The Hunt - Monica James Page 2

  Dixon ignores my emotional clam up. “No, she doesn’t. At the moment, she probably thinks you’re some perverted creep who has limited vocabulary.”

  “And what the fuck does that mean?” I stop walking and take a seat in the small lounge in the foyer, needing to pay my undivided attention to Dr. Phil’s words of wisdom.

  “It means you’ve hardly had a civil conversation with her. Underneath the fuck yous, and go eat a dicks, and I don’t give a flying fucks, is a pretty awesome dude. All Mary has seen is the obnoxious cuntwaffle you can be when put into a situation you’re uncomfortable with.”

  Crossing my ankle over my knee, I lean back in my seat, offended, even though he does have a point. “I have so spoken to her.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure the last time you saw her you stared at her for twenty minutes, where I had to wipe the drool from your chin. Literally.”

  I chuckle, remembering the incident he speaks of with fondness. Good times. It was last weekend. I know Dix was holding out on telling me who the maid of honor was, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who.

  We had drinks at a bar down in Brooklyn, and when Mary entered, decked out in tight yoga pants and a tiny tank which showed off her sensational midriff, I had to reach down and rearrange myself because holy fuck, those tight clothes were a striptease to my libido.

  Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw me sitting in the booth. “Howdy, partner,” I mocked, tipping the peak of my invisible hat.

  It took her all of three seconds to figure out what was going on. “There is no fucking way I’m standing within a fifty-mile radius of him.”

  Maddy sighed, while Dixon showed us what a strapping, strong brute he is. “He’s promised to be on his best behavior. Isn’t that right, Hunt?” He glared at me from across the table, prepared to castrate me if I deviated from his version of events.

  “But of course.”

  Mary didn’t buy into my bullshit, but she finally nodded. “You’re lucky I love you, Maddy.” The fire behind her eyes excited me, and that’s when I think the drooling incident may have occurred.

  I shuffled over, offering her ample room to sit by me, but I should have known nothing is ever easy with Mary. When she placed one knee onto the leather seat and leaned forward, completely disregarding my personal space, I actually pulled back, anticipating what would happen next.

  Her long, coppery waves framed her perfect face, highlighting what a natural beauty she is. I was envious of every freckle that kissed her milky skin, especially the cluster which skated down the column of her long neck and across to her magnificent chest.

  My bad— my eyes lingered longer than they should have, but the top she was wearing made it impossible to look away. I was lost in visions of being buried between the creamy pillows and quite frankly, I possibly could have voiced my approval, because when I came to, Mary’s face was inches from mine. A strangled gasp escaped me, but she filled in the blanks.

  “Let’s get this straight, if I so much as think you’re fantasizing about me naked, or I catch you looking down my dress, or touching me…or yourself”—her bright emerald eyes flicked downward, while my cock hit the deck and gave her twenty—“you’ll be singing soprano. Got it?”

  “Sweet cheeks, if you want to get down my pants so desperately, all you have to do is ask.” A pained grunt left my lungs when Dix kicked me under the table. Hands raised in surrender, I conceded. “That’s a long list of demands, but fine.”

  Mary arrogantly smirked, which crushed me, because if I ever saw a more beautiful sight, then I don’t remember what it was. She left me a slobbering fool when she helped herself to my beer, her slender throat suckling and swallowing, conjuring up images which I would revisit late that evening, and early the next morning.

  It was out before I could stop myself. “I’ve got just the thing to quench that thirst…” My sentence remained unfinished because the fire in my pants was doused, literally, when the leftover contents of my Budweiser was poured into my lap.

  She left me with a mouth full of nothing, and a cock wanting the whole enchilada.

  Snapping from the memory, I refocus on the task at hand. “How about you detail all my issues over a bottle of whiskey.” I know he’s considering the offer, so I make the decision easy on him. “Otherwise, I can come there and we can replace whiskey with hot cocoa and cuddle under the blanket together. All three of us. You can be in the middle,” I impishly add. “I’ll even let you be the big spoon.”

  This is in the bag. I know because you learn to read someone better than yourself when you’ve known them for more than half your life.

  “In no way, shape, or form will you be spooning me, now or ever. I’ll meet you in twenty.” He doesn’t have to specify where.

  Hanging up, I spring from my seat, elated to be having a drink with my best friend. I know that makes me sound like a needy, clingy girlfriend, but after tonight, well, after this week, I could do with some bro time.

  As I pocket my cell and am about to exit, someone gently taps me on the shoulder. Spinning, I see that it’s the pretty brunette I totally forgot about. “Here.” She slips a small piece of paper into my pants pocket. “If ever you feel like having that drink, call me.” Her hand is still wedged in my pocket, not so discreetly fondling my dick. With a coiled smirk, she adds, “I have some top shelf whiskey…downstairs.”

  I’ve heard some decent one liners, but I give credit to the lady in red, because using an alcoholic analogy to a whiskey fiend to refer to her pussy is just plain genius. Gazing down at my Rolex, I see that I’ve got something else in the bag.

  “What’s your name?”

  She bites her red, plump lip. “Mary-Ann.”

  Raising my eyes to the heavens, I don’t know if this is an omen or a curse. Either way, maybe Mary-Ann has the cure I’ve been searching for. “Well, Mary-Ann, I have ten minutes to spare.”

  With one hand stroking my cock, she uses the other to yank on the lapel of my blazer, drawing us eye to eye. “I only need nine.”

  Whether it was the hint of red, or the mere mention of liquor, I’ll never know, but what I do know is when life gives you lemons…make whiskey sours.

  Bottoms up.

  Plus One

  Mary-Ann was a woman of her word, and I was freshly fucked after seven minutes in hell. Although, she lied. Her whiskey was not top shelf. It was watered down, flat booze. There was no epiphany, no light at the end of the tunnel, and no weight lifted from my loins. After she power-bunnied on my lap and left without a goodbye, I was once again cloaked in that blanket of disgrace, one which seems to rain on my fun parade every chance it gets.

  I was a complete two-pump chump because the moment I thought of Lamb in all of her glory, I came so hard I went blind for a few splendid seconds. Mary-Ann popped her cork straight after, as she was primed and ready to go way before she shoved me into the stairwell and climbed me like a sex-starved monkey.

  As I thrust my hands into my pocket, the slip of paper with her number on it sears my fingers. I shiver when remembering her hot dog lips attempting to latch onto my face and suck the air from my lungs. Regardless of how many women I fuck, I hold onto some small scrap of dignity and will never, ever break my no kissing rule.

  It sounds completely ridiculous, considering I have no misgivings when it comes to the women I sleep with, but kissing, it’s just so…personal. The moment their lips veer within three feet, I hammer on the brakes, finish the job, and then hit the road.

  Fishing the number from my pocket, I slam dunk it into the trash can just outside the bar, which holds so many memories. Taking a moment, I stand in front of the small neon sign and remember the countless hours spent inside. She may not be the prettiest of the bunch, or even the biggest, but this place will always be home…and cue the violins.

  I know without looking Dixon is inside because that sappy part of me, D2, which was named after the man in question, always seems to emerge whenever he’s near. His pussiness h
as obviously rubbed off on me.

  Pulling back my shoulders, I run a hand through my hair, as I know he’ll be able to sniff the depravity off of me. When I enter, “Witchy Woman” by The Eagles plays over the speakers, just another nail in the proverbial coffin. Arm raised high, I flip off the ceiling, eyes focused on Dixon, who sits in a booth, not at all surprised by my insane behavior.

  When I get closer, I stop dead in my tracks, unable to tear my gaze from Dixon’s groin. “What the fuck is that?” I cry, horrified, pointing to the sex killers he’s currently donning.

  He rolls his eyes and sips his brown colored drink, which better have some kind of alcohol in it. “They’re called pants, not that you’d know, seeing as you’ve spent more time out of them, than in,” he smugly replies, while I shake my head and wag my finger.

  “Those are sweat pants. Since when do you wear sweat pants?”

  “Hey, don’t knock the pants.” He slaps my finger away. “They’re incredibly comfortable and I’m in free balling heaven.” He points to the seat across from him. “Sit.”

  “Whatever, Grandpa, and only because you asked so nicely,” I quip, reaching across the table to steal his drink. I toss it back, only to spit it back out seconds later. Wiping my mouth, I cringe. “Where’s the scotch?”

  Dixon smirks, turning over his shoulder to grab the attention of Tanya, the bar maid who’s been serving us for years. She’s wiping down table nine, but he doesn’t have to bother because she’s had her eyes glued to him since I entered. She’s over by our booth in record time. “Hi boys,” she purrs, batting her eyelashes at Dixon, while I suddenly feel like chopped liver.

  “Hello,” he replies, completely shooting her down. “I’ll have a scotch, and Hunt? Whiskey?” I blanch the moment he looks at me, waiting for corroboration. I’ll never be able to stomach that drink without thinking of my walk of shame.

  “Budweiser for me,” I amend, while Dix raises an eyebrow, seeing through my façade. Nothing slips past him.

  “Sure,” Tanya replies, her attention riveted on Dixon. “I haven’t seen you in here for ages. I thought you were cheating on me.” Her attempts to flirt with Dix go up in a flaming pile of dog shit. I sit back and yawn, accustomed to what the next thirty seconds entails.

  “I’ve been busy with work, teaching, and I’m getting hitched in three months, so, no rest for the wicked.” Her mouth falls open and I almost feel sorry for her. She hasn’t heard.

  I’m pretty sure when word spread that Dixon Mathews was no longer a bachelor, all of the women in NYC went into mourning. Some may even have joined the nunnery. With those baby blues and a reputation that proceeded him, he broke the hearts of every woman who wanted to domesticate him, who wanted to lay claim to the title of taming Manhattan’s most notorious man-slut.

  They couldn’t understand what Maddy had that they didn’t, but that’s the reason why she lured ol’ Dix in. She never wanted to tame or own Dixon. She wanted him, flaws and all, and he had many flaws, like screwing her diabolical sister. But in the end, she saw past all of that because that’s what people who are into one another do. Or, so I’ve heard.

  “Oh.” She clears her throat. “Well, congratulations. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” She hightails it toward the bar, yanking on the arm of Sara, her colleague, and whispers into her ear. I can see the exact moment her heart shatters into smithereens.

  Dixon is either oblivious, or he just doesn’t care. “What’s the damage?”

  He doesn’t need to explain. “Why, jealous?”

  He smirks and leans back casually. “Jealous of what? Catching chlamydia?”

  A laugh erupts from me. “Touché, fuckwad. I need something to occupy my time now that you’ve gone and fallen in lo…” I pause the moment that infernal word is about to slip past my lips. I don’t know why, I just can’t say it without wanting to check my balls are still intact.

  “Love?” Dix fills in the blanks while I groan.

  “Ugh, enough with this heartfelt crap. I can feel my testosterone levels diminishing as we speak. How’s Cherry Pie?” I wiggle my eyebrows, because even though she’s a complete fox, I don’t look at her like I do other women. If I had a sister, then that’s how I view Maddy. But Dix doesn’t have to know that because I love seeing him riled up.

  “She’s fine,” he replies blankly.

  “Oh, I know she’s fine, but how’s she doing?”

  This derailment is supposed to get Dix off my case, but he stands his ground. The stubborn motherfucker. “How many women this week, Hunt?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I counter quickly, attempting to throw him off the trail.

  “You do realize you gave me the exact same speech, in this bar, a lifetime ago?”

  I humor him because I know he won’t let go otherwise. “What speech, oh wise one?”

  He doesn’t see the funny side, however. “The ‘you look like shit we’re worried about you,’ speech.”

  “I appreciate your helicopter parenting, Dix, but there is no need. Really. I’m fine. Everything is great. Life couldn’t be better.” I sit taller, wondering where the hell my drink is.

  “You can’t keep screwing around, man.”

  “Watch me,” I challenge, suddenly getting pissed. “I’m stoked you’ve got your shit together, but your holier-than-thou speech can blow me. Don’t be a fucking hypocrite ’cause no one likes a know it all.”

  It’s meant to be a warning to tell him to back off, but it seems to have done the complete opposite. “I understand I’m the last person to be giving you this advice, but I’m only doing so because I care about you, you asshole. You obviously like Mary”—when I scoff and fold my arms, Dixon lays off with the Mary talk—“but I think the bigger issue here is you.”

  “Excuse me?” I question, lost in translation. “Me? There is nothing wrong with me.”

  “Why are you sleeping with anything that moves?”

  “Because I can.”

  “I get that, but why the sudden step up to whoredom?”

  Where the fuck is Tanya with my drink? Wiping a hand down my face, I suddenly smell Mary-Ann’s rancid perfume on my fingers, fingers that were playing her like a fiddle twenty minutes ago. “I didn’t realize my sex life was so interesting to you, Dix.”

  “Just answer the question,” he states, his resolute gaze never wavering.

  “Why not? I’m single and I like sex. I don’t see why there has to be a better reason. Now that you’re off the scene, I have a smorgasbord of women to choose from.” Which is true. The men of today are little boys who like to play grown up.

  Dixon weighs up my answer before slipping on his glasses. I can see the reason why women love this bastard. He’s one handsome son of a gun. “How’s the sex?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Dirty Dix. But I suppose I could share the details, considering you’ve been dining on the one flavor for so long.”

  “That’s by choice,” he rebukes, shaking his head. “I want to know how you feel after you’ve had sex with these random women. Let’s use tonight’s proceedings as an example.”

  I knew he’d smell the pussy on me. “Five pounds lighter.” Peering around, I wonder if it’s getting hot in here. “I feel fucking fantastic. I’ve gotten blown and fucked until I can’t see straight, what is there to complain about?”

  “So, you’re having no problems…” He leaves the sentence hanging, using his hand as a gesturing tool to move his point along, but I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “No problems what?” I finally ask. He shrugs his shoulders like I’m supposed to understand what the fuck this tangent means.

  “No problems…. ejaculating.”

  My eyes pop open and I burst into laughter. “Did you seriously ask me if I can drop a load okay? I don’t need Viagra, if that’s what you’re implying. And ejaculate…? When did this turn so business like…” I pause, the wheels in my head churning over the past five minutes.

  It takes me a
second, but when I come to, I recoil backward and cover my chest, violated. “Oh my fucking god. Holy donkey’s balls! You’re psychoanalyzing me, aren’t you?” He doesn’t need to respond. “Quit it with your psychobabble bullshit, and stay the fuck out of my head. Are you trying to hypnotize me or something?” I peer at him suspiciously, grabbing my dick to make sure he hasn’t compelled me into hating the big fella.

  Dixon rubs the bridge of his nose, his plan foiled. No wonder he put on his glasses. That sneaky cockface. Leaning forward, I poke my finger into his chest. “I don’t need your help. I’m fine. Everything is A-fucking-okay, so fuck you. Fuck you very much.”

  He slaps my hand away. “I understand, but if you ever did…”

  “Pssh, stop that.” I wave, gesturing this conversation is done. “I don’t want you near my head. Ever.”

  “Well, I don’t particularly want to be in it,” he opposes, his jaw firm. “But I know you, man. I know what you’re doing.”

  “Having the best time of my life? Living it up and choosing what flavor I feel like? Blonde? Brunette? Red…” I actually choke on the word and have to thump on my chest to dislodge it.

  Dixon sighs because I’m a fucking lace bra—see-through. “No pussy holds some miracle cure. That remedy is within you. You just have to know where to look. You once told me your whoring tendencies were a cry for help.”

  I scoff. “Please. I’ll be doing just that if we don’t stop with this D and M soon. And besides, I never said that. You’re probably getting me mixed up with Finch. He’s the pussy in this relationship.” But Dixon is right. I did say that to him. It was the night we met the twins, Mandy and Marisa.

  Dix bowed out, while I thought I was on top of the world. That was before Mary, and before I became D2. Life was so simple back then, now it’s just one giant episode of Days of Our Lives.

  “Dude, just know I’m here for you, because you did the same for me. You’re my brother. And besides, when the going got tough, the tough allowed some silver-haired fox named Pearl to live out her fantasy of seducing a younger man. I’ll never forget you taking one for the team.”