I feel her slipping away for good. In fact, I know it’s a lost cause.
So I think my next words were nothing more than a set up to make sure that we ended this for good… once and for all… so I could have some fucking peace. Because I know what the answer is to my next question, and I’m counting on her saying no.
“I’ll ask one more time… Let me come home with you tonight. I won’t ask again, McKayla.”
She shakes her head, eyes brimming with sadness. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
That’s what I needed. That’s what I was counting on.
She just gave me my freedom.
“No skin off my back,” I tell her quietly. No condescension, no mocking tone. I want her to understand how deadly serious I am right at this very moment. “You’re not the only game in town.”
Chapter 21
Rifling through my inbox, I take another look for the Memorandum of Law my paralegal drafted for me yesterday. I know I put it somewhere on my desk, but the fucking night janitor probably threw it away. Flipping through the stack, I manage to neatly slice my finger open on a piece of paper, causing a barrage of curses to pour out of my mouth.
I suck on the cut, cursing internally now, and use my other hand to move shit around. Finally, I punch a button on my phone and when my paralegal answers, I snarl, “Brenda… where is that fucking memo you drafted for me?”
I can hear her sharp intake of breath, because I never cuss at my staff. “I put it on your desk before I left last night, Mr. Connover.”
“Well, clearly you fucking didn’t, because I can’t find it,” I snap at her. “Print it off again.”
I disconnect the call and flop down in my seat. That was wholly unfair to Brenda because I know for a fact she had put it on my desk because I saw it. But, of late, I seem to be taking all of my rage out on whoever seems to be standing closest to me.
Gee… wonder why that is?
I stare out the window until my office door opens, and Brenda practically runs the memo up to me. I snatch it from her hand and take a glance at it. Immediately, I see that she’s brought me the wrong document. I’m betting that she was so flustered by the way I talked to her, she just printed the wrong thing off.
Think that changes what I’m about to do?
Nope.
“What the fuck? Can’t you do anything right?” I sneer as I throw the document back at her. She makes a terrible attempt to catch it, and it goes fluttering to the floor. She picks up the document, sobs out an apology that I just roll my eyes at, and runs out of my office.
Closing my eyes, I scrub my hands over my face and lean my head back on my chair. I think I actually may be going crazy. Or, I’m turning into a girl and I’m PMSing, because I cannot seem to get control of the rage that has been bubbling low inside of me since I walked out of Mac’s office last week.
I know I can be an asshole on any given day, but I’m usually an asshole with class. I tend to belittle people in an almost polite manner, so they’re not really even sure that I’m getting the better of them. I’m very stealthy that way.
But the new Matt Connover is the proverbial bull in a china shop. I’m just running rampant over everyone, shattering sensibilities at every turn.
It’s the only thing that’s making me feel better.
To make others feel bad.
I wish the way to feel better was to grab a woman and fuck Mac’s existence out of my memory. But six days after walking away from Mac, and I’ve yet to use One Night Only. Instead, I go home, drink two or three scotches, and fall asleep… or jack off and fall asleep.
Yes, I jack off thinking of Mac. A pathetic fact of which I’m ashamed.
In fact, just last night, I downed a few scotches and decided to take a shower. I immediately thought of the time Mac and I were getting it on in the shower, and I slipped… breaking her showerhead. It was fucking funny as hell and yet, I still fucked her pretty good. It was one of my favorite times with her.
It brought forth a bittersweet taste in my mouth and a hard-on between my legs. I grabbed a bar of soap and lathered up my cock, swirling it in a circular motion over my balls. With closed eyes, I imagined it was Mac. When I got good and slippery, I dropped the soap and wrapped my hand around my dick, pulling and stroking. My grip was firm, twisting slightly on every upstroke at the head in a way that fuck… that feels good.
Laying a forearm against the tile, I let the water pound on my back while I rested my forehead on my arm. I let my mind drift… remembering all the ways I’ve taken Mac. Remembering the way her heat surrounded me, and the noises she would make. I remembered all of the filthy things I would say as I drilled her. I continued to pump my cock, my hips getting in on the action so my hand didn’t have to do all the work.
I pretended my hand was Mac’s gorgeously fuckable mouth. I remembered how she would suck, lick, and sometimes she’d even nip, while looking from beneath her lashes at me in a naughty way. She’d smile at me, and I’d smile at her.
And fuck… my orgasm hit me so hard that my hips bucked forward and I threw my head back, crying out almost painfully as I unloaded all over my tiled wall and watched it swirl away down the drain.
My breathing was rough, my balls were still tingling, and I felt absolutely dead and empty inside.
Rinsing off, I stepped out of the shower, completely sated and soft dicked, but I still felt tension vibrating everywhere. That had been happening to me… a lot. I could experience a pleasurable orgasm, and rather than feel relaxed and mellow, I’d feel pissed and strained.
Because it wasn’t the orgasm I wanted. It wasn’t with Mac. It was a pitiful replica done by my palm with images of Mac behind my eyelids, and it was fucking unsatisfying as hell.
I dried myself off and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Pouring myself another scotch, I sat down in the living room and pulled some stuff out of my briefcase. The top document was from Mac. It was some Answers to Interrogatories on the Jackson case I assigned to her last week, and she had put them in my office sometime today when I was out and about.
I hadn’t seen her all week, intentionally staying away from her, and she had clearly been doing the same with me.
Reading the first page, I realized that this was as close to Mac as I would ever get. The most intimate thing we would share from here on was work product. Fury flooded me as I realized the utter unfairness of it all, and I knew that I needed an appropriate outlet for my anger.
And since Mac was the cause of all these problems, I think I knew where to direct it.
***
A knock sounds at my door, and I know it’s Mac. I had sent her an email telling her to see me on an urgent matter in the Jackson case.
“Come in,” I tell her and force myself not to look up. I wait until I can hear her sit down, and then I grab the Answers to Interrogatories that I had reviewed last night. I hand it across my desk to her, and she takes it without a word.
Sitting back in my chair, I watch her carefully, to see how she’ll react to my “feedback”. She flips through page after page, her eyes flying over my words. Every time she flips a page, I see splashes of red, which is the color of pen I used last night to write said “feedback” on the document.
By the time I was finished with it, it look like someone sacrificed a goat on it or something.
Mac finally looks up at me, her eyes confused… maybe hurt. Which is not what I want to see on that achingly beautiful face. I’d rather have her antipathy.
“I’m disappointed in you, McKayla,” I tell her in my best tone of condescension. “The draft you handed in to me was sub-standard at best. A first-year law student could have done better.”
Those words were calculated by me to strike hard. But when her face flushes red with embarrassment, I’m not quite getting that giddy feeling I had been expecting.
Her eyes go back to the document, and I let her take all the time in the world to go back through my comments. They were cruel, meant to hurt and belittle.
Are you sure you went to law school?
I’m not sure you’re cut out for this type of work.
Every comment I made was designed to knock her down… to make her feel as bad as I felt.
Mac finally looks back up at me and I tense, wondering what she’s going to do. Just a few moments ago, I wanted to make her tremble before me. Now, if she even shows me a hint of hurt, I might crumble like a fucking pussy and beg her forgiveness.
“Matt… some of these corrections are just semantics. I think it’s a little unfair to call my work sub-standard when you’re basically disagreeing with word choices.”
Good. She’s choosing to fight me so I’m assured I won’t drown in guilt for what I’m about to say. “Word choices in a legal document can make or break a case. You could sink an entire claim with just one poorly chosen word. It’s a lesson you desperately need, and I’m going to make sure you learn it. Furthermore, you are never to question my opinions on your work again.”
Mac’s face turns scarlet, and I can tell she wants to lay in to me. Standing up from her chair, she places her palms on my desk with one hand still clinging to the document, and leans in toward me, snarling, “You are being completely unfair. You’re taking your anger out on me when it’s not deserved.”
Shooting out of my chair, I place my palms opposite of hers on the desk, and do my own brand of threatening maneuver by leaning in toward her. I keep my voice mild though, just to actually dig the knife in more. If she thinks this isn’t personal, but truly my professional opinion, the sting will be more exquisite. “I’m not taking my anger out on you. I’m telling you that your work product is poor. Learn the difference.”
Mac’s eyes fill with rage, turning those green irises dark as a midnight jungle. Her voice rises perilously close to a shriek. “This is not poor work product. This is you, desperately trying to find some fault with my work so you can punish me.”
“Punish you?” I say with derision as I pull the document out of her hand. “Why would I possibly do that?”
“Because I cut you off, and you can’t handle the rejection,” she jeers at me.
I throw my head back and laugh mockingly at her, even though she’s fucking hitting the nail on the head. My eyes spark with malice when I look back at her. “Get over yourself, Mac. You were replaced and forgotten just like that.”
I even snap my fingers so she understands just how quickly I got over her.
Well, supposedly got over her.
She’ll never know I’m without direction, utterly lost.
Tears glisten in Mac’s eyes and she practically hisses at me as she grabs the document back out of my hand. “I can’t take this shit anymore. I did nothing to deserve this.”
Nothing to deserve this?
All of this… all of my rage, and hurt, and out-of-control behavior is all because of her. Indignation burns deep in my stomach.
Mac spins away from me and heads for my door. It takes a nanosecond for me to react, rounding my desk in three long strides before I have her by the elbow and I’m turning her toward me.
Pulling her in close so I’m almost nose to nose with her, I yell without giving a fuck if anyone hears me. “You did nothing to deserve this? You fucking denied me.”
All of the anger in Mac’s eyes dies down immediately, not even a quiet, simmering annoyance remains. Instead, her eyes go soft and she looks at me in understanding… maybe sympathy. It makes my stomach knot up.
Her voice is so very quiet… almost a whisper. “I denied you nothing, Matt. I simply asked for more.”
Her words slam into me, and I feel like someone has taken a sledgehammer and driven it into the center of my chest. The pain that shoots through me is so intense that I get dizzy for a moment and drop her elbow.
I lower my gaze from her face, because I don’t think I can stand to look at the woman who inherently understands me, even when I don’t understand myself.
The woman who feels sorry for me, because I’m incapable of moving past my bitterness.
I’m a fucking loser, and she knows it.
My shoulders drop, and I feel so very fucking tired all of a sudden. Turning from Mac, I walk back to my desk… watching where I’m walking but not really seeing anything. I fall back into my chair and stare blankly at my computer.
Mac starts to move toward me, and that shakes me from my stupor briefly.
“Get out,” I say quietly, without malice, without feeling really anything at all. “I want another draft of those Answers by the end of the day.”
Mac takes a step toward me, and my gaze comes up. I see her, but for the first time in a long time, I’m not dazzled by her.
I’m afraid of her.
Because without really knowing anything about me at all… about my demons or what makes me tick… she absolutely knows what to say to break me down.
“Matt… I’m sorry you’re hurting,” she says gently. “I am, too. Maybe if we talked this out, we could figure—”
It’s like thick concrete builds up around me, fashioning hard and without yield. “There’s nothing to talk about. Now leave.”
“Please,” she begs, eyes pleading, taking another small step toward me. “I want to make this better—”
Mac’s kindness… her sympathy… the way she understands me… it’s overbearing and pain starts to fill me up. I feel the last vestiges of my control snap, and I lash out before she can say anything that cuts into my vulnerability further.
“You want to make this better?” I lurch out of my chair and grab ahold of my belt buckle. “The only way you can make this better, Miss Dawson, is if you get over here on your knees.”
Her eyes… the ones I’ve stared into over and over again, fill with tears, and it knocks the breath clean out of me.
“You’re despicable,” she says. My hands drop from my belt, and my head hangs in shame.
Mac turns away from me, head held high, and walks to my door.
Sadness, misery, and panic flood through me. I couldn’t stop the words a moment ago, and now I don’t know what to say to make this better. I only know that I can’t let her walk out of here hurting like that.
“Mac,” I call out to her.
She doesn’t even flinch when she hears me. She opens the door and opens it.
“Mac,” I say again, this time my voice is tinged with desperation.
She never even pauses, stepping out of my office and softly closing the door behind her.
Agony, shame, and guilt well up inside of me like lava bubbling up from a volcano. Just like lava, it’s hot and it’s burning me from the inside out. I think the one woman who actually may have been the best thing that ever happened to me, wouldn’t give me the courtesy of stopping when I called out to her.
She wouldn’t even look back at me, when I was clearly at my lowest. Surely, she heard that in my voice?
Surely, she knew that I was struggling.
And she did it so quietly, with such finality to her actions, that I realize… coldly, clearly, absolutely… I am nothing to Mac Dawson anymore.
I look at the paperweight that’s on my desk… a heavy, crystal orb that sits on a wooden base and has the scales of justice engraved into it. Reaching out, I stroke my fingers over the top… just before I grab it and hurl it at my wall yelling, “FUCK!”
It shatters into a million pieces, which is exactly how I feel right now.
Chapter 22
I think I might be going crazy.
That’s the only thing than can explain my erratic behavior.
After Mac walked out of my office yesterday, I’ve been waging a war with myself to figure out how I can make these awful feelings go away. I’m drowning in anger, sadness, lust, loneliness, a little more anger, a lot more lust, guilt, frustration, hope, hopelessness, and yeah… more anger.
After I shattered my paperweight against the wall, I immediately plopped down on my chair and started typing away f
uriously on my computer. I pulled up the ONO website, flipped to my wish list, and scrolled through the profiles. They all looked the same to me, like prize brood mares hanging their heads out of their stalls at a horse auction. Not seeing anything that popped out, I randomly chose one—Number 1633—and sent her an email to see if she was interested in a hookup tonight.
I started packing up some work to take home, responded to a few emails, and just before I logged off to leave for the evening, I got a response.
Of course, she’d love to hook up tonight. She even suggested the hotel and time. I pulled her profile up again and took a closer look. She was stunning, no doubt. Looked like a great pair of tits and her profile said she liked a little bondage. I thought of some shameless stuff I could do to her tonight, willing my dick to stand up and take an interest, but the fucker pouted and refused to participate.
I thought about pulling it out, right then and there, and rubbing one off while I stared at the profile picture of Number 1633, just to show my cock who was in charge.
But the truth of the matter was—I just wasn’t interested. She wasn’t Mac, and it wasn’t just my dick that wanted that dark-haired devil of a woman. Apparently, my conscience wanted her too.
And that fucking pissed me off.
Made me so angry with Mac again, that she would tie me up like this and ruin me from getting sexually distracted by someone else. So, even as I was cursing Mac’s name, I sent Number 1633 a message back and told her something came up and I couldn’t make it.
When I got home that night, I poured myself a scotch and sat on my couch, staring blankly at the wall. My anger had dissipated, and I was actually thinking of calling Mac. The reasonable part of my psyche… the one that understands concepts of right and wrong and isn’t ruled by my own selfishness, knew I would be best served by calling her and apologizing. Telling her how sorry I am to have played with her feelings. Beg her forgiveness for the brute way I acted with her this afternoon.
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