Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Copyright © 2017 by Heather M. Orgeron
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.
Edited by Edee M. Fallon, Mad Spark Editing
Cover Design, Interior Design & Formatting by Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl Design
For Maw-Maw Agnes and promises kept from the grave.
We had no idea what we were missing, but you did.
Thank you.
Spencer
I love sex. I love the power, the intimacy, the euphoria it brings.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m not a slut. God, the mere thought of the word makes me cringe. I’m simply a woman unashamed of her desires. A woman who knows her own body and wants you to know yours just as well.
For instance, did you know that the clitoris has roughly twice the nerve endings as a penis? In fact, it is the only body part, male or female, that exists solely for pleasure. That’s right, ladies. Sex is supposed to feel good. If it doesn’t, call my office and make an appointment. I’ll see what I can do to help.
No, I’m not running some scandalous operation. I am a family psychologist specializing in sex therapy, or more commonly known simply as a sex therapist, and I love my job. There are few things I find more rewarding than knowing I’ve helped an individual or couple learn to find pleasure in what I consider to be one of the most vital of ways.
There are many reasons, beyond the usual emotional connection, that make a healthy sexual relationship important. Sex contributes to your overall well-being. It has magical powers. I’m serious. It’s scientifically proven that sex releases hormones that both calm and relieve stress. It is a natural antidepressant as well as pain killer. Therefore, next time you feel like pushing your man away because you have a headache, consider taking one for the team. By the time you reach orgasm, that headache will have been long forgotten. I swear by it.
So, if I’m such an expert, you may ask yourselves how I ended up here. A thirty-three-year-old woman with three children by two different men—not presently married to either. Stop judging me. Some problems can’t be solved in the bedroom, and apparently, I attract those kinds of problems.
You see, I’ve only had sex with three men, and consequently, two of those relationships resulted in tiny humans whose sperm donors wanted no part in raising.
When I was nineteen, and in my sophomore year of college, two years into a broken heart, I met Tate Tenning. He was a senior and the star of the football team. His blond curls, blue eyes, and perfect ass were just too much for my drunken mind to refuse. We hooked up in the backseat of his Explorer during a frat party, and a whirlwind romance ensued. We hit it off in a big way. That man could make my body scream, and he was a good boyfriend, too. Tate was kind, attentive, and he worshipped the ground I walked on. We traveled a lot and partied even more. About a month after he graduated, we took a trip to Vegas to celebrate, and when we returned, I had a ring on my finger. He was a good husband, for the most part, and we were happy, young, and in love. Fast forward a few months, a positive pregnancy test, sonogram, and two heartbeats later...Well, I’m sure you can piece together the rest of that story.
Lake and Landon were born six months after our divorce. Tate didn’t even bother coming to the hospital, but I’d wanted my children to have a father. I had hopes that he would eventually come around. So, I put his name on their birth certificates, and at my father’s insistence, filed for child support. For a few years, he was no more than a check in the mail. His measly seven hundred dollars a month barely put diapers on their asses and clothes on their backs. My parents paid for their daycare so that I could finish school and made sure we always had food on the table. They’d already been paying for my apartment since I’d started college, so they simply upgraded me from a one bedroom to a two, and we made it. It was hard as hell, but we did it.
The plan had always been to return to my hometown of Cedar Grove after school, but my best friend, Gina, who was sticking around to work for her cousin, Dillon, at his new practice begged me to join her. I’d already completed my masters in psychology, so Dillon paid for our additional training, and once we’d completed our obligatory hours of observation, Gina and I went to work at NOLA Sexual Health.
Around the time the boys turned five, Tate suddenly decided he wanted to be a part of their lives. You know, after the hard stuff: the crying, constant diaper changing, and up-all-night feedings. Legally, he had visitation rights, so I couldn’t stop him from taking them on his weekends. Sometimes, he did; other times, he didn’t. He gets them just often enough to ruin all of my hard work, returning two disrespectful little shits. And just when I’ve finally whipped their little asses back into shape, he miraculously shows up and the cycle starts all over. But the worst part of him blowing in and out of their lives by far is the way he hurts my boys. There is nothing worse than seeing the disappointment on my babies’ faces when that man promises them he’ll show and then doesn’t.
For a very long time, it was impossible for me to date. Between being a single mother to twin boys and living almost three hours away from any family, it was difficult to find time for myself. I barely had time to shower. Trust me, a man was the least of my worries. But, on the weekends the tw
ins left to go to Tate’s house, I found myself with nothing but time. Gina grew tired of watching me mope and declared his weekends girls’ weekends. I had forgotten how fun it was to drink, dance, and to not have to be the responsible one all of the time. And, I may have allowed myself to get a little carried away.
While we were out one night almost three years ago, I met a Latin god by the name of Alex and apparently got drunk enough to forget that sperm makes babies. Alex and I had only been seeing each other for a few months. Wait, that sounds so formal. I’ll just call it like it was. We’d been fucking, but only while the boys were away. I was obsessed with Alex’s body and addicted to the things he did to mine. After having been responsible for my own orgasms for so long, it was nice to pass that task over to his more than capable hands and, um...appendage.
When I found myself unable to get out of bed and puking my guts up for a solid week, Gina showed up at my house with a drugstore bag, which she shoved into my chest before she ushered me into the bathroom. She wished me luck and shut the door. I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me before. Maybe I was in denial. But when I saw that little rectangular box, my reality hit me like a ton of bricks. Not again.
If you do the math, you already know that little booger came out with a big fat positive. I was thirty years old, unmarried, and pregnant with my third child.
When I told Alex, he offered to pay for an abortion. I may have been irresponsible in failing to use protection, but I was not going to end my pregnancy. I’d already come to terms with the fact there was going to be a baby. The only question in my mind at that point was whether or not he would be involved. I wasn’t fooling myself. We were not a couple, and I had no intention of trying to force a relationship between us just because I’d wound up pregnant. But, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake that I had with Lake and Landon. If he wasn’t going to be an active part of this baby’s life, then I wouldn’t force it. I left him with the knowledge that I was having this baby, with or without him, and that if he chose to be a real father to our child, I would not stand in his way. But if he wasn’t going to be there, and I mean really be there, then I didn’t want his money, and he could pretend the whole thing never happened. Alex didn’t even take a full day to think it over before texting me back. His message simply read, “I’m out.”
You would think that all of this would make me a cynic. Believe it or not, I’m not. I know there are good men out there, but I have neither the time nor the energy to search for my prince charming anymore. My three boys, my job, and my vibrator will just have to sustain me for the foreseeable future.
But, my clients give me hope. They prove to me every day that there are still princes living among the pigs. Men who are willing to humble themselves in order to do whatever it takes to save their marriages. I may not know how to pick ’em, but I’ve got a list of clients a mile long that will tell you I know how to fix ’em.
And that, dear friends, is how I became a walking contradiction—a thirty-three year-old sex therapist with absolutely no sex life.
Spencer
“Spencer?” my secretary, Annie, blares through the intercom, interrupting my daydream.
I reach out to press the intercom button on my phone. “Yes?”
“Boss is here to see you.”
Just great.
I sure hope he isn’t here to give me shit about the episode with Mr. Monroe yesterday. I’ve been seeing the Monroes for a few months, trying—successfully, I thought—to help them work through their intimacy issues. Then out of nowhere, they show up, turning my office into a freaking Jerry Springer episode. My bookshelf was tossed on its side, papers and glass from broken picture frames strewn around the room. It was a complete disaster. Apparently, Tom had walked in on Sue and her best friend, Rosalie, going at it on the couch. He’d rushed right on over here without even making an appointment to rat her out. Only, I’d had other clients in my office. He’d barged in with Sue hot on his heels. A shouting match ensued, my office was destroyed, and we’d had to call security to escort them out of the building. I’d apologized profusely to the Boudreauxs for the interruption. It was all I could do. In the seven years I’d practiced here, nothing like that had ever happened.
I slide my mouse across the desk to wake my computer then click the little X on Facebook before buzzing her back. “Send him on in.”
A lump forms in my throat as the French doors to my office swing open and Dillon Bourque saunters in. Damn, that man is sex in a suit. The whole room fills with the scent of his spicy cologne. It usually gets me all flustered, but today it’s just making my stomach churn with nausea.
“Spencer, we need to talk.” He looks so serious. There’s not the slightest hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes aren’t the lust-filled orbs that normally make me uncomfortable in an entirely different manner.
Oh God, Is he going to fire me?
I try not to freak out, but I can’t help it. When I’m nervous, I tend to develop diarrhea mouth. “Dillon, what happened yesterday was completely out of my control. I wasn’t aware that there was another woman involved. I only know what they tell me and—”
He holds up his hand, cutting me off. Dillon, who is usually amused by my rambling, is stone cold—almost lifeless. “I know...that’s not why I’m here.”
My hands begin to sweat as he starts pacing around my small office. I’m going to vomit if he doesn’t put me out of my misery soon. I try swallowing down the sick feeling lodged in my throat then nod, signaling for him to go ahead.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Spencer...”
Spit it out already!
“Try using words.” It comes out flat, lacking my usual sarcasm, but patience is not my greatest virtue.
“We’re shutting down the clinic.”
My fingers dig into the leather arms of my chair as the room begins to spin. There’s no way that I just heard him correctly. “No.” The lone word comes out as a plea as my head begins to shake from side to side. I feel faint. I can’t breathe. Dillon’s voice morphs into something resembling the teacher from Charlie Brown, but I completely tune him out in my panic. All of my focus is on the ability to draw air into my lungs, which seem to be failing me at the moment.
Before he has even finished speaking, my office door flies open and Gina bursts into the room. Her short, blonde hair that’s usually styled to perfection is sticking up on all ends, her pasty white skin a nice shade of crimson. She’s a wreck. Guess he got ahold of her first.
“Goddamnit, Gina!” Dillon growls, fisting his hands in his hair.
She glares at him before turning in my direction. “I’m so sorry, Spence.” My best friend rushes over, wrapping me up in her arms as her tears soak my shirt. “He just left my office. I wanted to come right over, but he insisted on being the one to tell you.”
My lip begins to quiver. “Why?”
Dillon’s throat clears, his exasperation with the two of us evident on his face. “All right, I’ll leave you girls to it. For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry, and you’ll both have nice severance packages.”
Gina breaks from our hug, spinning around lightning fast and leveling him with devil eyes. “Oh, you buzz right the fuck off, Dillon Bourque.” She’s like a possessed little pixie. I have never seen her get mad at Dillon, ever.
Dillon’s jaw ticks for a moment before he finally shakes his head in defeat and turns to walk out. On his way, I hear him stop to tell Annie to cancel all of my upcoming appointments and to let my clients know that NOLA Sexual Health is no longer seeing patients.
As soon as the door clicks into place, I leap to my feet, pacing a hole into the floor. “What’s going on, Gina? We have plenty of business. There’s no way we’re going under. This can’t be because of that shit yesterday, can it?”
I’ve never seen my best friend this angry. Well, except maybe when I showed her that text from Alex a few years ago. She is beet red, and that little blue vein throbbing in the center of her for
ehead looks ready to pop. “That fucker fucked one of his fucking clients and we’re being sued!”
My eyes bulge. Well, that is not what I was expecting. “He-he did what?”
“Apparently, it’s been happening for a while. She got pissed at her husband and threw it in his face a couple of days ago. The husband is suing.”
It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. I just need a plan.
What’s the plan, Spencer?
I drop the final box of my personal belongings into the back of my Tahoe and slam it shut. This all feels like a sick dream. It’s hard enough to earn respect in our profession without people assuming we’re running a fucking brothel, but with Dillon bringing the damned stereotype to life, Gina and I will never be able to practice in this town again.
I can’t believe that asshole. How could he be stupid enough to sleep with a client? In his damned office, at that. How could he do this to us? To Gina and to me? It’s not like he couldn’t get any piece of ass he wanted. He’s freaking gorgeous, smart, successful...I just can’t wrap my mind around it. But then again, I know better than anyone men always think with their fucking dicks.
I can’t stop the steady stream of tears that are lining my face as I pull the door open and curl into my seat. My hand is shaking so violently that it’s hard to get the key into the ignition. After several attempts, I finally insert the key and the engine roars to life. The air comes on, blasting cold wind in my face. God, it feels good. I rest my head on the steering wheel, allowing the air to cool my flaming skin. When I finally get control of my tears, I pluck my phone out of my purse and scroll down to the letter M, pressing my finger on Momma.
“Hey, Spence! What’s up?” The comfort in her voice wraps around my heart like a warm blanket as my eyes fill with new tears.
You know that feeling when you’re barely holding it together and someone asks you what’s wrong and you just kind of lose it? It’s gone.
“M-Momma,” I stammer, sobbing into my hands.
So much for that control.
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