Fantastic.
At least Laurel is happy. She’s been softer and dreamier since the appointment. Every day, at least twice, she watches the DVD. Any doubt or hesitation has evaporated completely.
After four nights in, though, I’m itching to go out. While I’m out today, I decide to pick up a new dress for Laurel. A surprise might lure her out. She seems perfectly content to spend each and every night at the house, but I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we could spend part of those days in bed, but it’s a little more challenging living like a monk. I would have thought we could at least fuck around, but the goddamned doctor told me—in front of Laurel—that even oral would have to be gentle and infrequent, as she really needed to rest as much as possible.
Neither of us can find much to get excited about in a “gentle and infrequent” potential blow job, and Laurel is in protective mama bear mode, so my libido is not high on her priority list.
Long story short, no sex is happening. Not any kind of sex. We can kiss and touch, but knowing I have no outlet for it, I don’t take the touching too far.
I’ve also kept her away from Sin, though I’m thinking less about that with her in baby mode. Her love life seemed to be a bigger priority before the first wiggle. After that, she was a goner. Sin might have been able to compete with me, but he can’t compete with that.
She’s probably less appealing to him now too, knowing she can’t fuck. Not to be an asshole, but it’s not an unimportant part of a relationship, and it’s off the table indefinitely right now. I’m hoping she gets cleared at the next appointment, but there’s no guarantee. When I asked the doctor about the chances, he hemmed and hauled and couldn’t say anything concrete.
Putting my car in park and killing the engine, I look up at the apartment building in front of me. I remind myself I’m not doing anything wrong, but I don’t know why I need the reminder. Probably the fact that I haven’t had sex in five million fucking years.
It’s a derelict building with absolutely no security. No buzz required to get in, no bumbling security camera fixed above the door to see who comes and goes. Doesn’t appear to matter in this building. I open the door and let myself in like any of the tenants, then I head up two flights of stairs. Stopping in front of room 307, I rap on the door.
A minute later it swings open. Marlena stands on the other side, frowning at me. “What are you doing here?”
I smile faintly. “Nice to see you, too.”
Leaning against the doorframe, she looks up at me. “You want me to lie? It’s not that nice to see you. I’m kind of busy right now.”
My gaze flickers past her to the interior of her apartment. “Boyfriend over?”
“I expected more subtlety from an accomplished player like yourself,” she states, clearly unimpressed.
I offer her a slow smile, the kind I’ve used to melt a cubic fuck-ton of women before this one. “Honey, I don’t need subtlety.”
Losing a little of her cocky demeanor, she shifts and looks away. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I say otherwise. I’m gonna come in,” I tell her, pushing on the door.
She huffs, but takes a step back and lets me waltz into her apartment anyway. I frown when I see boxes all over the place. The whole apartment seems to be packed up—all but a couch and the ugliest fucking yellow chair I have ever seen in my life. It looks like someone plucked it straight out of the 70’s and dropped it into her apartment.
“Moving apartments?”
“Moving, period,” she states. “I don’t have a job, and my landlord has this weird insistence on being paid to house me.”
“What an asshole,” I say lightly.
“Right?” She glances around, crossing her arms awkwardly. She’s slightly uncomfortable with me being in her apartment, but it’s because she’s attracted to me.
“Where are you moving?”
Her gaze drops along with her tone, alerting me to a drop in mood. “Arizona.”
Surprised, I look back at her. “Arizona? I thought you were in school.”
“Can’t pay for that without a job, either. I have enough to pay for gas money back home, but not enough to pay another month’s rent while I try to find a job. Failing a miracle, I don’t see that changing. I’ve applied everywhere with unbecoming desperation, and no bites.”
“You don’t need a miracle, you need money.” Reaching into my back pocket and drawing out my wallet, I ask, “How much is your rent here?”
Frowning at my wallet, she says, “I don’t want your money.”
I pinch a stack of 20’s, looks like a little over $2,000. Holding it out, I tell her, “Here.”
“I’m not taking your money,” she states again.