by Nicky James
I checked my new message from Rigger when Max’s gaze slipped back up front.
Rigger: I want to, and I don’t. Fuck, girlfriend, I don’t know what to do? HELP!! Just tell me. Decide for me so I don’t have to fucking think anymore. I’m so tired of thinking.
I rolled my eyes. We’d been going round and round on this stupid conversation for weeks. Of course, Rigger chose now, while I was out of the province, to have a meltdown about it.
Krew: OMFG! Last time and I swear to god I’m breaking my phone so we don’t have to talk about it anymore. Do you or don’t you want to go back to school? It’s that simple. Yes or no. Stop fence sitting. If I was there right now, I’d slap your pretty face.
Rigger: I do.
See! Not that hard. Before I could type a single word in response, another text came through.
Rigger: And I don’t because what if I fuck up?
I bit my tongue to stifle the scream climbing my throat and squeezed my phone to prevent myself from ending its life by sending it soaring across the room.
Krew: Define fuck up?
The little dots bounced as he typed. I turned my phone upside down on the table and refocused up front, breathing through my Rigger-induced frustrations. Between the desert dry conference and Rigger’s ongoing inability to make a clear fucking decision about ANYTHING, I was going crazy.
Grayson was still talking, the crinkling of the papers clutched in his hand was amplified by the microphone at his face.
“For the longest time,” Gray said, peeking looks every now and again at the audience. “I didn’t understand what I was dealing with. I couldn’t logically explain what was happening to me. Ever since being discharged from the hospital my world felt like it was spiraling out of my control faster and faster, and the more I tried to slow it down and get a grip on what was happening, the worse it got.”
My phone buzzed, and Max’s gaze slipped sideways, zeroing in on me. He pinned me with a knowing glare. A warning. I blinked innocently as I not-so-secretly slipped my phone off the table again to check it.
Rigger: What if I’m not smart enough and I fail? What if I can’t afford to live off a reduced income because I have to give up shifts at the bar to go? What if I don’t want to study and I’d rather watch The Walking Dead and I can’t make myself behave so then I fail a test then I fail the whole course and then I fail life because I’m a loser that can’t prioritize? Seriously, girlfriend, who’s going to make me buy groceries when I’m too tired from a day of class? I’ll starve because I’ll probably choose to nap instead of eat. Add homework into the mix and I may as well wave the white flag. The only reason I ever make it to work is because you ride my ass—which I miss a little even though we really aren’t compatible in the bedroom and you hated topping.
Rigger: Just please tell me what to do. I don’t want to be the one to decide.
Why was this my life?
Krew: First of all, you won’t fail. You are smart if you apply yourself. Second, budget your money. This isn’t rocket science. Third, eating is a priority. Groceries before naps. Fourth, are you ever sure about anything? Seriously, how do you survive?!?!?
Max’s arm came down around my shoulders, and he pulled me against his body. He kissed the top of my head and whispered in my ear. “Troubles? You’re making some curiously noteworthy faces over there and growling under your breath.”
“It’s just Rigger. I swear, ask the man whose dick he wants to ride, and he’s solid. Ask him if he wants to wear his red shoes or his purple shoes to walk to the bank and he has a meltdown worthy of an Oscar.”
“Maybe he respects your fashion sense.”
Max turned back to the front of the room, and I flinched, blinking at him like he had six heads. “I didn’t mean that literally,” I hissed. “I mean, he’s the most indecisive person I’ve ever known. We’ve been arguing about him returning to school for probably three years. Every year at this time when applications are due, he gets himself in a knot and drives me up the wall. Seriously, I’m dangling from the ceiling fan right now.”
Max glanced around the room and moved his lips back to my ear. “What’s the trouble he’s having?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s everything. He wants to go. He’s wanted to forever. But it’s like he chickens out. He can’t just do it. He’s afraid of it being the wrong decision. Fuck he’s afraid of everything being the wrong decision. You have no idea how bad he can get.”
Max rubbed my arm and kissed my temple. “Tell me about it later. I don’t want to be distracting to others.”
“Yeah, all right.”
I checked my phone, but Rigger hadn’t responded. Sighing, I balanced my chin on my palms and rested my elbows on the table.
God, would this thing ever end? I could feel my brain melting into a puddle of goo the longer I sat there.
I managed to pay attention for all of five minutes before I got fidgety again. I made up new phobias inside my head for fun and snickered, knowing I could have made this conference way more interesting if people had let me.
I twisted my phone in circles on the table top, but Rigger still didn’t answer. I punched the power button and stared at the lock screen picture of Max and me at Disneyland during our trip we took over the winter. We’d had a lot of fun on that trip.
Slipping my phone closer to my chest and hiding it from view, I brought up Max’s contact name. Peeking over my shoulder, I confirmed he was still submerged in the talking up front and not paying attention to me.
So I texted him, grinning wide. I’d been on a mission over the past few months.
Operation: Teach Max to Sext.
So far, it’d been an utter failure. But I wouldn’t give up.
Krew: Guess what I’m thinking about right now?
I hit send and waited. Max didn’t move even though I distinctly heard his phone vibrate from his pocket.
I bounced my knees and rocked my head side to side on my palms as I kept peeking his way.
Waiting.
Nothing.
I rolled my eyes and leaned toward him.
“I think you got a text.”
Max smirked knowingly and eyed me before staring up front again, shaking his head.
Sneering, I typed out another messaged.
Krew: Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m thinking about how amazing your fingers feel in my ass when you’re stretching me. So deep. Hitting me in just the right spot.
Send.
I glanced at Max while his phone vibrated a second time. He refused to respond.
I tried to set him on fire with my mind.
It didn’t work. Bastard.
I spun back to my phone and flew through a third text, kicking up my game.
Krew: My dick is so fucking hard for you right now. I can feel it dripping. It wouldn’t take much. Wanna touch it?
Send.
I turned right around in my seat, raised a perfectly sculpted brow, and glared at him impatiently.
He didn’t move—only smirked.
The fucker.
Then my phone buzzed, and I jumped, confused and surprised as I spun around to check it.
Rigger: Dude, WTF?? Don’t say shit like that. Max will kill me.
My eyes bugged as I realized I’d sent that last text to Rigger instead of Max.
Krew: Oops. That wasn’t meant for you. Can you forward that text to Max please? He’s purposefully ignoring me right now.
Growling, I angry typed another message to Max.
Krew: What would you do if I dropped to my knees under this table and sucked you off right here in front of everyone? Swirled my tongue around your head and took you all the way to the back of my throat like the good boy you know I am. I’d even swallow this time. Lick up every single drop.
Send.
Max’s phone buzzed and his eyes shifted to me once again. I pouted and tapped my phone screen, indicating with my gaze for him to get his phone out and check it.
He couldn’t resist m
y puppy dog face. It had to work.
Without breaking eye contact, Max reached for his phone and read my texts. His expression didn’t change. He remained stoic and emotionless. How the fuck could he read all that without a hint of excitement or reaction?
I nibbled my lower lip and waited. Giving head was not on my top list of favorite things to do, and he knew it. My offer was enticing. It had to be. I would totally drop to my knees right here if he gave me the go ahead. Anything to give this conference more pizazz.
When Max started typing a response, I squirmed with excitement.
Please say yes…
My phone buzzed, and I scrambled to read what he wrote.
Max: Boys who don’t behave get disciplined. Just remember that.
I read his text and couldn’t fight the smile. Max would never do anything I didn’t like. I knew that with my whole heart so his text was playful, not threatening. Now, if I could just get him to describe that discipline.
Krew: Such a tease. I don’t believe you. Maybe I’ll slip under the table and test that theory. What would you do to me? Don’t be shy. Tell me. In detail.
Send.
Max checked my message, barely containing a chuckle before slipping his phone into his pocket effectively ending yet another attempt at urging him into sexting. Damn, he was a tough cookie to crack.
I leaned against his side and buried my face in his neck before whispering, “Was that a no? You didn’t say no. I’ll do it.” My hand slipped between his legs, and I got a good squeeze in before he clamped a hand around my wrist, removing it.
But not before discovering I’d made him half hard. I deserved points for that at least.
I slumped and whined. “You’re no fun.”
“You’re trouble.”
“We’ve established that. Now, if you’ll let me uphold that title, I’ll just be under the table if you need me. Then, you can discipline me for my bad behavior later.”
I made like a snake and slithered my body lower and lower until Max caught me under the armpit and dragged me back up. His lips were at my ear again, hot breath ghosting my skin. “Enough. I’m not sexting you, and you’re not performing sexual acts in public. End of discussion. Find a phone game to play or talk to Rigger if you’re bored.”
“We’ve fucked in your office at the bar and in the bathrooms twice. That’s technically a public place.”
“Krew.”
“Okay. Okay.”
Sighing, but knowing I’d probably pushed him hard enough, I pulled up Rigger’s messages again and scrolled through each and every one, re-reading them. There were scores of them, all whiny, all the same. When I caught Max peering over my shoulder, I handed him my phone. “Advice? I’m out of answers.”
Max took a minute to read through the countless messages we’d exchanged over the course of a few days while a crease formed between his brows. When he finished, he handed me back my phone and returned his gaze up front.
“Um, hello? Advice?”
Max’s lips firmed, and he got a distant look in his eyes, one I recognized as his thinking face. He used it a lot at the bar when he was doing paperwork. It was so serious.
“Let me think.”
I rested my head on his shoulder and blew out a breath. Good, maybe Max would know what I could say to Rigger to help him because I was exhausted trying.
Some girl named Pauline was up at the podium talking about her phobia and the progress she’d been making since becoming a patient of Dr. Kelby’s. Listening to Rigger had given me a new appreciation for Adrian and what he planned to do with his life. I couldn’t counsel people. There was no way. I was ten seconds from telling Rigger to jump off a cliff.
I closed my eyes and tuned everything out. Max’s steady breathing soothed and comforted me. I settled and finally stopped squirming. Max kissed the top of my head, and I smiled.
I should have gone shopping.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Finnley
Aven sat beside me while each of Dr. Kelby’s patients took their turns up front. The nerves I’d been growing over the past month were at their peak, however, seeing a few people go ahead of me had taken the fear out of the situation a bit.
Reality was less scary than all the presumptions I’d made.
The audience of professionals was less daunting than they’d first appeared, too. Their questions were presented in a sensitive fashion, and no one pushed for anything too personal.
Aven rubbed my back as I scanned my sheet of notes one last time. Once this was finished, it would be all baby time. Maybe I could convince him to grab a different flight home. We could leave tonight and be back in Dewhurst Point by tomorrow morning. My worries would be gone, and we could triple check that we had all we needed.
Maybe we could decide on a boy name once and for all.
Pauline finished up front, and Adrian joined her, directing the short question and answer period that followed each presentation. I sat straighter, adjusting the cuffs on my shirt as I leaned closer to Aven.
“Is my hair doing that thing?”
Aven’s gaze slipped up, and he smiled before reaching up and fussing. “Always.”
“Dammit.” I had a funny cowlick that prevented this wayward chunk of hair from behaving. It didn’t matter what I did, the damn thing had a mind of its own.
Adrian introduced me as Pauline took her seat, so I batted Aven’s hand away and stood. Aven grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze.
With my notes in hand, I joined Adrian up front, giving him my best attempt at a smile. After a short introduction, I was alone with dozens of eyes on me.
I flattened my paper on the podium and cleared my throat as I scanned the crowded room. “Good afternoon. My name is Finnley Hollins-Woods, and I’m here to talk about my phobia. Almost two years ago, Dr. Kelby diagnosed me with somniphobia. An intense fear of falling asleep. Something I’ve been suffering with for most of my life.
“My father owned and operated Hollins Funeral Home back in Dewhurst Point for all my life. A business he inherited from his father and one that has since passed on to me. My father was a strong believer in tradition and raised me to understand it was my duty as his son to continue in his footprints. When I was eight years old, my mother passed away leaving my father to raise me on his own. He was the breadwinner, more focused on work than home life while my mother had been the stay-at-home mom, keeping me distant from what went on until I was old enough to understand it better.
“Dad didn’t know how to handle an eight-year-old child nor how to talk to one. He explained my mother’s death poorly. I don’t believe he intended to cause harm. He was merely trying to cushion the blow the only way he knew how. Between his poor explanation about her death and his insistence that I was now old enough to learn about the business I would one day inherit, I didn’t stand a chance.
“I was led to believe that death was a long sleep. One you would never wake up from. It played with my head enough, I developed a fear of sleeping. What began as a childhood problem emerged into a full-blown phobia as an adult.”
I looked up from my paper for the first time, scanning the faces listening intently to my story and finding Aven in the crowd. He’d been my pillar of strength through all my healing. I wouldn’t be where I was today if it wasn’t for him.
“I was a barely functioning adult living off of too much caffeine, pills, and an array of bad habits longer than my arm. Anything to keep me awake as long as possible. I could go days without sleeping if I stayed determined enough. I developed ulcers, crashed my car, and spiraled with my health due to the extreme levels of stress I was putting my body through. Until I met my husband.”
I waved a hand toward Aven and smiled. “Despite my stubbornness, he finally convinced me to get help. It wasn’t an easy path. Dr. Kelby and I worked through endless trial and error periods until I was more willing to cooperate. But we got there.”
I outlined some of the strategies we’d tried and how they did or didn’t w
ork. I talked about my use of crutches in my daily life to help me get by—cold showers and obsessive TV habits—and then finished with where I was at today, two years into my therapy.
“Most nights, I can sleep a full six or seven hours. Every day is a battle. Thoughts leak into my head, and sometimes, randomly, a panic attack sneaks up on me and prevents me from falling asleep. I know I’ll never have a night when I can just go to bed without the threat sitting in the back of my mind. I know I’ll always need to practice my therapy to keep my thoughts from taking over again, but I also know I’m not a prisoner to my phobia anymore. I’m more alert. I’m healthier, and my life is moving forward instead of spiraling.”
I scanned for Adrian who rose from his table and made his way over, recognizing the end of my speech.
Adrian took to the microphone. “Thank you, Finnley. If there are any questions for Mr. Hollins-Woods, please raise your hand.”
A gentleman near the front motioned, and Adrian called on him first.
“Thank you for sharing your story. My question revolves around your place of employment and how you are now the owner of your family’s business. You spoke of how impacting growing up in a funeral home was on your young mind, coupled with the misguided explanations from your father when he correlated sleep and death unintentionally. My question is whether or not your work in funeral service continues to be impacting? Have you considered that it might hamper your ability to properly move forward?”
Adrian glanced at me, and I nodded. It was a question I could answer. I took Adrian’s place at the microphone.
“Some of my anxiety attacks directly related to the work I was doing and had the potential to bring forth memories from my childhood that were not always pleasant. On more than one occasion, I experienced flashbacks to my childhood and times my dad involved me in practices that are ordinarily quite routine in my line of work. As a result, I made the personal choice to alter my duties at the home. I’ve taken a more directive role nowadays and work as the frontman, handling the financial aspects and running the business end of things. I’ve hired employees to perform the duties I found most taxing. I think it’s played a large part in my healing as well. Without the immersion, I’ve been able to stay more removed and organized, and I control my anxiety better.”
