“I don’t talk to people I don’t know or feel comfortable around unless I have to.”

That explains why she’s standoffish with people at work. Mason asked me during a lunch meeting if she was gay because when he spoke to her she treated him like he had an STD, avoided shaking his hand, and when he asked her for a lunch date, she told him flat-out no. I was relieved she turned him down. When it comes to other women, there isn’t a possessive bone in my body. I don’t care if they fuck around on me if I decide to keep them around for a long time—which is very rare, like every-blue-moon rare—but with Gia, I wanted her all to myself. Even back in college when she wouldn’t give me the time of day.

“Why did you drop out of college?” When I read her résumé she only needed sixty credits to graduate with her business degree.

“Life got in the way.” Sadness seeps through her face. “Wolf . . .” This is the second time she’s called me that, and I don’t mind it either.

“Yes, Rainbow?” My tone grows uneven, and my raging cock is reminding me I’m hornyier than a dog.

“Get the lead out your a-s-s.” She spells out the word. I don’t know what cuss words ever did to her for her not to use them. “And hit play.”

I grab the remote from my pocket, hit play, and her eyes are glued back to the screen.

I want to drink Gia like my favorite whiskey so I feel her seeping through my pores.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Gunner

Q: What is pain?

A: Usually localized physical suffering associated with bodily disorder (such as a disease or an injury.) -Webster Dictionary-

My feet pound on the wet pavement as heavy rain beats angrily against my body. I can barely see the mansions that decorate my neighborhood in Bedford, NY.

When I started therapy six months ago, Dr. Hannah asked me the same question. What is pain?

I gave her the Webster’s dictionary version. She responded with, “Wrong answer.” Then I accused her of being a quack and shot her idle threats about firing her.

Every session.

Every. Fucking. Session.

She asked me that same question, and I gave her the same answer. A few times, I asked her if she’d snorted coke, and if she did to pass some my way. (FYI, I was willing to try anything to make me feel.) Then she told me once I understand the meaning of the question I’ll have the right answer. For weeks, I thought I was dealing with the Riddler from Batman. Instead of her feeding me the answer, like any therapist would, I had to go on a goddamn scavenger hunt for the answer.

That fucking question bothered me like a crackhead begging for coke.