she asks, “You have a long night or something?” They all are, especially jerking off in the dark with only my phone to light my way out of bed. What a fucking disaster for my sheets and my phone.
“Uh, no. Why would I?”
“Have you seen Birdy lately?”
Talons grab my arms, yanking them off the frame. “No, he hasn’t.”
I step aside as Shasta oozes past me. Her new, darker brunette hair flies behind her like a witch soaring on a broom during a midnight ride. Shasta Montgomery is stage props in a Broadway production of The Phantom of the Opera. They’re amazing to look at from the audience, but up close, you see it’s just cheap plastic and flimsy cardboard. I found that out when I had a backstage pass for a one-night-only performance with her.
Turning in her stilettos, she shoots me a pissy-assed glare. Not having a good excuse, I turn my head, landing my eyes upon the trash can, symbolic of my life right now.
As much as I had fantasized about what it’d be like to sleep with Shasta, I didn’t really want to fuck her—too many complications. The first being she’s about as worthless as shoes on a newborn. There was only one woman I wanted, but I couldn’t have her for a couple of reasons, even when the opportunities were on my jock. So, Shasta was a necessary escape from the constant aching. I can only bend so many times before I snap. And snap I did.
So, I took the dead-end route of desperation. I went to Shasta’s house. More like a den of whores, since finding out that she does threesomes with her mother.
Last October, she had answered the door in a cut-off shirt and tiny cut-offs that used to be sweats. “Roddy, what’re you doing here?”
I wanted to run. I wanted...not her. I wanted to be...not me. The perpetual loser. “I... I just... Can we...? You said...” I looked to the street, hoping to see the Grim Reaper, but he was probably laughing at me. Everyone else does.
Shasta ran her hand down the front of my lavender Calvin Klein button-up, not having gone home after visiting Hadley in the hospital—I was that fucked up. I looked at Shasta, and she smugly grinned, asking, “You want to fuck me, don’t you?”
She’s not the one I wanted to be looking at that second. “Maybe... I don’t... I think...” Without obsessing anymore, I snapped, “Fuck it. Please? I just...”
She laughed and flipped her long hair, hitting me in the face, but I didn’t flinch. “Took you long enough. I thought you’d nail me after the Halloween party Saturday night, but then—”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” Or her.
Shasta nodded as her eyes traveled over my body, making me wish I hadn’t shown up. “Okay. Let’s get to it, then.”
Looking over at Hadley, Shasta says, “I hope your baby daddy is doing a better job than mine is. Mine worries more about his designer clothes than he worries about seeing his daughter.”
The truth hurts on every level imaginable. I do dress well. I have since starting here. I spend a large part of my paychecks on clothes and shoes. It makes me feel more important than I really am. It gives an air about me, albeit false. It’s more than just clothes. It’s almost a status statement. I’m not the poor schlub from Durham, North Carolina when I’m at work. Here, I’m Greg Rodwell, successful paralegal. A somebody, even if it’s all in my head. That shallow concept is the self-esteem boost I need to get me through my day, besides Hadley.
Most of the time.
Hadley crosses her arms, assessing Shasta.
The look on Hadley’s face would resemble territorial if I didn’t know it wasn’t. She says, “Rod is going to be a great father. He just needs time to adjust.” Hadley’s either gullible or good at blowing smoke up an ass. I choose the latter.
Shasta slams the fridge door. “Stop defending him, Hadley.”
“It’s the truth. He’s a good guy. Even you know that.” Maybe gullible is a better choice.
Shasta ignores Hadley and glares at me. “It’s been two weeks, Roddy. Your daughter misses her waddy.”
“Is that a maxi pad?”
“Her father,” she clarifies with a you’re-too-stupid-to-breathe-outside-a-uterus frown.
Behind Shasta, Hadley grins at me, but I can’t summon one for her. I know I haven’t seen Birdy in a while. I shouldn’t be laughing, even if I can’t help mocking Shasta’s idiotic baby talk.
Sucking in a deep breath, I can only cross my arms and lean against the metal doorframe—my typical stance of faux indifference. I watch Hadley’s face. Her forehead wrinkles, her lips purse, and her green eyes hone in on her target, Shasta, who’s bending into the refrigerator. Yeah. She has a nice ass too. There was a time I imagined tapping it, but just in passing. She never made it to my spank bank. Nevertheless, been there, done that, stayed for the encore and the backstage show. Impregnated her, even. To be honest, I don’t know how I did. I want a literal, fucking refund. I’m still obsessing over it. Over more than that.
I tell her, “I’ve been sending money.” Shit. I do not want to have this conversation here.
“You think that’s enough? What’s wrong with you?” Where do I start?
“I’ve been busy with work, and I don’t know when you’re home.”
“There’s such an invention called the phone. Use it. You have my number.” Yeah. The one written on every men’s room stall in a 300-mile radius.
I side-eye Hadley, who is back to glaring at Shasta. Pushing off the doorframe, I walk over to Shasta, and when I’m closer, I quietly ask, “What about Brandon? Will he be there?” Brandon Rhodes is the big chief here. Married. A goddamn grandfather who fucks Shasta on the reg.
Her eyes become as large as my truck tires before she smacks my bicep. “Shut up!” Hadley moves closer to me like she’s going to throw herself at Shasta. That might be hot.
“Everyone knows about it. Is he ever there? Is he playing waddy?” He’d better not be. This kid is apparently mine to fuck up.
Shasta crosses her arms, giving Hadley a nervous glance. I’ve recently found out Hadley makes Shasta insecure. She should. Hadley is all woman, unlike the industrial parts constructing Shasta’s tits. Her nipples are like day-old gum on a cold sidewalk. I know that because she had me pull them, reminding me of fucking Silly Putty. Thank God she’s not breastfeeding my kid.
Shasta points her finger into my chest, jostling my tie. “I said I wouldn’t get the court involved. If you did your part, besides paying money for your sperm spill.” When I look at the cabinets next to us, I see Hadley’s mouth hang open, and I feel shittier. “You need to come get your kid during the week, so I don’t lose my damn mind.”
“Uh, yeah. I will.”
“Sure. I’ll hold my breath. If not, I’ll have Brandon handle it.” She takes her blueberry yogurt and bumps into me. For a second, Shasta and I lock gazes, both of us continuing to wordlessly argue before she leaves the kitchen. From behind me, I hear Betsy laugh in the hallway. Great. An even bigger audience.
Sighing, I look to Hadley, but then quickly away, the shame hitting a crescendo while degrading the rest of me.
Returning to the counter, Hadley reaches into the upper cabinet, and even at a low point, I instantly look at her ass. It’s not my ass to admire. It’s his. Her husband gets to put his hands all over, and I have to remember I pushed him there.
Still, I can’t help it if my dick responds. Before she turns around, I send my hands to my pockets. Holding my favorite SpongeBob mug, she goes for the coffeemaker, but I go for the doorway. “I’m not in the mood now. I have a meeting with Amos. See you later.”
“You’re going to softball practice after work, aren’t you?”
Stopping, I make a face but still avoid eye contact. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s our last practice.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her shrug, so I look over. “Just making sure.” Hadley smiles, compelling me to smile back. Looking past me to the doorway, she whispers, “Don’t let her get to you. I know you’re trying.”
“Not hard enough. I know that.”
“Greg...”
I sigh to the window overlooking the cemetery across the street. “Hadley, not here. She’s right anyway. Don’t go defending me.”
“I’m not just defending you.” Returning to me in the middle of the kitchen, Hadley reaches up, straightening my tie. I look back at her, watching the top of her head as she moves her fingers to my collar, fixing that too. The scent of her shampoo is intricate. It calms me and arouses me at the same time. It’s the scent that engulfs me when I’m desperate to come, alone in my room with her picture. “I know you, Greg Rodwell. You’re nothing like Shasta thinks.” You don’t know everything about me, Hadley. I’m a fraud.
“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know me because everything she said is pretty accurate.” Goddamn Shasta.
“I do know you. You’ll do better.”
I back away from Hadley, not wanting to but needing to for the sake of my sanity and workplace decency. I practically beg, “Like I said, not here.”
She nods. “Okay. Later, then.” Exactly what I want to talk about with her. I’d rather have bleeding hemorrhoids.
As I turn and go to the doorway, she says, “Hey.”
Reluctantly, I stop and pivot just as she circles me. Hadley’s arms go around my waist and her cheek against my chest. When she sighs, I feel the heat through my shirt. Fuck. I chomp on my bottom lip while cautiously, and stupidly, wrapping my arms around her. It’s like she’s my puppet master. I knew one of those. She pulled both Hadley’s and my strings. Morgan adored Hadley but loathed me with every evil shred of her being. I was a threat.
I don’t want to be in this situation, but I can’t stand here like a floppy dick, which mine isn’t at any given time around her, so I make an effort for space. Only, she hugs me tighter, saying, “It’ll be okay. I’ll help you through this.” I know she will. That’s the problem.
I hold my breath, not needing to smell more of her, and while I look around the kitchen, dying for a convincing excuse, including sudden death, she looks up at me. Her green eyes are crystal clear. Those, along with Hadley’s smile, have me paralyzed. Her fingertips go to either side of my jaw, and she whispers, “I promise. I’m always here for you.” Again, that’s my best hope and goddamn predicament, wrapped into a nice shitshow.
Hearing carpeted footsteps nearly tripping, I yank my focus away to catch Amos walking past the kitchen, kind of in slow motion. The look on his face is worth 10 cents, but the thoughts most definitely running through his mind equal blackmail. Damn it.
Before I can disengage myself, but knowing he hears this, all the same, Hadley says, “You always smell good. What is it? Drakkar?”
Seizing that as my break, but now preoccupied with her presence, and unfortunately, Amos’ drive-by, I pull her hands off my face, holding for a split second longer than I should. I switch my ultimate weakness to bogus irritation. “Bite a grenade, hag. It’s Chrome.” Always go for a joke—a swerve. So much safer.
Hadley giggles and I silently bargain for impotence as I again need to return my hands to my pockets, looking to the doorway for that Grade-A clinger. When I see he’s gone, I turn back to Hadley. She curls her black finger-nailed fingers into her honey-brown ponytail and says, “Oh. I don’t know that cologne.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t know when your husband wears whatever’s on clearance.” So much safer.
Walking over to me, she laughs. “Not so. He wears Hugo or something.”
“You
don’t even know?”
“He buys it.”
“My condolences on his lack of originality. I’ll send an Edible Arrangement.” I edge for the door, stuck between relieved and frustrated in a fuckton of ways.
Hadley laughs. “Why are you in a hurry?”
I force a smirk, trying to keep myself in check as Hadley’s perfume lingers on my clothes. Because of that, I’ll be wearing these clothes when I beat off to her tonight. “You know Amos. He’ll make me listen to Streisand or some shit if I’m late. I don’t do show tunes.”
Not waiting for a response, I grab the doorframe, propelling myself into the hallway, elated to have Amos as an excuse. I’d happily sing Streisand right now.
Reaching my office, I see Amos on the phone through the adjoining door. His laughter is more annoying than a burning ice cream truck flying down a hill without brakes on a rainy day. It’s a distinct sound.
Tossing an eye roll to the ceiling, I go into his domain of doom. Amos nods at the wall, not acknowledging me yet. His suit jacket is draped behind him on his chair, so his dark arm tattoos are visible through his peach button-up shirt—Van Huesen. Spread collar, even. Tragic. He could definitely do better in the clothing department, being a lawyer and all. In his spare time, Amos covers his bald head with a paisley do-rag, and leaving his Range Rover at home, straddles a motorcycle. Probably a Harley, but I’m not keenly aware of motorcycle brands other than that one. It could be a Schwinn for all I know.
I notice potato latkes, egg rolls, knish, and Schlubby fries, and that’s just appetizers. It’s 10:00 in the morning for Christ’s sake. Whenever he wants me sitting across from him at his desk, Amos always orders nearly the entire menu at Perly’s, a Jewish deli, because I’m Jewish—half Jewish from my mother’s side. Taking that and running like hell, he has it in his head that I’m Orthodox and only eat kosher. I barely eat like a human most days. Plus, the doofus doesn’t take any of that into account when he sees me eating chicken and cheese fries or pepperoni and sausage pizza all the damn time—mixing fleishig with milchig, not to mention eating pork. On top of that, Amos makes it a point to remind me of upcoming Jewish holidays. I think he has an ongoing Google alert set up just for that. Oy. What a shlemiel.
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