I can see where this train wreck is going. “She brought another woman into your bed.”
“You’re half-right. It was a man the next time. Heath.”
If he didn’t already have my full attention, he’d damn sure has it now. “Dude-on-dude action. The plot thickens.”
“I don’t do dick. It’s pussy only for me.” Good grief. That mouth.
I don’t know jack shit about this multiple partner stuff, but I understand a scorned woman’s mind and how it works. “Heath was your punishment for growing close to Jenna.”
“That’s the understatement of the century. She sure gave me a taste of my own medicine.”
“I’m not sure that’s a fair statement since she’s the one who did the soliciting. But one thing’s for certain. Invite trouble inside and it will enter every time.”
“It gets so much worse.”
“You watched your fiancée have sex with another man. I can’t imagine it getting more unpleasant than that.”
“Erin was pregnant. It was mine. We know because the timing made it impossible for the baby to be Heath’s.”
I was wrong. It can get so much worse.
“I came home from work one day last month and Heath had taken her to the abortion clinic. The procedure was done before I knew about it. The kid was mine, and I didn’t get a say if it lived or not.”
He’s hurting, and I don’t know how to respond. Something inside me wants to comfort him, but to say “I’m sorry” feels so insignificant. So empty.
This man isn’t wounded over a woman. He’s grieving a loss sex won’t cure. “Are you sure you should be here?”
“I came to fuck ninety-nine different ways. This is definitely the place I need to be.”
He can’t fuck away this kind of pain. “How many of those ninety-nine ways have you gotten under your belt so far?”
“None yet. I just got here.”
That seems like an excessive amount of sex during a getaway. “How many days are you staying?”
“Nine.” Same as us.
“I’m no mathematician but you’re here nine days, counting today. That means you have to fuck eleven different ways per day if you’re going to squeeze in ninety-nine. You better get crackin’, sir.”
“There’s no hurry. There’ll be plenty of opportunities after midnight. That’s when things heat up.” I’ll definitely be safely tucked in my bed long before then.
I’m guessing I’ll be sick of this place by the end of nine days. It all seems so extreme. “Do you typically stay so long?”
“No. I’ve always done long weekends because of work.”
I recall the variety of people I’ve seen since my arrival. “Do you have standards for the people you have sex with or is a vagina the only requirement?”
He chuckles. “Of course I have standards. Don’t you?”
“Absolutely. High ones.”
“What does a girl like you look for?”
He’s lumped me into some kind of category. “A girl like me? What does that mean?”
“A vanilla girl.”
I am vanilla but I’ve not yet decided if I’m going to be pissed off about having that label placed on me. “Call me old-fashioned but I don’t long to be double penetrated.”
“You might like it if you tried it.”
I hate being judged. “You assume I haven’t.”
“You assume I have.” He totally has me there.
“You’re the one who was in a sexual triad involving two guys and a girl. Two dicks. One vagina. Three assholes. I already know you aren’t into dudes so my assumption was made by process of elimination.”
He laughs. “You sort of have a dirty mouth.”
“Not dirty. Innocent-challenged.” He hasn’t heard shit out of me yet. “I’m curious to know what you thought of it.”
“It feels great.”
I hear a silent but in there somewhere. “But you hated her being with another man?”
“Of course. She was going to be my wife. I loved her. Every time Heath came into our bed, it was a reminder I was never going to be enough to satisfy her.”
Does the poly want out?
“Be happy you figured it out before you married her instead of after.”
“My affection for her slipped a little further away every time I saw them together. The love I had for her eventually drifted beyond my grasp. I tried but couldn’t get it back. She became nothing more than a body to me, an object I used for getting off.” I can believe that.
“Will your next relationship be polyamorous?”
“I have no idea. I only know I came here to fuck the two of them off my mind. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
Sex isn’t a fix for what’s going on in his head. And heart. But he has to figure that out for himself.
“I don’t want to talk about those fuckers anymore. I rather hear about your vanilla girl high standards.”
“I want true and beautiful.” I bet he thinks that’s unrealistic.
“Total myth. Doesn’t exist in today’s world.” Pessimist. He’s probably a glass half-empty kind of guy.
“It does. I saw it between my mother and father. The fairy tale is real, and I won’t settle for less.”
“This is a different generation. But I wish you the best of luck with that.”
“Tell me your standards since you have so little faith in love.”
“I could tell you but it would be so much easier to show you.”
My stomach flips; I don’t know what that means. “A verbal description would suffice.”
“Come on. It’ll be fun. You can help me choose my first of ninety-nine fucks.”
Oh. That’s not what I thought he meant. It’s a total wakeup call for what Beau likes. “I don’t think so. It was lovely meeting you but I think it’s time for me to go in for the evening.”
“Don’t go, Peach. It’s still early.” All the more reason for me to get back to my suite before things heat up around this place.
I leave the water and go to my dress and panties on the beach. I shake my dress before pulling it over my head.
He comes out of the water and is by my side stepping into his trousers. “Did I say something to upset you?”
“Nah. It’s all good.” I’ve enjoyed my non-hedonist time with Beau, but he’s ready to go on the hunt. It’s time for this to end.
Despite attempting to decline, Beau insists on walking me back to my room. Claims he wants to ensure I make it there safely. That may or may not be the truth but it doesn’t matter.
He’s a hedonist.
Hell, he’s poly.
I’m not.
No way we’re happening.
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Dear Agony,
You've been my shadow, following me through childhood—filling my days and nights with terror and uncertainty. You cleverly disguised yourself as some form of pain or suffering as I grew into a young woman. We were unwavering companions … until I severed our ties.
I traded homelessness on the streets of New Orleans for a luxurious bed covered by the finest linens.
I traded dumpster diving for dinner in the finest restaurants.
I traded myself to a stranger—Bastien Pascal.
I have a good life within my platonic and mutually beneficial companionship with Bash.
He’s my friend. My mentor. My roommate.
Until everything changes.
I’m not supposed to get goosebumps when his hand brushes my skin.
I’m not supposed to be eager for his soothing touch following one of my nightmares.
I’m not supposed to think about what might happen if I reached out to him in the darkness.
Falling in love with him? Preposterous . . . unavoidable.
Agony, why are you back with a vengeance to rob me of this life I’ve come to love so dearly?
I’m finally happy. Don’t ruin this for me.
/> Always yours,
Rose
In this epic love story, Dear Agony forges a connection between an unlikely pair—a beautiful rose entwined in barbed wire and a shipwreck sinking into the darkest depths of the ocean. This agonizing romantic novel poses some gut-wrenching questions: What does a woman do when the man she loves is planning his own demise? And how far will she go to give him something to live for?
CHAPTER 1
ROSE MIDDLETON
She’s here again. The woman who always dresses in black. The woman with perfectly applied cosmetics and long silky, ebony hair. The woman who sits with crossed legs on a nearby bench and watches me for hours each day.
The woman who’s after something from me.
She puzzles me. And pisses me off.
What could a well-put-together lady like her want with a girl like me? I have nothing. It’s impossible for her to think otherwise.
Look at me. I’m on Jackson Square in New Orleans wearing a ridiculous Mardi Gras getup I found in a dumpster. I stand motionless, imitating a mannequin, and holding a pose on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral. I’ve spent the last two hours praying for kindness and mercy in the form of a few clinks in my tin bucket.
A trio of guys around my age stops in front of me. The tallest one in the bunch steps close and waves a ten-dollar bill back and forth in front of my face. My mouth floods as I consider how much food that would buy. “All you have to do is move. Grab it and it’s all yours, honey.”
I hate when men call me pet names. Just another way of degrading me. I’m no one’s honey or baby or sweetheart or kitten.
And I never will be.
I consider abandoning my pose and snatching the money. Ten bucks would cover my supper tonight plus breakfast in the morning. Maybe lunch tomorrow if I’m frugal.