Addicted to Sin Read online

  See you tonight. Can’t wait.

  Maddy x

  11

  Famous Last Words

  MADISON

  “What do you mean ‘he can’t make it?’” asks Mary from the end of my bed.

  I shrug, tossing her my phone so she can see the proof for herself.

  As she reads over the message, she curses. “What does he mean, ‘something came up?’ Like what, exactly? The only forgivable excuse here would be that his mother died,” she barks, scrunching up her face in obvious disgust that Dixon asked for a “raincheck” on our date.

  “His mother is dead,” I reply, sadly putting away the beautiful blue dress I was planning to wear this evening.

  “Oh, whatever. This is horseshit!” she cries, jabbing her finger into the phone screen.

  “I know, Lamb.” I sigh, because it really is horseshit.

  Over three hours ago, Dixon messaged me, claiming something came up and he wouldn’t be able to make our date. He apologized a number of times, and asked for a raincheck. Other than that, he gave me no other reason why he couldn’t attend, or when this alleged raincheck was to take place.

  I feel so stupid. I can’t believe I actually thought a man like Dixon would be interested in a girl like me.

  “I’m an idiot. Dixon probably doesn’t even think of me like that. I mean, look at him, and look at me,” I say, doing a sweep down my body.

  “No, he’s the idiot. We’re going out,” Mary angrily states.

  She jumps up from my bed, storming over to my closet and rummaging through my garments.

  “I don’t want to go out.” The thought of socializing with anyone sounds like a horrible idea.

  “This isn’t optional,” Mary barks, her head buried in my closet.

  “Lamb,” I warn, but Mary turns her head, pinning me with a look that screams finality.

  “Fine,” I huff, throwing my hands in the air, as there really isn’t any point arguing with her.

  “You won’t regret it,” she says with a crooked smile.

  Famous last words.

  * * *

  So when Mary said we were going out, I thought we were going out for pizza, or to a movie. I didn’t realize she meant out, out.

  I’m sitting at a table which overlooks a huge dance floor, completely and utterly out of my comfort zone. I watch as Mary bumps and grinds against some pierced rock god without a care in the world. She recently broke up with her high school sweetheart, Corey, and I know under her tough exterior, she’s hurting.

  The man she trusted, the man she gave her virginity to, turned out to be a lying, cheating jerk wad, so I really don’t blame her for being so bitter. But I like to believe that not all guys think with their dicks.

  I mean, yes, Dixon is an ass for totally bailing on me, but not once did I ever feel objectified when in his presence, nor did I ever feel like he was talking to me because he wanted to get into my pants. I actually felt like we had a genuine connection, and that maybe he was different than all the other guys I’ve met.

  But I guess I was wrong.

  Reaching for my tequila, I decide to drown my sorrows in this sunrise, as I don’t have class till late tomorrow afternoon.

  Just as I begin to feel a buzz, the barstool next to me scrapes along the floor and I turn to look at who has stolen Mary’s seat.

  “Hey, is anyone sitting here?” asks the hot, green-eyed stranger beside me.

  I nod with a smile. “Actually, yes, there is. You see that crazy redhead on the dance floor?” I point to my best friend, who is currently surrounded by a group of eager suitors.

  The hottie next to me nods as he narrows his eyes, looking Mary’s way.

  “Well, that’s who was sitting here,” I conclude with a grin.

  My stranger gives me a dimpled smile, and leans closer to yell into my ear, as the music is blaring over the speakers. “I don’t think she’ll be back anytime soon,” he replies, and I laugh because I think he just may be right.

  I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, or the fact I feel a little rejected by Dixon’s “raincheck,” but whatever it is, I extend my hand and smile.

  “Hi, I’m Madison.”

  “Hi, I’m David,” my stranger says, and I try not cringe at the fact his name reminds me of another name which starts with D.

  “Nice to meet you, David,” I say, quickly recovering from my Dixon depression.

  “You too. Can I buy you a drink?” David asks, his long bangs falling into his eyes.

  I chug down the rest of my tequila, and smile. “Sure.”

  David laughs and I instantly feel at ease with him.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says, and I watch as he makes his way through the crowd, impressed with what I see.

  Maybe there’s hope for me yet. I mean, everything happens for a reason. Maybe I just haven’t figured out what my reason for meeting Dixon is.

  Act II

  Two and a half months later…

  12

  Apple Pie

  DIXON

  “Is the garlic minced or chopped?” I mumble to myself as I flip through this wretched cookbook, trying to find the recipe for the confit of salmon with crab crush and dill drizzle.

  How can one’s life change in the blink of an eye?

  In one moment, Juliet was my fuck buddy, and in the next, she’s my…snuggle buddy?

  I really don’t know what to call Juliet, as she’s not really my girlfriend, but she’s not really my booty call, either. I haven’t slept with anyone other than her for over two months, and the reason for that is because being with Juliet is easy. I don’t have to put in the hard yards with her, and she satisfies my every need.

  She tells me she hasn’t slept with anyone else either, which is a big thing for an ex-sex addict. However, we both agreed it was best she continue therapy for her addiction, because once an addict, always an addict. We also agreed I wasn’t the best person for the job, as that was all kinds of messed up, as I didn’t fancy hearing about how badly she wanted to deep throat her aerobics instructor.

  So, what are Juliet and I? Honestly, I don’t know.

  I’m too old to use the word girlfriend, and partner makes me sound gay, so I don’t refer to Juliet as anything other than Juliet—the woman I am currently “sort of” seeing, but definitely not dating.

  The night we had coffee changed our “situation” dramatically. Juliet and I did the unthinkable: we actually spoke. Of course there was a blowjob involved, but after all that, I got to know the real Juliet Harte.

  I must admit, I was afraid to know who the enigma was behind the golden cooch, but once I peeled back her layers, I actually liked who I saw. It also didn’t hurt that she fucked like a rabbit and kept me sated beyond belief.

  That moment of weakness, however, was the last I ever saw. Juliet’s back to being guarded and confident, and honestly, I don’t know who I prefer more.

  Our conversations are occasionally wooden, and our drawn-out silences are becoming more frequent, but who needs conversation when our bodies fill the static?

  A major regret is that I felt I chose Juliet over Madison, because I haven’t spoken to her since I bailed on our date. If Madison and I had met under different circumstances, then things could have turned out differently for us. We just met at the wrong time and place because I’m not a total bastard, and I would never play both women that way. And honestly, I could never do to Madison the things I do to Juliet. My need for depravity would soil her innocence, because in the end, my dick won out over my good sense.

  Therefore, I like to think it’s for the best, and I wish Madison all the luck in finding someone better suited for her. Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy, and putting her boob purse to good use. That thought still has my dick twitching in interest, because although Juliet’s rack is spectacular, Madison’s was fucking epic.

  The burning smell has my thoughts crawling out of Madison’s luscious tits to the here and now. “Shit!” I curse, as my salm
on is starting to resemble a doorstop.

  The fact I’m cooking for my non-girlfriend on a Friday night really is appalling, and I know if Hunter were around, he would be sounding the invisible whip, because it’s true: I’ve turned into a complete and utter pussy. But it’s because of the pussy that I’m becoming this domesticated douche.

  But Hunter isn’t around because, somehow, Friday night has turned into mine and Juliet’s night. Friday night was usually reserved for the boys, but Juliet has taken precedence over my comrades, and I’ve tapped out more times than I care to admit.

  My rule is slowly becoming nonexistent, as Juliet has slept over a few nights. The best thing about having Juliet here is that memories of Lily, memories I thought I so desperately wanted to hold onto, are now becoming so faint I can barely even remember them. I actually feel like I’m finally moving on and closing that chapter of my life. A chapter I should have closed a long time ago.

  So things with Juliet, although not conventional, work. Neither of us have any expectations of where things are headed, which suits me perfectly. But am I happy with this arrangement? Am I happy being this civilized, monogamous, neutered little bitch?

  My phone dings, indicating I have a text, so I reach for it from off my marbled countertop while eyeing my salmon and deciding whether it’s salvageable or not.

  Distracted by my burned meal, I don’t fully understand Juliet’s message until I read it twice.

  The message is direct, which is fine, as neither of us go for texting.

  Got held up at work.

  See you this weekend sometime.

  Well, I’ll be damned. This is the third Friday night she’s been busy, and although I shouldn’t really care, I sort of do. I was looking forward to sitting down to a glass of red and dinner, and then having dessert, in the form of Juliet.

  But now that she’s not coming, I feel like a chump, sitting at home with a meal I cooked for my ex-fuck buddy. If Hunter were here he would be questioning my masculinity, and expressing quite loudly that I don’t deserve a dick.

  That thought gives me an idea, so I send a text message of my own.

  Looking at the sad, shriveled salmon, I reach for the saucepan and toss the contents into the trash, along with the rest of the ingredients I had prepared earlier.

  Whistling, while making my way into the bathroom to get ready for the evening, I realize now, I’m happy.

  * * *

  “You’re a pussy-whipped little bitch, Dixon, and you’re lucky I’m speaking to you right now. You hear me?” Hunter declares for the umpteenth time as he clutches the scruff of my collar and draws our faces together so we’re inches apart.

  “Yes, you Neanderthal, I heard you loud and clear. Now either kiss me, or let me finish my damn drink,” I tease as I pull out of Hunter’s grip.

  Finch laughs, looking over the moon we’re together once again.

  “I really missed you, Dix,” he says, sipping his beer.

  Finch is on the hard stuff tonight as Heidi is out of town for the weekend. This can really only equate to one thing—trouble.

  “I missed you too, man,” I reply, slapping him on the back.

  “Oh, enough with the touchy feely crap,” Hunter barks, slamming a twenty onto the bar to pay for our drinks. “Let’s go see some titties!’

  Finch blanches and quickly shakes his head. “No titties for me, thanks. And besides, I’m sure Juliet wouldn’t want Dixon going to a strip club.”

  “Oh, fuck the nympho!” Hunter cries, passing us a fresh round of drinks. “Last I checked, Dixon was still in possession of his balls, unlike you, Finch.” I laugh, although I’m not sure how true that statement really is.

  Being out with the boys has made me realize that I’m actually in a “sort of” relationship, without knowing I was in one. I don’t know how, or when it happened, it just did. Although it is in no way normal, Juliet is the closest thing I’ve had to a girlfriend since Lily. And I don’t know how I feel about that.

  “Hunter, when you meet the right girl, you’ll change your tune.” Finch nudges me in the ribs, egging me on to support his claim.

  “Oh please, I’m more of a compatible partner for Dixon than Juliet is,” Hunter scoffs in disgust. “Once the novelty of Juliet’s hungry pussy wears off, Dixon will realize there’s plenty of pie out there.”

  “What in God’s name are you crapping on about?” I ask, almost afraid to hear Hunter’s pie analogy.

  This is the part where I should be defending Juliet’s honor, but for some reason, I can’t. Could it be because there’s some truth in Hunter’s uncouth, but accurate statement?

  “What happens when you eat the same ol’ apple pie, day in, day out?” he questions, raising a brow.

  “You become a diabetic?” Finch says seriously.

  “No, you nimrod,” Hunter scoffs, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “After a while, that apple pie loses its flavor, and before long, you begin to hate apple pie, because all the apple pie wants to do is cuddle on the couch and watch reruns of Friends while you question when the exact moment was when you handed the apple pie your nuts on a platter.”

  This is, by far, the most ridiculous analogy, but in a weird, warped way, I totally get what he’s saying.

  “So once you’re done satisfying the apple pie—missionary position, I might add,” Hunter says, scrunching up his face. “You begin to think about cherry pie, and how much you’ve missed it. And suddenly, all you can think about is the plump, sugary cherries, and how good they taste compared to the bland, mushy apples, the ones you’ve been forced to eat for the past two months. Before long, you’ll hate apple pie, and you’ll move onto cherry pie, totally forgetting apple pie ever existed.” He takes a sip of beer, his food-inspired parallel over and done with.

  Finch looks to be mulling over what Hunter just said, trying to figure out what the hell it means, while I almost choke on my beer because I’m laughing so hard.

  “You are an idiot.”

  “No, I’m a genius. And tonight we’re going to find you some cherry pie,” Hunter adds with a mischievous grin.

  I don’t know how I feel about that, I mean, I would feel kind of bad, boning some random girl just because Juliet couldn’t see me tonight. But it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. This “thing” with Juliet has crept up on me and yelled “pussy whipped,” and I suddenly don’t like it.

  Although I’m not interested in eating “cherry pie,” I don’t see the harm in simply viewing what other pies are on display. Hunter tosses back his beer and hollers when he sees I’ve made my decision, while Finch looks to have finally understood the analogy.

  “Holy shit, Hunter! You’re one messed-up bastard,” he says in disgust.

  Hunter’s deep chuckle rumbles low and he cocks a cheeky brow. “You think that’s messed up? You really don’t wanna know what happens when you eat pecan pie, day in, day out then.”

  Finch takes the bait, and I bite back my smile.

  “What happens?” Finch asks, totally falling for it.

  “You become addicted to nuts,” Hunter explains with a grin. “And before long, all you can think about is nuts. You’ve got nuts in your mouth. Nuts on your face. Nuts on your tongue. Nuts at the back of your throat,” and I burst out laughing, tears filling my eyes.

  Finch blanches, finally understanding. He throws him an appalled look while I fist bump my best friend.

  We really are a bunch of nutjobs.

  13

  Cherry Pie

  DIXON

  I didn’t realize how much I missed these assholes, but now that we three are out hitting the town, I know Fridays are back to being boys’ night only.

  I’ve turned my phone off, as I’m man enough to admit I have been tempted to check it once or twice. But Hunter’s idiotic apple pie analogy had me refusing to yield, so it’s just me, Finch and Hunter—and a thousand other people crammed into the club.

  This club, ironically enough, is called Cherry Pop. It’
s some new club which just opened up in Manhattan, and the “trendy” trash playing over the speakers really has me wishing they would play some good ol’ eighties rock ballads.

  As I look at the scantily dressed females and metrosexual males, I know I’ll need another drink.

  “Remind me why we’re here?” I gripe, looking over at Hunter who is feasting on the smorgasbord of young flesh in front of him.

  “Are you blind?” he scoffs, waving his hand out in front of him, indicating the barely legal girls dancing to this horrible music.

  “I’m nowhere near blind enough to touch any of those little girls.” I swig my drink and make a pained face. “Good grief, even their scotch is atrocious.”

  “Oh, lighten up, you old fuddy-duddy. Not that long ago, I recall you not having any qualms touching a certain little girl,” Hunter says, referring to Madison.

  “That was entirely different. First, she wasn’t jailbait, and second, she has a lot more class than the tramps that inhabit these quarters.”

  “Um, Dixon,” Finch says, and I turn to look at him sitting on his stool, his eyes squinting and looking in the direction of the dance floor.

  “Yeah?” I reply, wondering what has him so intrigued.

  “Isn’t that your little girl?” he says, pointing in front of him.

  “What?” I gasp, my eyes frantically searching the area he’s zoning in on. “That’s impossible.”

  Hunter’s laugh to my right indicates it’s very possible. “Holy shit! Little Miss Cherry Pie has grown up.”

  I reach out and slap his chest, my eyes never leaving the sight before me, because Madison is very much in front of me. Her body, which has always been incredible, looks even better than I remember. She was always on the slender side, but not any more. It’s only been a couple of months, but Jesus, it’s like she’s taken a crash course in body sculpting and she’s all soft curves and toned, supple flesh.