Page 70 of Stroked Hard
“How many nights?” he asks, assessing me over his black beans.
“The past three,” I answer on an exhausted exhale. “It’s fucking with me in every way possible.”
“Have you talked to Holly about it?”
“No. Why the fuck would I do that? I don’t want to bring that day back up to her? It’s bad enough she’s reminded every fucking second what happened to her when she’s wheeling herself around. I’m not about to tell her I can’t sleep at night because I keep dreaming about it. I don’t want her to feel bad for me.”
“So in turn, you feel bad for her?” Reese asks, trying to pull some psychobabble on me.
“Cut the shit, doc,” I say sarcastically. “Of course I feel bad for her.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe she doesn’t want you to feel bad for her?”
The thought never crossed my mind and honestly, I don’t care to think about how Holly might feel about the whole accident. We’ve never talked about it and I don’t plan on doing it any time soon. The guilt is too heavy on me. I can’t have any more piled on my shoulders.
“That’s not why I came to talk to you.” Changing the subject, I’m good at that.
“Can I get you two anything else?” the waitress asks before Reese can ask me why I brought him here.
“Yeah, can we get a fried ice cream?” Fuck it. I could care less about diving right about now. “And don’t bother bringing two spoons. Sally over here thinks it will stick to her hips.”
Chuckling, the waitress nods her head and takes off to fulfill my order, leaving a scowling Reese alone with me.
“What?” I ask with a smirk that I can’t seem to hide.
“Just fucking wait, asshole. You’ll get yours.”
“Ooo, I’m shaking in my boots,” I deadpan. I take a quick sip of my water and say, “Now can we please get to the reason why I asked you here?”
“Please, by all means, entertain me with your melodramatic diatribe.”
Yikes, I might have pissed him off a little too much.
“Uh, how’s production?” It takes all but two seconds for Reese to see right through me, I know this by the way he throws his head back and laughs deep from the pit of his stomach, drawing attention from everyone around us.
“Oh fuck,” he chuckles out.
“What’s the big deal?” Keep things cool and casual, that’s my motto, then he won’t see right through me.
“You want to know about Melony. Has she been shutting you out? I told you she wouldn’t budge.”
“I don’t want to know about Melony,” I lie. “I was actually curious about the whole reality show concept. Thinking about getting myself one of those shows.”
Reese shakes his head and pats his mouth clean with his napkin. “You’re so fucking demented, man. Just come out and say it.”
Just wanting answers at this point, I give in. “Fine, how’s Melony? She’s still alive, right? She hasn’t been answering any of my calls or texts, and it’s driving me fucking insane.”
Studying me, Reese asks, “Have you ever heard of a stage-five clinger?” I nod my head. “Dude, look in a mirror.”
“I’m not a stage-five clinger,” I protest. “Fuck, I just . . .” I pause and think about my actions. Calls, voicemails, texts, stalking her apartment. Running my hands over my face, I say, “Shit, I’m a stage-five clinger.”
Another uproarious laugh erupts from Reese, setting my irritation at an all-time high. “Glad you can see it that way.”
“Fuck you. Just tell me if you’ve seen her.”
“Yesterday,” Reese answers just as the waitress sets my dessert in front of me. The fried dairy filters through my nose, instantly relaxing me.
Fucking sugar. It’s all I need in this world. That and Melony.
