Chapter 5 #6
Before I left, Dr. Lively advised me to avoid sexual intercourse for the time being and concentrate on working out or other energy-burning activities that might “compensate” for the gratification that I was no longer able to feel in the sack.
Despite his insistence, I refused to promise that I would come back to him and actually restart therapy, but I also hadn’t denied the possibility that he might see my ugly mug again in the next few days.
I strode furiously over to my parked car, cursing my whole life. I wanted to get away, to disappear and forget about everything he’d told me.
Logan had guessed right. The problem was in my brain, not my body.
I pulled the key fob from my jeans pocket and unlocked the doors. I would have been able to leave immediately if it weren’t for the massive, cherry-red Ducati Monster parked perilously close to my Maserati.
“What the fuck!” I burst out, slowing my stride a little ways away from the bike.
I looked around for the dumbass who had parked it so close that I couldn’t open my door, but there was no one around.
I was on the edge of a meltdown, and I wouldn’t have thought twice about breaking someone’s face.
I knew I’d have to get in the gym and start training the minute I got home, and it would have been nice to warm up my fists on some dickhead instead.
“Oh, sorry, Miller. My baby’s out of commission.” An assertive and notably familiar voice piped up from behind me.
I turned in the direction of the sound and spotted a head of black hair and a pair of green eyes that I knew very well.
The bike belonged to Megan Wayne. Of course.
I immediately went rigid and internally cursed this day, hoping it would just end as soon as possible because I couldn’t go on like this. I had reached my limit with everything that was happening to me.
“Okay, great. I’ll go in the other side,” I said irritably.
There, I had found a solution, but even if I hadn’t, I would have figured out some way to cut off this ridiculous situation.
I examined her feminine shoulders draped in a leather jacket and the star-shaped studs on her lapels. I also looked at her tight black jeans that outlined her slim legs tucked into low-heeled leather boots. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but her savage, snarky charm would never move me.
“Think you could start her for me? Or at least take a look and see why it won’t turn on?
” Megan called out again, halting my attempt to escape from her and from the memories that accompanied her.
I scrutinized her once again, and I didn’t see any hint of malice or mockery in her eyes.
She was just a woman alone in a parking lot at eight p.m., asking for help.
I could have told her no and walked away not giving a shit, like I usually did with everyone else. But some human part of me that I hadn’t even known I had made me stop. I felt sorry for her, and, with a heavy sigh, I brushed past her to get to the Ducati.
“Oh, thank you. I didn’t realize you were nice like that,” she teased and tossed me the key, which I caught in the air, ignoring her needling.
I didn’t answer; I just made myself useful and got on the bike. Calling it a monster was an understatement. I’d ridden bikes like it before, but I’d forgotten the high of it.
I kicked up the stand and put it in neutral before turning the key. I pressed the red start button, but nothing happened.
I got off the bike and spent a few minutes checking for the problem, which I quickly located: The tank was empty.
“Are you familiar with this thing called gas?” I asked her wryly. “Tank’s bone dry.” I looked at her, and she frowned back, her green eyes darting back and forth between me and the bike. Then she raised a skeptical eyebrow at me.
She didn’t believe me.
The woman really was a head case.
“What? That’s impossible,” she said, gesturing at the gas tank. I rolled my eyes and moved close enough to her that she had to crane her neck back to look at me. I took in her pleasant scent and examined the long lashes that framed her vine-colored eyes.
“Can’t you just drive a fucking pink VW Bug? I think that would be more your speed.” I searched her face and quirked the corner of my mouth in a teasing way.
What was she doing on a Ducati when she couldn’t figure out when the tank was empty?
“Why do men always act like sexist dickheads, always assuming a woman is inferior to them both mentally and physically?” she snapped back, her voice steady and self-assured.
I would have enjoyed continuing that interesting exchange of opinions if it were literally anyone else in the world in front of me.
Megan was practically a carbon copy of me, except for the pussy between her legs. I knew how she was. If I indulged her, she would make this discussion last forever, and I didn’t have time to waste on that.
“I’d love to stay here and break down your feminist ideas, but, alas, I have things to do,” I lied.
I didn’t have anything to do. Except get away from her as fast as possible and go home to take yet another shower.
To that end, I tried to walk past her, but Head Case blocked my route with her hands planted on her slim hips.
“I have things to do,” I said again, slower and more menacing this time, but Megan just smiled and shrugged an arrogant shoulder.
“If you were a gentlemen, you might say, ‘Dear Megan, do you need a lift?’” She tried to mimic my voice and failed miserably.
But she wasn’t done with her little pantomime.
“And then I would say, ‘Oh, yes, Miller, you are so well-mannered.’” She pressed a hand to her chest and batted her eyelashes.
“And you would be a better man for that good deed.” She raised a finger in an instructive fashion, and I glanced around, hoping that no one else was bearing witness to this little scene.
I maintained a serious expression, severe and impassive, until the spontaneous smile that I definitely would not have reciprocated vanished off her face.
I rarely smiled, and when I did, it was for a damn good reason.
“Okay, but you’re forgetting one thing: I’m no gentleman. So quit fucking with me and get out of the way.” I brushed her aside easily with one hand, my strength far superior to her own.
“You can’t run away from me forever,” she said, not for the first time, and I halted. I shot her a fierce look, and her legs faltered slightly, making her sway. She knew how prone to rage I was and how poorly I controlled my temper, so continuing to provoke me wasn’t a smart move on her part.
“You’re the one who should be running from me.” Or else, I would destroy her.
I walked around my car and opened the passenger door. I slid in quickly and clambered over the gearshift to get into the driver’s seat.
I, Neil Miller, was fleeing like the devil was on my tail.
I started the engine and rolled down the window because I needed a smoke.
I felt around in my jacket pockets, pulling out a pack of Winstons and sticking a cigarette between my lips.
I couldn’t stand Megan. I couldn’t stand her presence or that feline gaze that was always, always trying to dig deeper inside me.
I couldn’t stand her at all, and yet I couldn’t stop staring at her.
My eyes were fixed on her through the windshield. She stood, shoulders hunched against the cold.
I should have just left, not bothering about her or the bike, but instead I was inexplicably trapped there in my car.
I cupped my hand around the cigarette and lit it.
Megan began to walk away, and my eyes slid from her black hair, fluttering in the freezing air, to her high, tight ass that tensed and released with every sway of her hips.
She had the kind of well-defined, feminine curves that would have left any man dazed.
Even I, a perfectionist with high standards for women, could appreciate the symmetry of her body. Megan was undoubtedly built to be admired. Among other things.
I let the thick smoke out the window and continued to stare at her.
She’d catch a cab probably, but, in the meantime, she was out there alone, on foot in the cold.
My only consolation was that it wasn’t a particularly dangerous part of town, so she could get out of the situation without my help.
I hit the accelerator, the engine making a roar like a lion’s, and her eyes flew to me.
She peered at me as I drummed my fingers on the wheel with one hand, the other resting limp on the window.
I wanted her to know that I was leaving and that I wasn’t going to do anything to help her. I reversed sharply and then slammed on the brakes, leaving skid marks on the asphalt.
I needed to leave. Christ, I had to leave and…
“Get in,” I demanded, sticking my face out the window just far enough that Megan could hear me.
She jumped, turning in my direction, and lifted an eyebrow at me, thoroughly pleased with herself. Another side of me had emerged—a more compassionate one—and I had no idea why.
Maybe I just wanted to rid myself of any sense of responsibility for her. She was a woman, after all, and if something had happened to her, I would have felt guilty.
Still, I didn’t look at her as she walked around the car to get into the passenger seat nor when her orange blossom scent began to mingle with my own inside the car. Instead, I stared fixedly at some point in the middle distance, hoping to understand what the fuck I’d just done.
“Thanks, Miller. So I guess you do have a heart after all.” She closed the door and balanced her purse on her thighs.
“I can feel you, you know? Pounding so hard.” It was Babygirl’s voice. The Tinkerbell who had quieted the Boy’s suffering for a brief period of time. It echoed in my mind, reminding me of her sweet, gentle tone. So different from Megan’s more mature, seductive one.
I tried to avoid thinking about Selene because, whenever I did, it stirred up something inside me that I couldn’t understand.