by Regan Claire
Aphrodite Needs an Alibi
Regan Claire
Contents
Dedication
Needs a Job
Needs a Signature
Needs a Flower
Needs a Snack
Needs Some Control
Needs a Bestie
Needs an Umbrella
Needs a Cold Shower
Needs a Fortune Cookie
Needs to Remember
Needs a Day Off
Needs a Chocolate
Needs to Unwind
Needs to Recover
Needs to Remember
Needs an Alibi
Needs Some Nectar
Needs a Picnic
Needs a Reality Check
Needs to Remember
Needs a Doctor
Needs to Escape
Needs a New Plan
Needs to be Rescued
Needs to Go Home
Also by Regan Claire
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Stalk Me
Copyright © 2021 Regan Claire
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved worldwide. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of those terms.
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Bruce Gore|Gore Studio, Inc.
Created with Vellum
To my grandmother:
Hopefully I hope I didn’t miss anything. Thank you for your red pen, even though you used black.
Needs a Job
I rub my hands down the black pencil skirt that is about three inches too long to be flattering, and desperately pray that fate will work in my favor. I doubt that most people would be nervous about interviewing at a temp agency, but I’m not most people.
Most people aren’t as desperate as I am.
The lobby looks like it belongs in someone’s basement, and I’m the only one here waiting. The air is stale and the decor is better suited hiding in a grandmother’s attic. I look at the sign over what I assume is the receptionist’s desk.
Informed Sight Staffing
The name matches the one on the business card I have in my purse, but it’s the only thing that does. With its embossed words and the thick card stock, I expected a bit more chic and a lot less ick. I guess you can’t judge a business by its card. My interview is supposed to start in exactly two minutes and I still haven’t seen a soul.
No sooner has the thought entered my mind than a lady with a turquoise clipboard pops into the lobby.
“April? I’m ready for you.”
She doesn’t look up, simply calls my name and turns back around. It takes a moment for me to realize what is happening, but when I follow her through the rapidly closing door into the hallway behind it, she’s completely gone. I stand there eyeing the doors lining the hallway with trepidation.
Did I hallucinate her? No, of course she went into one of these rooms, but which one?
Before I have to make the embarrassing walk down the hallway knocking on doors at random, the one to my right opens.
“Are you coming?” This time the woman does look at me, but her tone says she is far from impressed. I resist the urge to flash a smile and use the little bit of myself that could guarantee winning her over.
I don’t do that anymore.
I follow her into the room. Her office is crisp and bright, with weird modern paintings that look like something a toddler made and probably cost a fortune. It looks entirely different than the rundown waiting room and much better matches my expectations from the business card.
The woman walks around the desk and sits, motioning for me to do the same. I eye the piece of furniture in front of me before sitting. It looks like it belongs in a museum for modern art, and is easily as uncomfortable as it looks. My right butt cheek is already numb.
“I assume you brought a resume?” she asks before introducing herself. The nameplate on her desk reads Lache Moirais.
“Yes ma’am.” I pull the paper in question (fresh off of the library printer) out of the folder I brought, and hand it to her. She takes a few minutes looking over it, pursing her lips as she does.
She finally looks at me. “I see you’re new to town. Recently moved. You don’t list any references from your last several places of employment.”
I don’t know if that’s a question or not, but it’s obvious she is waiting for a response from me. “Uh, yes, I moved to town last week. As far as references go, I came from a smaller town and I didn’t leave under the best circumstances. I’m a hard worker and have excellent customer service skills.” I do smile this time, but don’t put any oomph in it. I want the job, but I also want to get it because of me, not because I can make her give it to me.
“That’s unfortunate. To be honest, your lack of references isn’t as detrimental as your lack of good work experience. All entry-level positions in a variety of fields and nothing in your job history has lasted more than a few months. Barista. Hostess. Call center. It doesn’t leave you with many legitimate career options.” Her brows rise. Why do I feel like I’m in the principal’s office?
I swallow. “Does this mean you won’t be able to hire me?” I try not to feel hopeless, and try even harder not to allow myself to take charge of the situation in the wrong sort of way. She’s right about my job history. The nature of my affliction means I’ve never had a problem getting a job. It also means I never failed to get anything that I wanted, so I had zero problems with an entry-level income in the past. When your landlord doesn’t mind giving you the nicest apartment at the cheapest rate because you asked so nicely, and the grocery store gives you the employee discount just because, you don’t worry about your bank statement. And I changed jobs in the past when the side effects of what I do became inconvenient. Sure, your boss forgives you when you’re an hour late three days in a row, but then he starts showing up at your house in the middle of the night with a bouquet of flowers and you realize it’s best to move on to another job where the effects of you can wear off a bit and you can sleep through the night again. Until, for instance, you need to leave your new job early to make it to the concert on time. You know, the one you were given after you mentioned to a customer how much you loved that band, and if someone would give you a ticket you’d be so appreciative.
That was the old me. New town, new me, and I refuse to use my little gifts for personal gain again. I’m too damaging otherwise.
“Not at all. It simply means that it is unlikely I will be able to put you into a permanent placement for quite some time. You don’t have the skill-set for a lot of the companies we work with who are looking for full-time employees.”
“That’s okay, as long as I can get something. I want to work.” I don’t add that I need a job asap. I have less than a hundred dollars to last me until my first paycheck, and I need a job before I can get one of those. Most of my very meager savings went to court costs, and everything I had left was spent in the move here.
“I’ll see what I can do for you. Given the type of experience you have, there are several seasonal
positions that I can see you doing well in. Expect my call in the upcoming days.” She looks back down at the stack of papers in front of her, meticulously straightening them before scrolling through the golden rolodex on her desk.
She looks back up at me over her glasses. “Do you have any further questions?”
It occurs to me that we are done, so I stand before saying, “No, thank you. I look forward to hearing back.”
She nods then returns to her rolodex.
I walk back into the lobby, happy with how the interview went. It was strangely painless, and a weight has been taken off my shoulders. Knowing you’ll probably be able to pay the bills does a lot to ease your mind. I’m so overcome with gratitude that I forget how to walk, trip over nothing, and nearly fall flat on my face.
Thank goodness no one else is in the lobby with me.
“Are you okay?”
A blush creeps up my neck and settles on my face as I turn to see who spoke. I really was distracted by bill-paying if I didn’t see the breathtaking specimen of male hotness standing very near the front desk I literally just walked by. As soon as I turn to look at him, he starts walking towards me, probably to make sure I haven’t twisted anything. How in the world did I overlook him? Thank goodness I left my stilettos at home. The only thing more embarrassing than tripping over air is tripping over air and twisting your ankle. He stops only a few feet away, well within my personal bubble. Why is he standing so close? Probably wants to ask me for my number. Part of me isn’t mad at the idea. He looks quite delectable.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit clumsy.” And woefully unobservant, since I still can’t believe I didn’t notice him before.
“It’s about time you showed up,” he says, leaning in even closer.
“Excuse me?” I ask. Or, it’s what I would ask if my mouth weren’t otherwise occupied. Because hunky guy, with his black hair and green eyes, is kissing me, and not in a friendly European way.
This is a first.
Sure, I have a certain effect on people, and even though I did my best to counter my physical attributes and toe the line between unflattering and frumpy for my interview, it’s not just my looks that draw people in like a moth to a flame. It’s me.
With one hand cupping my face and his other hand wrapped across my lower back, pulling me close, he’s kissing me like a treasured lover who’s been away far too long. Of course, I respond in kind. I can’t help it. I feel my self, the part of me that likes to be wanted and needed and loved—the part that takes those feelings and feeds off them like a cat with her cream—I feel that part of me grab hold of him and drink as if from an endless cup.
Uh-oh.
I don’t let that part of me out anymore, and this is nothing like what I’m used to. My body is at odds with my thoughts because I feel so good. I feel so strong, even my fingertips are tingling.
Luckily he pulls back before I can do any further damage, then smiles at me with a look so genuinely happy it takes my breath away. Dread replaces the tingles. What have I done to him?
“What?” I ask. He’s said something and I’m too caught up trying to regain control of myself to hear.
He takes a step back, and I’m happy to say I don’t step forward and close the distance again. Stop thinking inappropriate thoughts, April.
“Where have you been?” he asks again.
What? Does he know me? Have we… no, there’s no way I’d forget him. Is there?
“I just moved to town,” I say, as if that’s an answer to his question.
I guess it is since he takes another step back.
“You don’t remember?” he says, almost to himself since I don’t think he expects an answer. Could I have forgotten about him? Not possible. I’m not that bad.
Still, no man has ever had the guts to just kiss me like this as soon as he sees me. Either he has a lot of balls, or he’s way more susceptible to me than he ought to be.
Or maybe I’m more susceptible to him. The way he’s looking at me is doing funny things to my innards.
“Have we met before?” I ask.
He smiles but shakes his head no. “Not in this lifetime.” He pauses as if gauging my reaction. “How did you get here?” He looks around as if my car is hidden in the depths of the room. “I mean, it’s usually word of mouth. I’m wondering who told you about it.” His brows are creased, as if the answer to his question is important. I guess we’re going to pretend the whole making-out thing didn’t happen.
Now, how do I explain that the counselor at my court-ordered support group handed me the business card? “Someone gave me a card. Do you temp for them too?”
He shakes his head. “No. The sisters know a little bit of everything about everyone in this town, which comes in handy for my line of work.”
I give him a sharp look. What is he, a mobster?
He laughs, reaches into his pocket and hands me a card. “I’m a bounty hunter. I come here now and then to see if they have any helpful information.”
“Ah, okay. Bounty hunter, huh? That sounds exciting.”
“It can be sometimes, but usually it’s a lot of knocking on doors. I’m Rhys by the way.” He holds out a hand to shake.
I look at his hand for a minute. I know better than to touch him. He’s way too hot, and he already tried to suck my face off, and that was when he just saw me. Whatever power I have is intensified with touch.
Against my better judgment, I reach my hand out to his. “April.”
I keep my eyes steady on his, trying to focus past the rush of want and need I feel at even this minuscule amount of skin on skin with this man. Why is he affecting me this way? I have better control than this. At least, I thought I did. If he’s affecting me this much, what am I doing to him?
“It’s, uh, really nice to meet you. But I have to go,” I say, sickened by the stunned look that comes to his face.
It takes him so long to let go of my hand that I worry he won’t. I pull myself out of his grasp as he lets go and the force makes me stumble.
I turn around and rush out the door as fast as I can, even happier than I already was that I skipped the heels. Rhys’s chuckle follows me to the door, and I nearly turn around again at the sound of it. Control yourself! My heart is going a mile a minute by the time I make it to my car. Nothing about this interaction is normal, not even by my abnormal standards. Rhys is so…familiar. Maybe I did already meet him, back when I used my little ability more recklessly. What are the chances of that?
No, I asked and he said we haven’t met. Not in this lifetime, he said. Sounds like something a player would say.
Thank God he stopped kissing me when he did. I’m not sure I could have scrounged the control necessary to pull away, and I cringe at the thought of what would have happened if things continued. Probably something exceedingly stupid, like ripping his shirt off.
That would be a tough one to explain to the potential employer.
No, Rhys-the-Bounty-Hunter is too dangerous to be around, that’s for sure. I hope that’s the last I see of him. I don’t have time in my life for dangerous. Not anymore.
I do my best to push thoughts of him out of my head and turn my key in the ignition. I don’t even have the time to think about him right now.
I have an appointment I can’t afford to miss.
Needs a Signature
“Hello, my name is April, and I’m an addict.” I look around at the circle of people saying welcome, guilt swirling within. I try to make eye contact with each woman in the small group, am greeted with a few weak smiles beneath their haunted gazes. I don’t belong here. It’s always my first thought upon coming to a meeting, but I keep coming despite the knowledge that I’m not sick like these people.
I can thank my court order for that.
It’s still my turn to talk, so I take a deep breath and one last look at the other Sex-and-Love Addicts sitting around me, then continue.
“I moved to town last week. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I don�
��t know anyone here. I guess I’m lonely. I’m not used to being alone.” Boy, is that the painful truth. “But, a new town means a fresh start, and I’m pretty dedicated to not repeat my past mistakes. I’m looking forward to making Virginia Beach a real home.” I sit back down and listen as the other women share their stories. I may not be here by choice, and my circumstances are definitely not typical of an SLAA attendee, but I get a lot out of the meetings. Listening to the other women share their stories and their struggles; it’s a reminder of the harsh reality that is love. It can ruin people, and is every bit as addictive as any drug.
It reminds me that what I do can destroy someone.
It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and don’t intend to forget. Not when I’m faced twice a month with the hollow eyes of victims of love and the people who abuse it. They may not be my victims, but their stories are reflections of things I have caused through my own selfishness. The reckless behavior, the threatened finances, the damaged families—all caused as a side-effect of my selfish whims. Eventually, a little basket is passed around, and I’m not the only woman at the meeting who slides in a sign-in sheet with a meager donation; there’s one other sheet in the basket by the time it gets to me.
The meeting ends shortly after the collection basket is passed back, and I’m one of only two women who stay seated. We take care not to look at each other, either out of embarrassment or shame. After all, if she’s waiting for her sign-in sheet like me, then she’s also court-ordered into attendance. Only sex criminals are court-ordered to attend Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings.
