by Max Monroe
Fuck, what is happening to me?
With a tight blink of my eyes, I push the wild thoughts out of my head and stay strong, choosing to lead us back to the table instead of continuing this confusing-as-hell sexual tension tug-of-war on the dance floor.
When we arrive, Chloe is waiting and so is our food—which I can’t explain. There’s no way we danced for long enough to one song to merit an order being put in and served, but I don’t question it. I don’t question how long we were really out there, or if we lost track of time. I don’t question when one song turned into two or three or four.
I don’t wonder about what any of it means or if Holley noticed.
No, I don’t wonder at all. Not at all.
Holley
Jake: Where do you want to meet tomorrow?
I stare down at the text message and exhale.
I swear, I can’t escape this man. He’s either with me or texting or calling or rolling around obnoxiously in my thoughts. But what’s truly frightening is the very real possibility that I don’t mind at all.
Clearly. Because any other woman with half a working brain would have excused herself halfway through tonight’s dinner and put some distance between herself and Mr. Eligible Bachelor. Instead, I went back to the table and ate my dinner in an awkward, brain-dead, dancing-induced stupor.
Dear God, the dancing…
Don’t even go there, Holley!
I managed to pull it together enough to complete the basic human function of um-ing and ah-ing my way through the ride back to my car, but let me tell you, it was not my most eloquent hour.
Honestly, it’s probably the reason Jake is texting me now, rather than just asking me about all of this when we said goodbye this evening.
Eventually, I type out what I hope is an easy breezy response.
Me: How about Grey Street Coffee? 9:00 a.m.?
Jake: That works. And, Holley?
Me: Yeah?
Jake: Don’t forget to add our conversation about “wielding a hammer” to the article.
I smile and bite my lip, and then shoot him another text.
Me: I’m seriously regretting giving you my cell number.
He doesn’t miss a beat, but the truth is, I wouldn’t have expected him to. Jake Brent can volley banter with the freaking best of them.
Jake: Pretty sure you had to. You’re my Bachelor Anonymous emergency contact. If I incur any injuries while I’m on these dates or consume food I’m allergic to, I’m legally bound to notify you.
Me: First of all, you don’t have any food allergies.
Jake: And secondly?
Me: GO AWAY. I’M WORKING.
Jake: LOL. See you tomorrow, Holley.
I’m going to see Jake Brent again. Tomorrow.
Gah.
While thoughts of the day and evening threaten to consume my brain again, I head into the kitchen and uncork a bottle of wine.
Once a very tall glass of Riesling is poured, I head into my small home office, sit down at my computer and fire it up. She’s a little old and slow, but she does the job, so I wait patiently as she gets ready to work. I lean over and light a candle and turn on the stereo behind me.
I scroll through my music selection and pull out one of my best romance mixes with music from the eighties and nineties. Something about dinner in that restaurant stirs up my fascination with the music from my childhood.
Lionel Richie’s “Hello” comes on, and I take a big gulp of my wine.
Man, what a day. Following Jake through his daily life to prep for this article has equated to being one of the longest days of my life, but I have to admit, it’s also been beyond enjoyable. I’ve done and seen things today I’ve never done or seen before—to be honest, most of the day felt that way. But Jake was always good about explaining or making me feel included, and I’m extremely grateful.
I could fall into bed right now if I let myself and hibernate for a full twenty-four hours, but I have to stay up and write this article. This is the article, the start of the whole Bachelor Anonymous feature. The hook that needs to ensure SoCal Tribune readers will keep coming back for more.
Another sip of wine down the hatch, I try to focus my thoughts on what I’m going to put on the page. Our readers have to be interested in the bachelor himself, or this will be for nothing at all.
Though, after spending what feels like a full twenty-four hours with Jake, I can say with certainty getting people interested in him shouldn’t be a problem.
Unfortunately for me, though, that means a lot of responsibility sits on my shoulders. I have to do him justice somehow in the confines of a short feature. I have to capture his magnetism with nothing more than the written word. No pressure or anything.
Yeah. I definitely have to write this article tonight, before I go to bed. I have to get the words down while the day is still fresh in my mind—while I’m still trapped in the emotional web Jake spun for me today.
I shake my head to clear it as it tries to focus back on the end of the night—the one part of the whole day that I cannot think about while I write this—and force it back to the beginning of the day. To the beach and the ocean and the unbelievably confident way he commands them.
To his history as a Navy SEAL and the story he told of Chloe’s birth.
To the honesty and openness he showed me, someone he was in no way obligated to welcome into his life and his secrets.
I grab my wineglass again and take another big gulp. My skin is tingling, and I’m not sure if it’s from the buzz of the air conditioning kicking on or the hit of the wine or the power of the music playing from my stereo, but I rub at my arms and try to extinguish it.
With a lick of my lips, I reset my fingers on the keyboard and prepare to type. This article isn’t going to write itself; I know this to be true. The best thing I can do right now is let the words pour out of me naturally.
I can worry about revising it and perfecting it after the bones are established.
Not Your Average Romeo
Bachelor Anonymous has been selected, ladies. And you better get ready to hold on to your hats…because this single dad brings quite a bit to the table.
A former military man, BA starts his mornings in the swells of the ocean, conditioning his body and mind to be ready for anything. He’s strong and capable and downright impressive in his physical ability, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to this man. He’s emotionally real and raw, and the openness he uses when approaching life, no matter the tragedies he’s faced, would bring most men to their knees. But not Bachelor Anonymous. He’s a single dad with a cape—and his superpower is unconditional love.
People he cares about aren’t limited to a small circle of family and close friends, though. His care and understanding spread all the way to simple acquaintances and employees, and he’s just as dedicated to them as his own daughter.
It’s impressive to witness, to say the least, and after spending a few short hours with him in the morning, I knew that although he may be seeking his Juliet…he’s not your average Romeo.
I take a deep breath and scan through what I’ve written thus far.
To some, it might seem like hyperbole, the way I’ve portrayed him. But the truth is, if anything, I’ve dialed my language back. What’s real and ripe in my mind sounds way, way too much like a love letter. I want desperately to fill in more details and personal accounts, but that’s not the point of this thing at all.
The point is intrigue. Mystery. A little bit of truth.
I pick up my wineglass and take another gulp, swallowing it without even really tasting it and then taking another gulp for good measure.
I have more to write, I know I do, but the hum of what happened at the end of the night taunts me ruthlessly and puts a restlessness in my legs I can hardly sit through.
I have more to get done, I know it. But I don’t know if I can take any more tonight. I need to go to bed.
Decision made, I scroll through the me
nu to save my progress and exit the window quickly, shoving back my chair, picking up my mostly empty glass and taking it to the kitchen to wash it out.
Soft eighties music still plays from the stereo, and I decide to leave it thrumming in the background. I like a little music as I fall asleep most nights, and truthfully, I don’t know that I have the patience to stop and change it to anything else anyway.
I move to the bedroom, into the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth, and then shut the lights and climb into bed.
My sheets are cold, a shocking but welcome feeling against my heated skin as I slink down and take a deep breath.
My head spins as I replay the moment Jake ended our final dance a million times in my mind. The way his body leaned into mine. The feel of his fingertips as they sank into my hip. The smell of his cologne as it enveloped me.
All potent, powerful sense memories I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to forget without doing a full-on reprogramming of my brain. He is the single most openly affectionate man I’ve ever been around. And yet, it doesn’t seem disingenuous. In fact, it always but always feels truly heartfelt.
But all the rest of it aside, the piece of tonight my whole being cannot seem to let go of is the minute, acute, almost indistinguishable touch of our lips.
It was so small—so minor a moment—and yet, it sits atop a podium in my mind, awaiting its golden medal. How can such a fleeting touch feel like it was backed by the weight of the world? How can the whisper of his lips, a glancing blow to the very corner of my own, feel so colossal?
It doesn’t make sense. It’s almost antiscientific.
And yet, here I am, obsessing over it with the vigilance of a woman never touched.
I mean, I’ve had actual penises inside me before. Tongues in my mouth, fingers on my clit—I’ve had some serious person-to-person contact.
And yet, the most lasting memory of all of it—of all of the touches in the world—has come down to Jake Brent’s lips as they grazed the sensitive corner of my own.
That’s some Twilight Zone bullshit, for real.
Obviously, something has short-circuited in my brain. The wires for momentous and mere blip have crossed, and the consequences are real. No doubt, I’ll have to keep an eye on this. Next thing you know, I’ll be thinking that committing a traffic violation is the end of the world and murdering someone is a tiny slipup.
I mean, am I even going to be able to trust myself anymore?
I sink down in my bed and pull the covers over my head to block out the light of the moon. Even its gentle glow is too stark on a night like this. I need inky blackness. I need isolation. I need the kind of solace only a hard sleep can provide.
Knowing the nature of my mind, I groan and peek back out of my covers long enough to reach over to my nightstand. I yank open the drawer and grab the bottle of Advil PM. Two pills tumble into my hand as I shake the bottle, and it may not be the smartest thing in the world, but with the way I’m feeling, I keep shaking until I reveal a third.
Quickly, I toss them to the back of my tongue and grab the bottle of water I keep on the nightstand to swallow them down.
It’s for the best. Really. I need to sleep without vivid dreams of Jake Brent running me ragged. I need my mind to reset without frying, and a nice bout of unconsciousness seems like the only real way to do that.
Bottle of water repositioned atop my bedside table, I scoot back down under the covers and, once again, block out the light.
A small hum sounds from the streetlight outside my house, but I know it’ll be nothing but a sound machine for my sleep soon. I sigh heavily, slinking my body down into the mattress more and forcing my shoulders down and away from my chin.
The tension I’m carrying within my muscles makes them feel spring-loaded.
In fact, I’m fairly confident I could launch the space shuttle if someone set it atop one of them and told me to let her rip.
Even with the Advil PM, I’m feeling dangerously restless. I need something to reset my system. Something to send me into a sleep the likes of which I haven’t had in far too long.
I need an orgasm.
I slide a hand in between my legs cautiously, curiously. I haven’t touched myself—no one has touched me—in six months. The truth is, it hasn’t even been a consideration.
I haven’t felt sexy. I haven’t felt wanton. I haven’t felt any drive or libido whatsoever.
And yet, one day with Jake Brent, and you’re searching for an orgasm.
I close my eyes and try to shut out the annoying voice in my head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. It’s not Jake—it’s just time.
Still, the annoying, pesky little voice has him in my head now, and without trying, his face comes to mind as I slide a finger inside myself.
Oh boy, this is all kinds of wrong.
Yet it feels so right.
I slide my finger out and back in again, and the sensory memory of the feel of his hands on my hips as we danced tonight triggers like a movie in my mind. I slip my finger out again, soaked and wet now from quite a bit of excitement, and circle it around my clit.
I see Jake’s smile as he looks down at me, and I let myself have that one. It’s not a big deal. He’s just fresh in my mind. Nothing more.
Imaginary Jake leans down over me, touching his lips to mine, and my back leaves the bed as a wave of pleasure crashes over me. I circle my finger again, stroking at the bundle of nerves, and a low hum starts in the back of my throat.
It feels good. Too good.
But I can’t think about anything other than coming now. I need it so badly. I need the release of tension. The return to myself. I lick my lips as I reach for sweet relief, but there’s a block of some sort in my mind. Something that’s keeping me from cresting the hill into heaven.
I grab my phone from the nightstand beside me and scroll through my photos to find the one I took of Jake ripping around the motocross track. I can’t use it for the article, obviously, but I couldn’t help but take it. Just…for myself.
Release rebuilds quickly, taking over my muscles and allowing my eyes to shut again. I can feel it coming, feel how overwhelming it’s going to be, and I moan aloud. So loud that I actually think I’ve set off an alarm of some sort when my phone starts to ring.
Shit.
I pick it up from its place on the pillow beside me, clicking the button to turn off the ringer and finally dive off the cliff I’m so precariously at the edge of when my dad’s voice comes over the speaker.
“Holley?”
Ahhhhhhhh! What did I do?
I scramble for the phone, trying like hell to hang it up, but fail miserably, only raising the volume. “Holley?”
“Dad,” I say, my voice breathy and frustratingly weak.
I wrestle the phone up and in front of my face, concentrating hard to try to end the call when the camera engages, and my dad’s face pops up on the screen.
Sweet Jesus! How am I FaceTiming my dad right now?!
Completely unsure of what my dad could be looking at that moment, I do the only thing I can think of. I yell. First, in a shrieking, indecipherable kind of way, and then in a way that forms actual words as my dad starts to freak out because I’m freaking out.
“Dad, close your eyes!” I scream. “For the love of God, close your eyes!”
“What in the—”
“Close your eyes!” I screech at an ungodly pitch.
“Okay, okay!” he yells back. “I closed ’em! Can’t see a goddamn thing, I swear. Can’t see a goddamn thing at all!”
I finally find the button to hang up the call and sag back into the bed like a rag doll. My whole body is sweaty, and I’m fairly certain those are tears running out of my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this close to death before in my life.
Please JESUS, tell me my dad didn’t just see me with my hand between my legs. PLEASE. I need him not to have seen my vagina just now like I’ve never needed anything else in my life.
Immediately, a text comes in, and I scream in horror and throw my phone across the bed in a panic. Only when my heart calms down to a pace that doesn’t seem like it’s going to land me in the morgue do I pick it up again.
I hug it to my chest until it seems like it doesn’t have fangs and then pull it away to look at the screen. My dad’s name beckons from the text bubble, and I slam it down on the bed again.
Will I survive the contents of this text? I’m not sure. But I’m doubly sure I’ll never survive deleting it without reading it either. I have to know. I just have to know what it says.
With a grimace, I pick it up from the hollow of my comforter and bring it up to my face. I click the button to open it and hold my breath.
Dad: I didn’t see anything. I just want you to know that.
I start to take a deep breath when another text message pops into the thread immediately underneath that one without warning.
Dad: But if I had, I’d just remind you that I changed your pull-up all the way until you were nearly five, so this is really no big deal. You refusing to piss on the toilet before you were practically grown was a big deal, but this isn’t. If, you know, there was a this. But I didn’t see anything. Swear.
Goddammit!
Dad: Also, you shouldn’t feel too bad about the potty-training thing either. Doc said it was a trauma thing from losing your mom. Anyhoo, love you and your rights to a healthy relationship with your body.
Mortification isn’t a big enough word. I’m going to have to move. Somewhere really remote. But, like, not so remote that Amazon won’t deliver. I wonder if Jeff Bezos knows the zip code to hell.
Someone put me out of my fucking misery.