That Man 3 (16 page)

So much had gone down in the last week, I didn’t know where to begin. After a sip
of the chilled wine, I tearfully blurted out, “Blake Burns and I fell in love, and
now it’s over.”

Libby’s eyes practically popped out of their sockets and her jaw dropped to the floor.
I’d never seen her so stunned. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I shook my head.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know, Lib. I’m sorry. It all just happened so fast.”

She glanced down at my bandaged foot. “Rough sex?”

I shook my head again. “No, rough weekend.”

“Well, you’d better start explaining.”

With a heavy sigh, I took a long sip of my wine and started from the beginning. How
Blake Burns was the man I’d kissed and fallen for when I’d play that game of Truth
or Dare, blindfolded, on the night of my engagement party.

Libby gulped her wine and fluttered her eyes with shock. “Holy Fuck! How did you find
out?”

I told her about the kiss under the mistletoe at the office party and then how we’d
fucked our brains out in his fuck pad.

“Holy Shit!” She guzzled her wine. “I may have to open another bottle. Keep talking.”

I told her about everything that had happened back home—his surprise visit, his declaration
of love, our first night together in my bedroom, and even our enchanted fuck in the
snow. Rivulets of tears poured down my face as I recounted and relived all these magical
moments.

Libby was all ears. “Wow! I hate to admit it, but he sounds amazing. I don’t get it.
What happened?”

Skimming over the Springer stuff, I launched into our New Year’s weekend in Malibu.
I could no longer hold back. I burst into hysterical sobs. “Libby, he did something
terrible.”

She eyed my bandaged foot and her eyes widened. “He hurt you?”

I nodded. “He hurt me. But not physically.” I took a break to brush away my tears.
“Libby, I found out he was the one who took and sent that video of Bradley and Candace.”
I tearfully told her how.

Libby gasped. “No way. I mean, I never liked Bradley, but that’s totally creepy. What
a fucking lowlife bastard!”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it. I split as fast I could but stepped on a piece of
glass.” I adjusted my bandaged foot on the pillow. “Twenty fucking stitches.”

“You poor thing,” consoled Libby as she reached to dab my tears with a paper cocktail
napkin. “I can’t believe this has all happened.”

“Lib, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone at work about Blake and me.”

“I promise.” My big-mouthed friend glanced down again at my foot. “Does your foot
hurt?”

“Right now, it’s numb. The doctor gave me some painkillers. I probably shouldn’t be
drinking, but fuck it.”

“What are you going to do about Blake?”

I bit down on my lip. “I don’t want to see him again.”

“What about your job?”

I heaved a breath. That was the big question. How could I continue to work with the
bastard? Face him every day? Deal with the pain? Get through the rage? Yet, I loved
my job. And wanted so badly to see the block of women’s programming I was developing
come to fruition. Fuck, what was I going to do? I was too hurt and confused to think
straight. I swiped at my tears and shrugged my shoulders.

“I don’t know, Lib. What would you do?” I croaked, my voice hoarse. “No one from Nick
or Disney is going to hire me with SIN-TV on my resumé.”

My friend, the analyst, knitted her unruly brows in deep thought. “Don’t quit. It’s
a great job and you’re doing great things. The company is going to recognize you.
And when they do, you’ll be able to move up wherever you want. So, I know it’s going
to be hard, but hang in there.”

I digested Libby’s words. She was right as usual. Except it wasn’t going to be hard
to hang in there. It was going to be next to impossible. I sipped more wine.

A loud knock-knock-knock at the front door caught us both by surprise. Puzzled, Libby
jumped up from her chair and headed toward it. “Did you order a pizza?” I asked as
she peered through the peephole.

Not answering me, she unbolted the door and bent down to retrieve something. Slamming
the door closed, she stood up and turned to face me. Two familiar objects were dangling
from her hands: My purse and my suitcase. And tucked under an arm was Blake’s white
tiger.

My mouth fell open and my heart thudded. “Is he out there?”

Libby shook her head. “I saw him drive off.”

I sighed with relief, yet a dagger of disappointment dug into my gut. My stomach twisted
painfully.

Grabbing my crutches, I lifted myself off the couch. My foot throbbed. The pain medicine
the doctor had given me must be wearing off. Maybe later, Libby would go out and pick
up the prescription the doctor called in for me at our local CVS. Yes. That’s what
I needed. Pain pills. They might alleviate the pain in my foot, but the pain in my
heart was mine to bear.

I hopped in the direction of my bedroom. “Lib, could you do me a big favor and bring
my things to my room?”

“Sure,” my bestie said brightly. Wheeling the suitcase, she followed me down the narrow
hallway that led to my room.

“Where do you want everything?” she asked.

“On my bed would be fine.”

She complied. “Cute tiger,” she said as she propped it against my pillow. “A Christmas
present from your parents?”

“Yes,” I stuttered. For some reason, I didn’t want to share the fact it was from Blake.
Fighting back tears, I eyed the plush toy wistfully. And then I glanced down at my
chest. A little gasp escaped my throat. I was missing the pendant necklace with the
tourmaline heart that Blake had given me along with the tiger. I must have lost it
in the ocean or maybe the sand. Another wave of sadness swept over me. It stood for
everything that was Blake. Everything that
was
us. Something rare and beautiful. And now, it was forever gone.

I was on the verge of crying when Libby’s voice sounded. “Want me to help you unpack?”

“Thanks, but I think I can manage.” My room was small, so it wouldn’t be that big
a deal to hang up the stuff I’d brought to Boise or tuck it away in my armoire. Even
on crutches. I probably could just hop around on one foot and use a single crutch
for support if I had to. Plus, I needed some alone time.

“Is there anything else you need me to do?” There was genuine compassion in Libby’s
voice.

With a tearful voice, I asked if she could bring me some saran wrap or a plastic garbage
bag so I could wrap my foot up and take a much needed shower; I was still covered
all over with sand and salt. I also asked if she didn’t mind going to the pharmacy
to pick up my pain pills. I was quickly discovering that being on crutches was ridiculously
humbling. Lucky for me, my best friend couldn’t be more obliging. God, I loved Libby!

When Libby returned with a roll of saran wrap, I thanked her and asked her a few questions
about her holiday, realizing I’d so selfishly only talked about myself. She told me
she’d had a relaxing week and a blast at the
Chorus Line
-themed New Year’s Eve party her twin brother Chaz had thrown. Eager to get to the
pharmacy before it closed, she told me she’d tell me more when she got back. After
a hug, she took off to pick up my meds as well as some Chinese take-out. It didn’t
matter to me what kind of food she brought back. Nauseated and terribly saddened,
I had no appetite.

I decided to take a shower first. After securely wrapping up my bandaged foot with
the entire roll of saran wrap, I hobbled down the hall to the bathroom we shared.
Luckily, we had a stall shower that was easy to step into, and it even had a handicap
rail left behind by the elderly tenant who’d inhabited this house before us.

I debated whether I should take my crutches into the shower, but ultimately left them
against the glass shower door. On one foot, I hopped into the shower and turned it
on.

Holding on to the handicap rail, my bad foot raised, I let the hot water pound on
my head. I soaped up the large sponge and began to wash the memories of today away.
Granules of sand laced the tiled floor. I softly brushed the sponge over my breasts
and then moved it to the delicate folds between my legs. I couldn’t wash the throbbing
away. Damn it! He was still with me. The memory of taking a shower with Blake this
morning filled my head. How sensual it had been—first that mind-blowing finger fuck
and then fucking me against the wall in a steamy haze until I fell apart. I could
feel him now. His mouth on my wet flesh, his magnificent cock thrusting against my
own wet walls, my pussy throbbing. My breathing grew shallow. I was masturbating,
rubbing the sponge against my clit to bring myself to a climax of despair. Tears seared
my eyes as I came.

Hastily, I washed my hair. The scent of the shampoo aroused yet more memories. The
Very Cherry Vanilla shampoo was from Gloria’s Secret. A little got in my eyes. It
stung like the memories the shampoo brought back.

Not bothering to condition my hair, I carefully hopped out of the shower. After towel
drying myself, I wrapped myself in the fluffy bathrobe I always kept on a nearby hook,
and then palmed the shower door for balance as I removed the saran wrap from my injured
foot. Success. The bandage had remained dry. But the throbbing in my foot had intensified.
I hoped Libby would hurry back soon with my meds.

I grabbed my crutches and hobbled over to the sink. I glanced at myself in the mirror.
My reflection shocked me. Even after the shower, I looked drawn and drained. My eyes
were swollen-red and my lips puffy—all from crying. Fuck
that
man! He had turned me into a heartbroken, blubbering mess. With more tears threatening
to fall, I quickly brushed my hair and teeth and headed back to my room.

I was beat, physically and emotionally. And my foot hurt like fucking hell. But I
was determined to unpack. To put away the memories of today once and for all. I lowered
myself to my bed, leaning the crutches against it, and zipped open my suitcase. My
eyes widened and my heart stammered. Neatly packed on top of my belongings was all
the Gloria’s Secret lingerie I’d worn with Blake. And there was something else—Blake’s
collarless shirt. I reached for the shirt and put it to my nose. It smelled of him.
It smelled of me. It smelled of us.

Except there was no more us. I flung the shirt to the floor as if it were toxic. Fuck
that
man! Fuck that beautiful bastard! He was just trying to get to me. Rage consumed
me. With all the muscle strength I could muster, I hurled the bag off the bed. The
contents sprawled all over the floor. My room looked as if it had been ransacked by
a burglar.

The truth was, I had been robbed. Robbed of my heart. Wrapped in my robe, I curled
up on my bed and began to sob. I was almost glad I didn’t have my meds because the
intense pain in my foot was the only thing that kept the pain in my heart at bay.
Clutching the soft white cuddly tiger, I cried myself to sleep.

Blake

I
didn’t expect Jennifer to show up at the office. In fact, I was surprised I showed
up. After dropping her bags off last night, I had gone to some seedy Hollywood bar
where no one knew me and drunk myself to oblivion while some skinny, shaggy, out-of-work
musician sang Passenger’s “Let Her Go.” After the third whisky, I’d stopped counting.
I don’t know how I got home. I couldn’t re­mem­ber. Amazing­ly, I wasn’t stopped by
some cop and hadn’t gotten into some head-on collision. The minute I got home, I’d
puked my guts out. I was lucky I’d made it to the toilet in time. Vaguely, I remembered
collapsing onto my bed without undressing. This morning I was paying the price of
my fucked-upness. I had a raging headache; waves of nausea still swarmed my chest,
and I looked like shit—eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled, face stubbled. And worse,
I felt like a dick. A fucking prick. A stupid bastard. A goddamn asshole. I was the
Dickwick, not Bradley Wick, DDS.

No girl had ever walked away from me. I was a player. I was the one who did the walking.
But Jennifer McCoy was no ordinary girl. She had made me feel things I’d never felt
before. She’d showed me my heart wasn’t just an organ for pumping blood to my cock.
It was something more—a home. A home for love. But now, my heart was vacant. The lights
were out.

I’d fallen hard in love with Jennifer and I’d stupidly, selfishly fucked it up. In
all my almost thirty years, I’d never before had a moment of self-loathing. I’d gotten
everything I’d wanted. Done everything I’d wanted to do. Never had a regret. But now,
self-loathing ran deep through my veins, darkening my already black heart. I fucking
hated myself for what I had done.

Nursing my headache, I was drinking black coffee at my desk and about to boot up my
computer when Jennifer hobbled into my office, still on her crutches and wearing the
backpack her parents had given her. She looked somber in all black—a full calf-length
skirt, a simple black tee, and a pair, or rather, a single ballet flat on her good
foot. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed behind her glasses, her skin paler than
usual. A new wave of nausea swelled inside my chest. Her frail state made me feel
even sicker to my stomach.

“Take a seat,” I managed, setting down my coffee.

“No need. I won’t be staying long.”

My heart stuttered. “You’ve come here to resign?”

She adjusted her crutches and met my gaze. “I’ve come here to do my job. I’ll be working
all day on my Gloria’s Secret PowerPoint presentation.”

I floundered for words. “How’s your foot?”

Her eyes sliced into me like razor blades. “It hurts.” With that, she hobbled out
of my office, leaving me the stupid prick I was.

I spent the rest of the morning answering e-mails and watching dailies of a new porn
flick we were shooting that was scheduled to air in the Fall. Usually, I got a boner
watching some dude massage his nine-inch dick between the planet-sized tits of some
blond bimbo, but today, I didn’t. I could barely focus. And my cock was comatose.
My mind was totally consumed by Jennifer. I had the burning urge to burst into her
office, sweep her off her feet, and shower her with make-up kisses. The fact that
she couldn’t walk away made it even more tempting.