Hazard

by Zahra Girard

  And where do I agree to go? Here. A therapist’s office.

  “I’m not sure I can,” I say. I never thought I’d be in a position to say those words. Or that it’d be for something so mundane as walking into a squat, square office in some strip-mall type complex on the outskirts of Tacoma.

  There’s a sign above the door to the office: Full Circle Counseling.

  To me, it might as well say No Entry.

  She slips an arm over my good shoulder, gives me a gentle hug from behind and kisses my cheek. “I believe in you. And so does Jake. I know you’re strong enough to do this.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Strong enough to do what? Go cry to some doctor?”

  “Do you know how strong you have to be to admit you’re hurting inside?” she says. “Take it from someone who’s run all her life: the hardest thing to do is reach out your hand for help. But when someone takes that hand — like when some crazy, sexy man on a motorcycle helps lift you up — life gets so much better.”

  I stare at the sign, still unsure. “I don’t know.”

  She hops off the bike behind me and holds out her hand.

  “Come on, we’ll go in together.”

  “You just want to hear me bitch and whine, don’t you?”

  “That and a couple tears, yeah,” she says.

  I glare at her.

  Selena doesn’t wait for me to take her hand, she reaches out and grabs mine. Gently, she pulls me towards her. I slide off the bike and kick the stand down. I couldn’t make even this forward movement without her.

  “What I want is for the man I love to finally be able to let go of all that pain he’s been carrying for all these years,” she says. Her lips graze my cheek. “What I want is for the man I love to be able to look back at the world without fear or anger in his eyes.”

  “Where the hell did that come from? Have you been reading therapy books?” I say, looking at her with surprise.

  She shrugs. “Maybe I have. Maybe I want to have a better idea of what you’re going through and how I can help. Or, maybe, I’m just talking as someone who’s seen her fair share of trauma herself.”

  I’d say something back, but she gets up on her tiptoes and kisses me. Slowly, almost imperceptibly — but definitely deliberately — her hands brush my cock through my jeans. I stiffen in almost an instant.

  She knows how to win an argument.

  “Fine, we’ll go inside. See what it’s all about.”

  “Thank you, Jarrett. Now come on, the appointments in three minutes.”

  “But if things start to get weird, I’m leaving. The last fucking thing I want is more stress — we still got that charity thing to do in two days.”

  She squeezes my hand. “If it gets weird, you can leave. All I ask is that you try.”

  There’s no way I’m not going to try. As much as I want to fight this, I want a life with this woman and her son at my side. I feel more than myself with them, like they’re filling in gaps in to the puzzle of my life that I didn’t even know were missing. I’m more complete with Selena and Jake around.

  “Give me a second, first. You’ve got me hard and I’m not shaking the doc’s hand with a raging hard-on.”

  She laughs and I pull a few deep breaths and think about baseball.

  The two of us step into the office. It’s a nondescript room that reminds me of the front room of every dentist and doctor’s office I’ve ever been to. Except instead of pictures of teeth on the walls or photos of happy people eating salads and being obnoxiously healthy, there’s a bunch of positive affirmation shit — people running triathlons, climbing mountains, and a whole bunch of photos of shit you’d normally find on the internet with positive quotes overlaid on them.

  “If this guy turns out like some kind of wannabe Tony Robbins, I’m leaving,” I mumble to Selena low enough so the receptionist doesn’t hear.

  “Take a closer look,” she answers. She motions towards a few of the pictures on the wall.

  I frown and lean in. Every picture — from the guy in skiing equipment on top of some tall mountain, to the guy crossing the finish line at a triathlon — is of the same person.

  “Fuck, this is going to be Tony Robbins bullshit.”

  “Shut up and go check in, you asshole.”

  I step up to the front desk, clear my throat so the woman behind the desk chatting on the phone looks up and acknowledges me. She smiles, hands me a clipboard, and motions for me to fill it out. I do, with a little encouragement from Selena. When I hand it back to the receptionist — who happens to still be stuck on the phone — she raises one finger to indicate it’ll be just a minute.

  I sit down in a shittily-upholstered chair and look for something to read. My ass has barely settled into the chair before a man’s voice pulls my attention away from the pile of travel and lifestyle magazines on the coffee table in front of me.

  “Jarrett Hayes?” he says, his voice welcoming, but clipped, military-style.

  I look up. He’s an older man, with a close-cut bit of gray hair on his head and a gray goatee that outlines his square jaw. He stands with set shoulders and perfectly-straight posture — all things that get drilled into you at boot camp. “Who’s asking?”

  “Markus Kellerman. This is my practice. You ready?”

  I look at him a bit closer.

  “Did you serve, Mr. Kellerman?”

  He gestures across the room, towards a spot on the wall next to the entrance to his office. There’s a plaque there, with a purple heart set into it.

  “Panama. And Desert Storm,” he says, holding out his hand. “I understand you’ve served, too, and you’ve seen your fair share. How about we talk?”

  I reach out and shake his hand. I can feel my shoulders loosen and those agitations and anxieties that I couldn’t acknowledge out loud start to ease.

  “Let’s talk.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Selena

  The scent of succulent, roasting meat blends with the melodies of 80’s pop and rock hits, turning the air into a something beautiful and other-worldly. Outside, men and women and children, practically every person in Stony Shores, are drinking and eating and having the kind of party this town hasn’t seen in years.

  I’m in an aluminum trailer, parked right next to the old train station. The party is in full swing. In front of me, lounging back against a torn cloth couch patched with duct tape, Jarrett’s got a grin on his face. He’s shirtless, wearing only the bandage around his shoulder, his jeans, and that cocky grin on his face. I’ve got on my typical party clothes, nothing more fancy than a black Joan Jett shirt and some jeans.

  “You know, I can’t believe they’re still pushing me to do this,” he says, though he doesn’t sound the least bit hesitant.

  “You can’t believe that Gunney’s making you perform, even though you failed to book entertainment for the party?” I say.

  “I was shot. Nearly died. Isn’t that excuse enough?”

  “It’s for charity, Jarrett,” I say. “Or should I say ‘Hazard’?”

  “Nah, ‘Hazard’ feels pretty accurate, considering how this last week has gone. By the way, you might want to put these on, once they call me up,” he says, tossing me a packet of earplugs.

  I laugh. “No way. I want to hear every single note. I might even record it.”

  “I’m only doing this for charity. That’s it. When this is over, Stony Shores is going to be able to revamp their senior center and any cash left over goes to the Wounded Vets charity. That’s the only reason I’m going through with this shit.”

  He might think he’s convincing, but I know he’s full of shit. He’s smiling and actually sounds excited to get up on stage.

  “Sure. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

  There’s a knock at the door to the trailer and, a second later, Rog pokes his head in. “You’re on in twenty. Better start getting ready.”

  “Thanks, Rog.”

  “No, thank you, Hazard. I can’t wait for the
show,” Rog says, ducking out before Jarrett can throw a couch cushion at him.

  “He’s right, though. It’s going to be a good show. How can it not be when you’re going to be wearing that?” I say, pointing at the outfit laid out on the couch beside him. It’s a lycra bodysuit, white, with the NASA logo emblazoned on the chest. Next to it, there’s an open-fronted astronauts helmet. “You do know there’s kids out there, right? You sure this outfit’s appropriate?”

  “I got a codpiece thing to cover my cock. I have some decency.”

  “Says the man wearing a bodysuit. I mean, just… why?”

  “Because I’m doing an old-school David Bowie routine. It’s pretty much required. How else can I pull off ‘Major Tom’?”

  I shrug. “Fair point. But why David Bowie?”

  “Because it’s David Bowie, that’s why,” he says. “Alright, let me break it down for you. In the thirty-seven times that the conversation turned to ‘Fuck-Marry-Kill’ when I was in the service, Bowie won. Every. Single. Time. It didn’t matter whether he was up against a Victoria’s Secret angel, a hot actress like Kate Beckinsale, or a pornstar, not one person — man or woman — ever put him in the kill category.”

  I shake my head. “Seriously? What?”

  “Because it’s David Bowie, Selena. He’s on everybody’s ‘hall pass’. Whether they know it or not.”

  “Is he on your list?” I say, putting my hands on my hips.

  He shrugs. “He’s not alive anymore, so that question isn’t really relevant now, is it?”

  “And if he were alive?”

  “The world would be a better place for having a man like him in it. But, really, that kind of speculation is just crazy. The last thing I need to worry about right now — before I step out on that stage — is whether or not I want to hurt your feelings by speculating just how far I’d go for David Bowie,” he says, starting to remove his jeans.

  “How far you’d go? Hold the fuck up. What do you mean?”

  “He made goblins sexy. Fucking goblins. You remember Labyrinth, right?” he says. “Look, babe, I’m trying to keep loose right now — let’s save this for after the show, alright?”

  I laugh and watch him get ready. It’s good to see him feeling more relaxed, just as it’s good to feel like I’m finally finding a home. Even the couple therapy sessions he’s been to are already showing some effect in his attitude. I grin as I watch him — he’s humming a song as he goes through the slow process of taking his pants off with his shoulder all bandaged up.

  After half a minute of struggling, he gets his belt unhooked. I step forward and get down on my knees in front of him. “Let me help.”

  “Help me with my pants, or help me relax before my show?”

  I look up at him and I wink. “Why not both?”

  I undo his buttons in a blink. One swift pull and his rock-hard cock is right in front of my face.

  “Hard already?”

  “Well, we were talking about David Bowie,” he laughs.

  I roll my eyes, then lean in and plant a kiss on the head of his dick. I kiss it again, longer this time, and my tongue darts from my mouth to run in a slow circle around the base of his cock’s head. I hold my tongue underneath the head, stroking the underside gently. His cock twitches in my hands.

  Looking up, I see Jarrett shut his eyes and roll his head slightly back. A soft moan escapes his lips as I open my mouth and swallow him halfway, my tongue still caressing the underside of his shaft. Salty precum dribbles from the head of his dick onto the back of my tongue. I swallow, then suck him deeper, every inch of him filling my throat.

  “Goddamn, babe,” he moans.

  “Just shut up and let me suck your cock.”

  He chuckles, his six-pack abs flexing as he laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I run my lips up and down the side of his shaft, planting small kisses as I go, teasing him with just how gentle I can be. Up and down, while I lightly fondle his balls. His dick flexes and twitches in my hand, moving with his insatiable desire.

  I know he’s aching for more. I know he wants to feel the back of my throat. But I’m going to draw this out. I’m going to tease him. Slow and gentle, until his hard-muscled chest is heaving with need and he is groaning with desire.

  He’s helpless in my hands. Looking up at him, so overcome with what I can do to him with my just my mouth and the tips of my fingers, makes me wet.

  I stand up, my fingers already undoing the buttons to my jeans. And I smile as I slide my jeans down; every time, without fail, Jarrett’s pupils dilate just a little bit, and his smile grows just a little bit wider, every time I take my pants off.

  “God damn,” he murmurs.

  My panties are soaked and I am fucking ready.

  I want to feel him inside me.

  I want to ride him until his eyes roll back in his head.

  “Sit back,” I say, putting both hands on his chest and pushing him gently onto the couch.

  I hop up and straddle him, taking hold of his cock with one hand and holding it right at the entrance to my pussy. He is pulsing in my hands, the hot hardness of him tempting me. Holding him still — teasing him at my entrance — takes all of my willpower.

  I tease him, brushing his head against my slit, and I smile down at him as he moans and thrusts with his hips, trying to get inside me.

  I tease him, until I can’t take it anymore.

  I can’t hold back.

  I lower myself onto him.

  He moans. “You feel incredible.”

  When I take him inside me, the sensation of heat, of electricity and passion, forces my eyes shut and pushes a tiny gasp out from between my lips.

  Every time.

  He does this to me every single time.

  Only him.

  I start slow, bracing myself with one hand on his leg and another on his non-wounded shoulder. I open my eyes and look into his: they’re so wide, so full of life and energy, and I can feel every bit of his passion inside me in the way he fills me, in the way he leans forward and kisses me with ferocity.

  I slow for a moment, grinding him inside me. He fits perfect, his cock finding just those right spots inside of me that need to feel him.

  “Fuck, I love when you do that,” he moans.

  “I love it, too.”

  I shut my eyes again, breath slow and deep, and savor this moment.

  I feel so close to him, and we grow closer every day. We’re free of the lies and the bullshit that tainted our relationship. All that’s left is our the love and passion we feel for each other.

  It’s bliss.

  This is what being truly happy feels like.

  I don’t even know how to deal with this feeling — it’s this alien sensation that makes everything around me seem new and vibrant.

  “Are you giggling?” he says, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “Shut up,” I say, and swivel my hips in just the right way to make him groan. “Sit back and think about David Bowie if you have to.”

  He reaches out and roughly grabs me by the hips. In one motion — with just a small grunt of pain — he flips me over and puts me flat against the couch.

  “You’re the one I want,” he murmurs in my ear.

  He thrusts in — deep.

  I moan. My voice isn’t mine to control anymore.

  He fills me again. Deep. Hard.

  His thrusts pick up rhythm and brush that spot inside me that makes my body lose control. It makes my toes curl and my eyes roll in their sockets.

  “You’re the one I fantasize about. Always have been. Always will be,” he says, his voice as quiet as a whisper in my ear.

  Faster still. At just the right depth and just the right speed. My body feels like it’s smoldering and about to catch on fire.

  He grins at me, his eyes bright and burning with love. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

  I reach around, grab him by the back and dig my nails in.

  I won’t ever let him go.


  I whisper silent prayers for him to keep going. I’m so close — my body is begging for him to break me in the way that only he can.

  “You’re the one I love.”

  Those words finish me and I scream as I climax. My fingers dig in deep to his back as I lose control — my legs shaking, my body becoming one twitchy thing, and every thought I have turns to just how incredibly good this man makes me feel.

  He moves away from my ear and presses his lips to mine. A forceful kiss as he continues to rock my shaking body with thrust after thrust. Inside me, his cock gets that familiar, swelling hardness that tells me he’s about to give me exactly what I want.

  Rising up just a bit, he looks down at me. Right into my eyes.

  “Come for me, Jarrett,” I beg him.

  I watch his pupils dilate.

  I watch the muscles in his chest and abs flex and relax as he thrusts inside me.

  I watch as love, as lust, as contentment swirl across his face as he climaxes. I feel him inside me, letting go.

  With shaking arms, and a chest and abs that twitch with unconstrained ecstasy and sensitivity, he smiles at me. He pulls out of me slowly, and, reluctantly, my body lets him go.

  I roll over and plant a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, Jarrett.”

  He kisses me back. It’s tender. Caring. “I love you, Selena.”

  The man I love stands up, slowly, and I get a view of every sculpted muscle on his body. He truly is something, and never in a million years would I have guessed I’d ever wind up here — in a trailer with him, feeling content, with family and loved ones outside waiting for us.

  Waiting for us.

  Shit.

  I sit up. “The show. We need to get you cleaned up.”

  He pulls his cell from the pocket of his jeans. “Shit, you’re right.”

  Those words have barely left his mouth before there’s a banging at the door. It’s Rog, again. “Three minutes and you’re on, Hazard. And there’s going to be church after — so don’t get too smashed.”

  “Church?” Jarrett replies.

  “Gotta figure out what to do about the other Jackal clubs. But, listen, don’t worry about that right now. All I want you to focus on right now is getting out there and performing.”