He throws his wet shirt back onto his body, struggling at first, as the moist fabric is too stubborn to slide easily onto his muscles.
He won't make eye contact with me. That shouldn't matter to me, but for some reason it feels like it matters more than anything has ever mattered before. He attempts to leave but the strap from his bag gets snagged on the doorknob.
Gets him every time.
"Let me get that," I say as I reach forward to untangle the strap.
"No, I can help myself," he snaps back.
Why is he so pissed?
Ethan shakes his head, and then storms off. And I know that I've just made the worst mistake of my life. I'm going to lose my job, and my sanity, all at once. I fall back onto the couch and let out a muted scream into one of the accent pillows.
What did I just do?
How did that all just happen? And I say that as though I wasn't the one who caused it to happen in the first place. Then again, the whole thing almost felt as though I was under the influence of something else… something I'm not familiar with, a feeling that came over me that I couldn’t control, even though I wanted to.
But the sickest part of all is that I want him even more now than I did three minutes ago. I look over at the bookshelf and spot the book that Ethan had flipped through earlier. And I realize that there isn't even a diagnosis in there that fits my profile right now. The words obsessed, addicted, and delusional come to mind for starters, but even those words fall short of describing whatever it is I’m going through. I can feel it in my bones, and in my heart.
And it doesn't just stop there. I pull my phone out and click on my camera app to remind myself of just how insane I went. The right thing to do would be to grind up my phone in a blender or drop it from the roof of the downtown Hyatt. Either one of those options would be the smarter choice, and my only chance at making things at least slightly better. But given where my head is at, I’m not surprised when I find myself doing the very opposite as I open up my photo gallery…
And start making things much worse.
ETHAN
I seriously can't fathom this shit. I practically stumble through work at the Burrito Bar all day as thoughts of getting my dick sucked by a man flood my brain. I can't tell if I'm angry, scared, sad, or just brutally confused. I just know that I felt weak and gave in, and I have no clue why. The energy I felt from his body, it was an attraction I couldn't deny… I've never been so turned on in my fucking life. And when he took my cock inside of his mouth, holy fucking God. I almost exploded right away. It was a miracle that I lasted as long as I did. It was the hottest sexual experience I've ever had, hands down, in my life.
Unfortunately, it was with a man with whom my fate resides. Of all the times, and with all the men, to start getting experimental with my sexuality, I had to pick him?
On top of that heap of shit of a situation, Elizabeth won't return my text in which I pleaded for one simple phone conversation with Zoey. And of course, I can't press her on the matter because of the restraining order, as bullshit as that is. If I don't lay low with, I look like the harassing lunatic she's trying to paint me as.
My head is spinning; I'm not even sure how I made it through my shift at work. I get back to the projector room after spending several hours in a coffee shop working on the second installment to my screenplay, Silver Coast. The movie house is closed and empty, and I crawl into my humble abode. Sometimes I wonder if homeless men have it better than I do. At least they get mattresses, I think to myself.
But the fact that I'm sleeping on a hard wooden floor with a paper-thin sleeping bag is the least of my problems right now. I have no career, no daughter, and now my head is a fucking mess over a man I hardly know… I should go to sleep, that would be the right thing to do.
But instead, I decide that I need to obsess even more over Garrett. Because why not, right?
I start Googling him, trying to find anything I can on him. My jaw almost drops to the floor the second I realize that he's the son of the mega TV personality, Blake King, also known as Dr. Blake. I've never really watched the show, but I know that he basically does a bunch of crazy shit with his therapy patients in front of a live audience. I search Dr. Blake's net worth and he seems to have a cool seventy-five million in the bank. Then I follow the endless trail of television and other media recognition that Garrett's father has earned.
Why would Garrett, with a father as prominent and wealthy as he is, be where he's at in his career when he could probably be doing all sorts of incredible things? Not that there's anything wrong with Garrett's job, he just seems bigger than what he's doing.
I try to dig up any possible dirt on Dr. Blake and his family. His son, Garrett, is hardly mentioned anywhere. If it weren’t for a picture of Garrett and his dad at Garrett’s college graduation, it'd be tough to ascertain that the two of them are even related. Maybe there’s some sort of a mistake; maybe they're not really father and son.
And maybe I shouldn't give two fucks either way. Maybe I should just act normal, move on with my life, do my remaining six sessions, and forget every crazy thing that just happened.
Sounds easy enough on paper, but I know that nothing could be further from the truth.
It's been three days since I've heard a single word from Elizabeth and three days since I got blown by a man. It's safe to say that my world has been completely turned upside down. The only bright spot on the dark canvas of my life is the fact that I just finished the rough draft of the second installment to Silver Coast, and I’m real happy with how it came out. Not that it matters; I have no plans of anyone ever setting eyes on it. But like I said, it's therapeutic for me to go through the exercise, even if I’m the only one who reads this stuff.
How pathetic am I, to go from a college student with a 4.0 GPA to someone hovering just around the poverty level.
The Burrito Bar is closed for the day because the owner is having new tile flooring and industrial countertops installed. Not having work today just makes me go from being broke to being even broker, but I'm secretly relieved that I don't have to show my face out in public right now. The projector room is programmed for the rest of day's showings. That means I can leave if I want to, and I decide it's better to get an ounce of fresh air as opposed to staying in that room all night. If I stay, I'll somehow go even more insane than I already a.m. The last thing I want to do is end up like Chris Cornell. I grab my bag and walk down the employee-only staircase as I head out to grab a beer.
Not seeing Zoey, or even hearing her innocent, high-pitch voice, is literally fucking killing me inside. Add to that the gaping hole I feel since my, for lack of a better word, encounter with Garrett, and I've been a hot, nuclear mess. One cheap blowjob with a stranger shouldn't mean so much to me, even if it was a man's throat that I stuck my dick in. I don't know what's more surprising, the fact that I was so physically turned on by every move he made on me, or the fact that he was actually ballsy enough to go there in the first place.
Based on the professional position he's in and his overall tidy, highly organized veneer, I have a hunch that his actions were way out of character for him. Considering how he handled me, physically, he didn't seem to be lacking any experience. But I have to assume that I might be the first time he's ever hooked up with one of his clients. I don't know much about his world, but I know for sure that he put every last bit on the line by doing what he did with me.
I'll admit, there's a part of me that realizes I could probably use what happened between us as leverage in order to get a more favorable report. How could that particular thought not cross my mind given what's at stake for me?
But as fucked up as that is, I also know that most of my energy has gone towards desperately craving more and more of his touch as time has gone on. It actually got to the point yesterday where I even created a mock profile and started looking at male profiles on Tinder. Imagine that, me swiping right or left through hundreds of male faces. The thing was, none of those faces came ev
en close to what Garrett does for me. And I can’t stand that fact.
Maybe my hook up with Garrett was a blessing in disguise, because now I can’t deny how good I feel to be with men in a physical way, and that opens up a whole new world for me. Being with him felt like I’d just found a crucial missing puzzle piece in my life, maybe a piece so powerful that it even solves the mystery as to why I ever went down that toxic road that I did with Elizabeth.
Lost in my own self-analysis, I reach the bottom of the theater’s back staircase and almost drop my bag.
Garrett is leaning against the wall, as though he’s been waiting for me.
What the fuck?
I actually do drop my bag on the floor and stare right at him, speechless, as I wait for him to make the first move. Am I positive that he just came looking for me? And how did things just jump from obscenely weird to basically science fiction?
And of fucking course, my body starts to react within seconds. Garrett King is wearing a pair of tight, slightly faded black jeans with a few fashionable tears along his thighs. His arms and chest are covered in a tight-fitting white, V-neck T-shirt. Even in my peripheral vision, I can see the thick, hungry veins in his biceps popping out at me. I never imagined he could look any better, but he does. Dressed all casual and stylish, he went from a devastatingly handsome all-American look express route to underwear-melting movie star status. Even his hair, his gorgeous, cover model sandy blond hair… It's more rugged and playful and as much as I despise admitting this to myself, it’s lip-biting sexy hair like I’ve never seen. Usually, there isn't a hair out of place on that beautiful head of his. But tonight it looks like he did it up with a little gel or something. Simply put, he looks smoking hot when he's not so perfect on the outside.
Garrett's eyes glance down at the bag "You dropped something," he says with a small grin.
I want to smile back, but I refuse to. I need to let him know that I'm not playing around anymore. He and I, we can't do this dance that we started. It ended the other day, plain and simple. My tone is sharp as I say, "Can I help you with something?"
He tilts his head and approaches a bit closer. He doesn't give a shit that I'm visibly nervous, or that I'm his client, or that we're out in public. He wraps his fingers around my forearm. "Can we talk?" he asks.
I pull my arm away, somewhat reluctantly if I'm being honest. "I don't have another session with you for two days. What are you doing here?" I say, continuing to put up a fight for as long as I can. But deep down inside, my body is already starting to melt from all of the heat that I’m fighting off.
Get away from me, please, I pray. Before it’s really too late.
What the fuck is this man doing to me? Why is he turning my insides into such a chaotic mess?
"We need to talk so I can explain something," he says.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. "You're worried about getting in trouble, am I right?" I say.
He doesn't flinch. "I don't give a shit about that," he says.
Liar.
He takes a quick look around, as though he does give a shit, and comes another dangerous step closer towards me. Garrett grabs my wrist and untangles my crossed arms. I could have resisted, but I didn't.
Stupid me.
"Can we please talk, alone?" he pleads.
I like that he seems a touch desperate for once.
My body doesn't feel right, like every single nerve ending has been drenched with gasoline and lit up with a blowtorch. There's a part of me that wants to rip that slick white shirt off his body. And there's a part of me that wants to grab on tight to whatever he's keeping in those snug black jeans. He had his chance with me, but I never got mine.
I can't deny how curious I am just to see what he’s packing... Maybe even rub it against the side of my cheek just like he did with mine. And I guess I'm curious to see if I have what it takes to make him explode like a repressed volcano, just like he did to me.
This is all just physical shit though, not intellectual. Clearly, I can't stop these bodily cravings from happening when I'm around him.
But intellectually, I fully aware that I don't want to ruin the rest of my life any worse than I already have, which is what I will absolutely do if I let these games play out any further.
"I have plans, but I can talk for a minute," I lie. Going out by myself and having a beer at a bar, alone and depressed, can't really be defined as plans in most people's books. But he can't know that. And he definitely can't now how badly I'm burning up inside right now.
Get it under control, Ethan boy.
He runs a casual hand through his gorgeous hair, causing some of it to stick up straight on his head. He looks younger with his hair all messy and less proper than he wears it in his office. "Okay, fair enough. I don't want to ruin your plans," he says casually. But if I didn’t think I was crazy, I'd swear there's a hint of disappointment in his eyes.
I duck my head around the corner of the stairway to see if anyone's around who works here. It's quiet up here, and apart from a few of the customers who accidentally found their way to the bathroom near this part of the theater, nobody else is around. I look at Garrett who looks equally on edge, as though he's just as invested in keeping things incognito as I am, although I'm sure we both have very different reasons behind our reluctance. I work here; I'm not allowed to bring "friends" upstairs.
Funny… the thought of calling Garrett King my friend.
But he definitely has his own set of reasons. And now I can really understand why. He’ll lose his entire career in a heartbeat if anybody found out he was trying to mess around with me right now, or that we’ve messed around already. No question, we should be staying as far apart as humanly possible. And I'm guessing the fact that his father is a major media force would make things ten times worse if this ever got out.
But despite what pure logic is screaming at me to do, I shake my head and say, “Come on, we can talk upstairs, but only for a second."
I’ll give him a minute to so called explain himself, but nothing more.
I lead him up to the area where I sleep, the area that I call home right now. We lock eyes as I wait for him to initiate the conversation. I expect him to apologize. I expect him to say that what happened between us will never happen again, and that it won’t interfere with his ability to complete his report for the probate court.
Garrett looks around my luxurious living quarters, his eyes shifty and laced with hints of anxiety. His hands are tucked safely in his pockets as he pushes the inside of his cheek out with his tongue. "I went completely off the rails, Ethan. I screwed up, bad. But…”
But? I hold my breath as I hang on to see where the hell he's going with all of this. I try to appear as calm and unaffected as possible. I even find myself clenching my thighs together, tightly, in order to repress the feeling down there that wants to bubble over.
"But I can't stop obsessing over you" he says.
My jaw hinges open. At first, I'm not sure that I even heard him correctly. But then he walks towards me, and the nervous look in his eye disappears. "I know it's all wrong, I really do. Believe me, nobody knows it more than me-"
"We both know, Garrett. There’s plenty at stake for me too. My own kid is depending on me to be somewhat sane right now. It's totally fucked up, and it needs to stop" I say, this time refusing to censor myself.
He takes another step closer and throws me a half-hearted nod. "Fucked up describes it well. But it can’t stop. Not yet at least."
This just can't be fucking happening… the fact that he's here, and that my dick is starting to throb in my pants, and that I want to be touched by him so badly it stings.
"Did you snap or something?" I say.
"I don't know, maybe."
He moves in even closer, very slowly. I can almost taste oceanic cologne on his skin.
It's as though he's waiting to see how I'm going to respond. I should step back, or run down the stairs. But instead, I step towards him close enough to f
eel the warmth from his breath. We’re only inches apart, and neither one of us seems to have a clue what to do next.
Before I can make any sense out of this, or form some sort of logical response, Garrett says, "Honestly, I think I like being insane better than pretending to be normal.” Then he wraps a hand around my neck and pulls my head towards his mouth. Our lips crash into each other and I moan right away. Garrett's mouth is sweet and warm, and both of us have our hands all over each other within seconds of our mouths colliding. There is so much heat between us, it’s as though we've both been holding something back for our entire lives.
And maybe we have, for all I know.
Whatever, I should still be stopping this. But I can't. Neither one of us can. It’s out of our hands now…
He pulls away and looks my body up and down. "I want to see you naked, Ethan."
"Here? Now?” I say sheepishly. But I’m powerless inside, and he knows it. I swallow hard and add, “I’ll lose my job.”
He grins and bites down on his lip. "That makes two of us," he says.
“Aren't you supposed to be the reasonable one here? You're the doctor and all,” I say.
“Technically, I only have my master’s degree. My father wanted me to get my PhD, but it never happened,” he says lightly, refuting my plea to end this. “A lot of things never happened.”
I want to see him naked too. And then some. But why? How can all of this be coming out right now? Is this all just my emotional wounds wreaking havoc on my psyche? “I’ve never been-”
He interrupts me, “With a man. I know. But you have more instinct than a dozen men combined. And it’s okay to trust your instincts.”
I lower my head slightly but keep my eyes locked on his. "I don’t feel like I can trust anything, including my instincts," I say.
“But you can. You just can. You’re one of those guys who is incredible at everything you set your mind too, you just lost your way. It’s the same with your writing.”
I narrow my eyes and take a step back. “What about my writing?”
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