? ? ?
I awake from a deep sleep. Some nights I sleep like a baby, others I find myself tossing and turning most of the night. Tonight is one of those in-between nights. I open my eyes and find myself spinning the gun on his desk as someone taunts me: “Pull the trigger. I dare you. You’re such a sorry excuse of a son. Just do it.” The shadow hovers over me, a face I can’t make out. My heart is pounding and adrenaline pumps through my veins as he urges me to just do it.
“Xander, man, wake up,” Garrett says, touching my shoulders, shaking me.
I look up to see him, not my father, standing over me. Fuck, I haven’t had a dream like that in a long time.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m fine. Thanks. Sorry if I woke you. Just a bad dream.” He lets the curtain fall back and I shift restlessly for the next few hours.
After a breakdown on the road, we’re headed to Cleveland, and can finally get off this bus. I’ll be glad to stay in my own room and get some decent rest. I’m too tired to get any work done today. My head is drowning with the same regrets I always have after dreams of my father—mainly one regret—why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Of course, in my dreams it’s always my father tempting me with death in some way—but three therapists later, the dreams mean the same thing. I have to let my guilt go or the dreams will continue to haunt me. I have no fucking idea how to do that, and seeing a shrink was not my thing—talking about feelings and evaluating everything in my life since I was born is something I ultimately passed on.
Unable to sleep, I hop out of bed and check my e-mails, but find nothing of concern and no fires to put out, so I decide to go back to bed. Around noon I finally haul my sorry ass up. I skip any kind of workout today—I’m just too drained. The galley is quiet as I walk through it and into the small bathroom. Turning the hot water on in the shower as high as I can, I try to erase the nightmare from my mind and for once just let thoughts of Ivy consume me. The mirror starts to fog up and I think about last night. Shit, all I want to do is make her mine.
Stripping off my clothes, I’m already half hard just thinking about her, her perfect body, and how much I want to be with her again. I step into the pint-sized shower with my cock in my hand. I want her hand to curl around me so she’ll feel how hard she makes me. I close my eyes and gently rub, first around my cock, then my balls. Fuck, that feels good. I picture her doing this—in the shower, with us exploring our bodies in any way we want. I want to feel her hands gripping me. I think of her, her face, her body . . . the ways I want to touch her, where I want to touch her. I imagine driving my cock into her sweet *, and it makes me want to come hard and fast.
My fist pumps at a quicker pace and I lick the water from my lips. The pressure wells deep and a tingling radiates from my cock. As my orgasm starts to build, so do the contractions—it feels like electricity is shooting through me. My dick twitches and I can’t hold on any longer. As I start to come, practically spasming, the incredible feeling builds and I finally let myself go, crossing that threshold over and over until I’m spent. My chest rises and falls and I slouch back against the shower wall.
Once my breathing returns to normal, I lather up with soap, rinse it off, and get out of the shower. I don’t bother to shave. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I wipe the steam from the mirror. The ink on my side was always the hope for my future, but I fucked it up because I never went after it. Hazel eyes and brown hair reflect back and I try to see my life differently from what it really is—I’m thirty fucking years old and I have nothing—nothing that matters, anyway.
Throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I attempt to shake off the morning. I print out the daily schedule and post it, then head over to get a cup of coffee. Nix and Garrett sit in comfortable silence in the lounge. Nix is reading the paper and Garrett is eating something that resembles nachos.
“Want some? There’s plenty,” Garrett says, crunching a chip.
“No, thanks. That looks disgusting. What is it?”
“It’s classic is what it is—a can of chili con carne, a jar of nacho sauce, and a bag of chips.”
I pour a cup of the coffee that looks like sludge. “Flynn, your eating habits need some serious help.”
“Hey, watch out—the next time you’re craving my pizza, I might just tell you to make it yourself.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Remind me again when I ever asked you to take a stale-looking hunk of bread and slap a jar of sauce on it?”
He just grins at me and crunches another chip. I take my coffee and stumble blurry-eyed into the back lounge to catch ESPN. Leif’s in there, and he looks me over.
“Rough night?” he asks.