The walk home is pretty short—one of the perks of the stupid expensive apartment—so short in fact that I’m barely processing what I just did by the time I hit the doors to the third floor walk-up that I call home. Hennessey gave me an out, and I didn’t take it. I could have told him not to make a move and he wouldn’t have. My brother may be a dick most of the time, and he may run through women like some men run through disposable razors, but he’s loyal and doesn’t lie.
My eyes sting and my gut makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a Mac-10. There’s got to be something in the air, because the sensitivity in my eyes can’t be tears. I’m a man, one of New York’s Bravest, and a Hayes. We don’t cry. Crying is for pussies. I suck in deep breath after deep breath until my eyes dry up and I’m able to breathe somewhat normally again. I’m losing something I didn’t really have, so why does the loss feel so insurmountable? The tension in my body is almost too much to bear—like I’m going to explode or freak out and just start swinging at random shit.
I’m at the bottom of the first floor staircase when I decide that it’s the perfect night to get shit-faced. At the base of the second floor staircase, I decide I’m not going to let this bullshit control me any longer. I’ll quit Facebook if I have to in order to avoid the inevitable evidence that Mel’s moved on. With my brother.
Tell me right now that she doesn’t deserve better than what you’re not giving her, and I’ll back off.
At least with Hennessey I can make sure she’s taken care of. At least I know if he does get serious about her that he won’t totally screw her over. He’s never been serious about anyone before, but I have to believe that all those good things that make up who Hennessey is will translate into him being a decent enough man. He won’t be enough for her—nobody is, including me.
By the time I’m unlocking the door to my apartment, I’m already preparing myself for sitting across the table from them at family dinners as they grow together as a couple. It’ll start with dating exclusively, then the “I love you” bullshit, then the living together. Eventually he’ll want to marry her, because who the fuck wouldn’t want to do everything he can to be with her forever? Mom’s too pushy and Mel’s too fucking pretty and kind and maternal to not have kids, so that’s going to happen. And one day they’re going to try to set me up with somebody because I’ll be alone, and I’ll decline.
I open the door and see Lydia in our tiny kitchen. She’s putting away a sack of groceries she must have picked up on her way home. Looking at her now, with her perfectly smooth ponytail and pleated khakis, collared blouse, and fitted cardigan, I realize that I feel nothing for this woman. Maybe a little resentment, because her presence in my life is the reason I’ve missed out on the best fucking thing that could have ever happened to me. It’s not fair to Lydia, to keep her in this bullshit relationship when I feel so little for her. Because it’s become perfectly clear that I’d rather be alone and miserable than with her and miserable. No matter how much it’ll hurt her.
But I’m a selfish bastard and I need something to distract me.
With a loud slamming sound, the door shuts behind me. I remove my gloves and jacket, toss both on the sofa, and stalk toward her.
“Hi, baby,” she says quietly as she notices what I’m doing. She’s half-breathless and half-wary. I close the distance between us and press her back into the counter. My lips claim hers instantly, and like I’ve lit a match, she’s on fire in seconds. I drown myself in the pathetic desperation of trying to feel something from the touch of a woman who only makes me feel numb.
Chapter 11
Jameson
We’re on our bed and almost completely naked now. I’m not being slow or gentle. I don’t care if she enjoys it, really. This isn’t about connecting. It’s about fucking and feeling something and not feeling a damn thing and losing myself in the motions if even for a moment to drown out the pain of throwing away the best thing I never had.
Lydia mewls from beneath me and drags her nails down my bare back. Frustrated, I grab her hands and hold them above her head. She bucks against me excitedly. I hate it when she marks me like that.
“You’re feisty, baby,” she says with a grin.
With my free hand, I start pulling her panties down, but it proves difficult with the way she’s wiggling like a fucking cat in heat, so I free her and roll to my back where I discard my boxers onto the floor. I’m hard enough to fuck her? courtesy of the images I’m working hard to keep running through my mind.
Mel at the house watch desk.
Mel at the hot dog stand.
Mel on the porch at her beach house.
Mel in an expensive red dress.