Mister Dick

The truth of it was that Boyd was a walking billboard for the kind of male perfection women fantasized about. He was sexy as hell, with a killer smile, a body made for sin, and had just the right amount of bad boy tossed in to keep a girl on her toes. His kind of male perfection was the kind I craved, and that was unfortunate. For me.

Then there was the other problem. The more immediate problem. Plain and simple, the man got what he wanted, and right then, he wanted me. I got it. Even though my first instinct was to deny up and down there was anything between us, that was a lie. There straight up was. But it was chemical. There was no emotional bond, and there could never be one, because that would be a disaster.

And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about what if. What if I gave in? What if it was good? What if this wasn’t a game for him? What if…what if…what if. I had to stop doing the what-if thing because I was going to go crazy.

It was just that on one hand, I wanted him. I wanted him on his back, me on top, with Sympathy for the Devil on the turntable. I wanted him behi

nd me, in front of the mirror, both watching each other as we came. I wanted his hands on either side of my face, his eyes on mine as he rocked into me.

Again, this was unfortunate.

And then there was the Georgia factor. I knew the two of them were friends. I also knew she’d give up her firstborn for a shot at Boyd. She’d run out there like the little puppy she was, and even though I knew he wasn’t interested in her, I mean, come on, his body language alone screamed it, the two of them together woke the big old purple beast inside me, which is never good. The purple beast made me do stupid things.

Jealousy and Echo were never a good combination.

Therein lay my problem. Boyd was good at throwing me off my game, and that scared the shit out of me because I needed to be on point when he was around. Our attraction wasn’t rocket science. It was a whole bunch of things tossed into a jar and shaken and then stirred. I needed to figure out a way to get control of the situation or I was screwed. And not the good kind of screwed. The kind where he was naked and inside me. Nope. We’re talking the kind of screwed that would see him stomp all over my heart and leave it bleeding in his wake when he headed back to wherever the hell it was he’d come from.

This went back to the emotional-bond thing. It could never happen, because if he ever found out what I did back then, how I alone was responsible for breaking up our parents, he’d toss me aside like yesterday’s news and I wouldn’t blame him one damn bit. His mother had really loved Axel, and their divorce had been rough. I knew that now, and trust me, if I could have fixed it, I would have. But my dad was a dog, and he moved on pretty quick, and Boyd’s mother was in between divorces and, as far as I knew, in still love with my dad. At least that’s what Harmony told me once.

These thoughts gave me all kinds of anxiety as I dragged Boyd’s crap up to his room, which was inconveniently across from mine (or convenient, depending on your take. I choose the latter). It took two trips to bring up his stuff, and after I set down his guitar cases beside the duffel bag, my eyes traveled the room before landing on the double bed. Everything looked exactly the same as that summer, and a shiver rolled over me. Three walls were midnight blue, with one white accent wall. The trim and double windows were white as well. The bedding was blue with white shells, and there were pictures on the walls from some of Dad’s performances, as well as a big ugly painting of a ship at sea.

But it was the bed that held my interest. God, how many times had I snuck into his room that summer? How many times had he been naked and ready? I thought of the stolen kisses, the hurried hands, the groans and whimpers that never made it past our lips because we had to be quiet. I thought about how that summer I arrived at Live Oaks, a somewhat naïve teenager, and had left a young woman. Though a jaded young woman with a broken heart and a mind-set that would haunt me for years. And all of it I could lay at the altar of Boyd Appleton. If he hadn’t tossed me aside like I meant nothing, then I wouldn’t have done what I did.

Stop blaming everyone for your actions. Take responsibility. I heard my therapist’s voice inside my head and told her to go to hell.

By the time I finished my trip down memory lane, I was pissed. I marched my butt across the hall and paced my bedroom for a good five minutes before snatching up my cell. My immediate reaction was to call Harmony, as she’d always been my go-to, but then I swore and slid over her number before calling Lyric.

Harmony still wasn’t talking to me, and though I thought she was being totally next-level asshat about the New Year’s Eve thing, I guess I couldn’t blame her. I just hoped she’d get over it sooner rather than later, because whenever I had a crisis, she was the girl who talked me down from the ledge. And right now, the damn ledge was more dangerous than ever because the stakes were that much higher.

Lucky for me, Lyric had stepped up lately in a big way, but dammit, she wasn’t answering her phone. I sent a quick text. Told her I needed her. That I was probably going to do something really stupid.

No reply.

I sent one more text. Help?

Still no reply.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stilled. My eyes glittered, my cheeks were flushed, my nipples poked through my T-shirt, and my hair was a mess around my shoulders. God, I was in trouble. My cell nearly slipped from my fingers, but I caught it in time, eyes frantic as I scrolled through my contacts. But then I saw the answer to my problem. A buffer. A shield. A moat to my castle.

I didn’t wait, because I knew that if I actually took the time to think about what I was doing, I’d realize just how bad an idea this was. I hit number three in my contacts and waited. And waited. And freaking waited some more. Just when I thought the call would go to voicemail, it picked up.

“Hey.” The voice was distracted.

I swallowed hard. Was I really going to do this? “Remember when you said you owed me one?”

“Christ, Echo. Really?”

“You said I saved your ass, and if ever you needed the favor returned, you’d oblige. Those were your exact words.”

There was a pause.

“Fuck me.”

“I need to collect.” I tried not to sound pathetic and whiny but wasn’t exactly sure I was successful.

“Level of need?” The tone was terse, and I made a face at that.

“DEFCON level one.” More silence. I thought I heard whispered voices and strained to hear.