Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Jackson
D o you have ten minutes?
The text from Maddie flashes on my phone. She doesn't add for phone sex, please , but we both know the ask.
This is our routine. Once or twice a week, one of us sends a request. The other calls or reschedules.
Mine are more to the point— do you want to come for me? —but they're no different, really.
We both know better.
This is over.
There's no reason to hold on.
This is too intimate. This is fucked up. This is a bad decision on top of a bad decision.
But that only makes it more appealing.
In every other area of my life, I do the smart thing every single time. For my entire life, I've done the smart thing every time.
As a kid, I did my homework after school. I went to jujitsu practice twice a week. I studied for every test well before the night before.
I carried that through college, law school, the first three years of practice. Responsibilities, first. School, first. Then work, first. Family trumps all of that, of course. If Mom or Dad or Cass, or even Laurel or Zack, need me, I'm there.
That's what a good man does. That's the right way to behave. And now I'm close to everything I want, everything I've been working for—
A partnership at the firm.
The success and recognition I need. Enough security to set up my entire future. Money to pay off the house, finance my wife's dreams, fill a college fund for my kids.
Only I'm no closer to any of those things.
Every relationship ends the same way.
You're such a great guy, Jackson. Responsible and kind. A caretaker. You'll make a great father and husband one day. For someone else .
We make perfect sense on paper, but it just doesn't work.
I don't love her, and she—
Well, that isn't true. A lot of the women say they love me. But I can never say it back. I can never find the words.
Why are we so devoted to this abstract idea anyway? Where does following our heart get us?
To pain and chaos and turmoil.
Better to do what makes sense—
But I don't. Not right now.
I don't say no, I can't . I don't do the smart thing and protect both our hearts. Sex is the one place I give into my desires. Even when they don't make sense. Even when they're dirty or twisted or wrong.
And talking my ex-girlfriend off twenty minutes before my family arrives to carpool to Las Vegas—
That's fucked up in a sexy as fuck sort of way.
She sends a picture of her white shirt, unbuttoned to show off her mesh bra. It's sheer enough I can see her nipples.
Can people see them through the shirt?
She wouldn't wear this out. Only to toy with me.
It's all pretense. Fake. But it's not as if I know anything else. It's not that I'm full of shit, exactly. More, I don't know what's beyond the facade.
This is the game we play. I'm the bossy Dom, and she's the pliant sub. We slip into our roles because they turn us on. We don't question what they say about us.
I don't—
Maybe she's different. Maybe that's why she left.
My gaze goes to the screen, and my interest in introspection dissolves. Why ask myself why this didn't work when I can hear her groans in my ears instead?
Fucked up, but with blood flowing to my dick, I don't exactly care.
I text back.
Jackson: I only have ten minutes.
Maddie: That's all I need.
She sends another picture with the shirt on the floor, her curvy body spread over the bed.
The phone vibrates with her ringtone. The Amy Winehouse song Cassie set when I told her about the breakup. A joke. Or maybe an honest attempt to connect with me emotionally. It's hard to know with my sister. She lives and breathes music. She has a passion I can only imagine.
I wish I felt that way about something. Anything.
But I don't have her artistic temperament. I'm practical to a fault. This is the only place I break the rules.
The only place I follow my needs.
I answer the call and push the song from my mind. I can't linger on the problems of the day. I need this too.
It's been too long.
I've ignored my body for too long. Martial arts practice satisfies my desire to move, to connect even, but it doesn't fill me here.
This is the only way I know how to care for myself—
Fucked up.
But I'm well into that only makes it hotter .
"What else are you wearing?" My voice drops to a demanding tone. I should warm up, tease her, but I don't have time. I don't have the patience.
Maddie responds with a picture message of her pelvis. The sheer bottoms match the bra. The nude fabric stretches over her curvy hips, showing everything I want to see. But not enough. I need more. I need everything.
"Take them off." I slip into my role with ease. This is a dance I know. The only dance I know. But I'm fucking good at it.
"Where are you?" Her voice is already breathy and desperate. She's not calling because I stroke her desire. She's calling because she's horny, and I'm here.
But then, I'm not answering because she drives me wild either. I'm answering because this is easy. Because I pick work over sex every time.
Because I'm too busy to find someone else.
Millennial burnout: phone sex edition.
The kind of joke I'd share with Cass, but, hey, now isn't the time to think of family. This is my time. Only five minutes, ten max, but it's mine.
"I'm in my bedroom." I sit on the bed next to my almost-packed suitcase. She's been here with me. Been naked in my lap, purring, begging me to kiss her, touch her, fuck her.
I want that.
If we were together, I'd draw it out as long as possible. I'd talk her off, but I'd hold off on my orgasm. Because I'd rather test my patience. I'd rather soak in the anticipation.
Because it drives her out of her fucking mind too.
But we're not together. There's no satisfaction at the end of this tease. And the risk of looking for it with my sister's best friend, Daphne—
Not smart.
She's too tall, too funny, too tempting.
Not just gorgeous. Smart too.
What can I say? I love a brainiac. That was what first drew me to Maddie. Not her light eyes, or her lush breasts, or her round hips, but her big, beautiful brain.
The expert witness and the lawyer. Two career-minded people looking to marry and have kids. Perfect on paper.
In reality?
We just weren't there.
But this isn't time for nostalgia. This is time for dirty thoughts.
If I can't get my head in place, fine, but I made her a promise. I intend to deliver. "Do you remember that night after the trial?" I ask.
"Yes." She doesn't need clarification. She knows the night I mean. The one where I took her out for drinks, ordered her out of her underwear, teased her all fucking night, until she was so wound up, she came the second I touched her.
"Imagine we're on the balcony." I lower my voice to a seductive tone. It's a put-on, yes, but I don't care. I don't owe her my authentic self. Not anymore.
She doesn't care either. She responds with a low groan.
I fall into the familiar role. That night, with a twist.
An old scenario. Strangers at a hotel bar. We meet. We flirt. I take her to her room, order her out of her clothes, tie her wrists together with my belt, fuck her until she's screaming my name.
She comes fast.
That's what really puts me there. The authentic sound of her pleasure. Is there anything hotter than a woman who's really there ?
It erases the hesitation in my mind. The pain too. I forget the voice in my head asking why is it I'm not worthy of love , and I surrender to desire. My senses fire with memories. The feeling of her bare skin against mine, the taste of her thighs, the sound of her groan.
I come fast too.
She waits for me to catch my breath, and she says, "Thanks."
This is where I say right back at you , or you're welcome , or same time next week . If I'm in a particularly demanding mood, I tell her to think of me next time or walk around without panties.
All things I shouldn't tell her. Games I shouldn't play with my ex-girlfriend.
But I say something far worse: "Do you want to grab a drink next week?"
"At a hotel bar?" Her voice perks. She likes the idea of doing this in person. Doing me in person.
"To catch up."
"Oh." In one moment, her interest wanes. "Jackson." She packs everything into that single word. Jackson, let's not pretend this has a chance. Jackson, I loved you, and a part of me always will, but let's face it: you never loved me. "I don't think so."
Fuck. I take a deep breath and push an exhale through my nose.
"Maybe we should put this on pause." Her voice softens. "If that's what you need to move on."
Maybe, but this isn't why I haven't moved on. It's some broken thing inside me. An inability to feel the things I'm supposed to feel. "If that's what you want."
"I want to meet at a hotel bar. But I know… I know you have to go. Have fun in Las Vegas, okay." Her laugh is soft. It says we both know this is the only kind of fun you know how to have . "Find a stranger at a hotel bar. Do this for real."
Right. That's what people do in Las Vegas. They fuck with abandon.
And that's something I know how to do. That's the only thing I know how to do, really. The only way I know how to satisfy a woman.
But I'm fucking good at it.
Really fucking good at it.
"Are you okay?" she asks. "I know you only have a minute, but I… I do hope we'll always be friends."
"Of course." I take a deep breath and push my other thoughts aside. It's not her fault I don't feel the right things. It's not her fault this plan I'm following doesn't work. I'm supposed to be at a different phase of my life. Married. Stable. Safe.
I'm just not.
It's me.
I just don't know how to change it. "Take care, Maddie."
"You too." She ends the call.
The silence echoes through the room. It underlines the size and emptiness of my house.
Why is it so empty? I followed the plan. I walked the steps. I just don't get it.
I clean up, I dress, I take calm breaths. To center myself.
There's one thing I can't handle: Chaos.
And this trip to Las Vegas is sure to bring a lot. I need to keep my head on straight. Especially because—
Right on cue, the doorbell rings. I peek out the front door, and I see her.
Daphne, on the front steps, all tall and long and tempting.
Four days in Las Vegas. All that chaos and the only way I know how to center myself is sex—
And the woman I want more than any other is right there.
And I can't touch her.
This isn't smart. I should get out of it.
But I can't. I have to white-knuckle it.
I'm a grown-up. I can do that. In theory.