The past few months, he’d worked in Mobile, doing construction for a while, then waited tables when the economic slump had hit the construction industry. The days had passed in a surreal blur.
Endless nights passed slowly, haunted by dreams that left him aching and sick with guilt. Quite a few of those nights, he ended up relying on strong, hard liquor to quiet the dreams.
He’d been functioning just fine, taking one day at a time, one drink at a time.
Then the dreams got stronger. The need for a woman’s touch had threatened to drive him crazy. But he didn’t just want any woman’s touch. He wanted Bree’s touch. Craved it. Needed it.
That need fueled the guilt that he lived with and one drink just wasn’t enough at night. He started needing two. Three. But the more he drank, the worse things got…because he starting hearing voices.
No. Not voices. Voice. One voice. Alyssa’s.
Brought on by guilt, grief and loneliness, no doubt. And the alcohol probably didn’t help. So eventually he had hunted down every last drop of booze he had in his apartment and dumped it down the drain, hoping the imaginary voice of his wife would go quiet.
It didn’t happen.
Hoped that maybe the dreams would fade if he just worked himself into exhaustion.
That didn’t happen either.
Still, he kept away from the alcohol, made himself get through each day as it came.
Refused to think about anything beyond what he had to do to get through the days and nights.
But a day came when he found himself looking at a calendar and it hit him.
A year.
His wife had been gone almost a year. He’d walked away from his life almost a year ago. Though he didn’t much give a damn about his pathetic, empty life, it occurred to him that he did have some loose ends to wrap up. The house, for one.
Bree was another loose end, but not one he was all too anxious to deal with. All he needed to do was tell her goodbye, tell her thank you.
Hot, sweaty dreams aside, guilt aside, she’d been there for him, for Alyssa, and it would be nice if he could tell her thanks without falling apart in front of her.
But the house first. He’d face Bree in a day or two. Maybe. If he could get his head on straight.
If the place had been sold, he doubted he’d be able to get inside. But to his surprise, his key worked. He opened the door and the silence of the place hit him square in the chest.
Quiet. Way too quiet.
There’d always been music playing or the TV on. Alyssa talking on the phone with Bree— Shit, don’t go down that road.
But it was too late. His eyes closed as he thought of her and a stab of guilt hit him anew. Even a year later, he could recall how he’d almost done the unforgiveable. How close he’d been to kissing her, how close he’d been to reaching out and grabbing whatever comfort she might have been willing to give him.
But it wasn’t guilt alone. It came with desire and he swore, passed a hand over his eyes, and tried to pretend he wasn’t having a flashback to puberty when his dick got hard out of the blue and stayed that way until he locked himself in the bathroom and jacked off.
This was worse than puberty though, and the damn dreams that haunted him at night didn’t help. He needed to stop this, stop thinking about Bree like that, stop thinking about her…period. It was messed up.
Why?
The whisper slid past him, a kiss of air against his ear.
If he let himself think about it, he just might admit his wife was haunting him.
Too many dreams plagued him and very few of them made sense. Well, the ones where he got his hands on Bree—those made sense. The dreams where he stripped her long, sexy body naked, dreams where she wrapped those strong, sleek thighs around his hips and took him inside. Those made plenty of sense.
There was something exotic about Bree, but there always had been, even back in school. He hadn’t ever told Alyssa, but there had been a couple of months in high school where quite a few of his wet dreams had been centered on her best friend.
Bree was built—1940s movie-starlet built—with round, ripe breasts, hips, a tight, sweetly curved ass and a mouth that always looked just a little bit swollen, as though some guy had just kissed her. The way Colby too often dreamed of doing. She had serious gray eyes that tilted up at the corners, glossy black hair—worn short and smooth—olive-toned skin, and long legs that would wrap around a man’s waist and ride until he begged for mercy.
Back in high school, he had quietly enjoyed those dreams without ever acting on them. Then, much like now, he was pretty much an introvert and the thought of asking Bree out would have been enough to have him stammering and tripping over his tongue. So he had dreamed about her, watched her, blushed when she looked his way, and that had been it.
But then Alyssa had started flirting with him, teasing him, and he’d been lost. The dreams about Bree faded and he’d been just fine and perfectly content to have Alyssa start taking the starring role.
The problem was that the dreams had started coming back and only hours after he’d buried his wife.
That was one serious problem.