Sick Pleasure (Crazy Beautiful Book 3)

by Jessica Huizenga

  My brother looks downright smug since he thinks he’s nailed me, his signature dimples on full display. We might be twins, but he’s the lucky asshole that won the genetic lottery. He’s a smooth talker—in perfect contrast to my often-blunt attitude—so between the charm, the dimples, and his dirty blond hair, girls practically throw their underwear at him. We usually make an irresistible lady-killing team, but sometimes he just annoys the shit out of me. “Fuck you, bro. Hazel has nothing to do with anything. Can’t a guy just enjoy a beer in peace?”

  Logan laughs. As a general rule we share everything—DNA, secrets, women—but this is one of the few things I don’t want to discuss. He may not know the full story about Hazel, but he knows me well enough not to buy my crap.

  “Come on, T. What’s up? Something—or should I say someone—is clearly bothering you. First you start shit with Ryan, well, more shit than usual anyway, and you’ve been zoned out since we got here. You didn’t even notice your favorite smokeshow by the door.”

  I turn around to rest my elbows back on the bar and look out around the room. An upbeat song pumps through the jukebox speakers. I see Tiffany standing by the entrance with a group of friends, sizing me up from the corner of her eye. Petite. Blonde. Perfect rack to ass ratio. Hot, and knows it. We’ve fucked a few times and normally on a night like this I’d have her back at my place already. Shit. Maybe Logan is right—maybe something is wrong with me. And I’ll be damned if I let that fucker be right. I would take a bullet for the guy, but I’ll cut off my own dick before I have to hear him give me shit about a girl.

  Especially if it’s about a certain girl I wish I could forget altogether.

  I finish off the last of my beer and put the empty bottle on the bar behind me. I look back at Tiffany and we make eye contact before her gaze slides lower. I know my tanned arms and lean muscles are on full display in my gray T-shirt—perks of working outside on construction sites every day. Her eyes make their way back to mine so I flash her my usual charming smile. When she returns it with her own cutesy grin I honestly feel nothing, but I’d rather make meaningless conversation with some random fuck buddy than have my brother ask any more questions about Hazel.

  I clap Logan on the back and motion to the bartender for two more beers. “You worry too much. What, are you on your period today? Relax.”

  Logan grunts as the cold bottles are placed in front of me. “Screw you, T. You’re the one who’s been bitchy all night. No wonder everyone thinks I’m the better brother.” He laughs. “Instead of trying to get pussy, you’re being one.”

  He reaches for one of the beers but I pull them both away. “That’s about to change, brother.” I grin cockily and head toward the blonde at the door, thankful that Logan and I each drove our own vehicles here tonight—something we usually do for this very reason. “Don’t wait up,” I call back, and hear an approving chuckle in response.

  As soon as I get close to the group of girls I’m hit with an overpowering stench of perfume that makes me dizzy. It collectively smells like baby powder and strawberries mixed with tequila and a hint of desperation. I think of how Hazel had such a nice, subtle smell earlier and find myself feeling steadier as I wonder what it was. Orange? Lime? Fuck.

  As if to prove a point to myself I move in closer to Tiffany. I drape my right arm over her shoulder from behind, offering her one of the beer bottles. “You look thirsty,” I whisper in her ear before moving around to face her.

  She smiles and accepts the drink, moving away from her friends to give me her undivided attention. “Thanks.” She takes a slow sip before adding suggestively, “However can I repay the favor?”

  “I’m sure we can think of something.” Damn, this is almost too easy. Part of me wants to ask if she has any sort of self-respect. Not that I’ve ever cared before. She’s wearing skin-tight black jeans and some sort of shimmery tank top that changes color every time she moves in the dim lights, forcing me to stare at her chest like two giant disco balls. I’m going to go with a ‘no’ on the whole self-respect thing.

  I down a huge gulp of my own beer, hoping it will keep me from feeling so edgy, but by the way every vein in my body pulses with adrenaline I don’t think it will help. I’m by no means a lightweight—it usually takes at least four beers before I even feel a buzz—but I don’t think I should be consuming more alcohol when I feel drunk already. And not in a nice, relaxed way.

  I contemplate getting the hell out of here, but then that means something really is wrong with me.

  “So, how’ve you been?” Tiffany asks, but by the way she stares at my muscles instead of making eye contact, I can tell she doesn’t really care. I shrug, trying to keep my shit under control. My arms and legs feel hollow but I’m so wired I could run a marathon.

  I’m well aware that most girls see me as nothing but a tool with a ripped body, and that’s usually fine by me. I prefer it, actually, and the joke’s on them, if you really think about it. The girls that end up in my bed tend to prowl bars, parties, and clubs, looking for attention from anyone who will give it to them. They only want to use me to make themselves feel better, which is fine since that’s all I’m looking for. I see the way they look at me—at my abs and my dick, but never really at me—as they use me for their own sick pleasure, and this makes it easy for me to do the same. If a girl wants to use me for a night of fun, why not make the most of it? People can think what they want about me but I’m just enjoying the ride, tickled fucking pink that I don’t have to answer to or worry about anyone else.

  I put my half-full beer bottle down on a table beside us and hook my thumb toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. You want a ride?” To hell with making meaningless small talk. We both know what we’re really after, so let’s cut to the chase.

  “Thanks for the ride, Tristan.” I see Tiffany’s lips moving, but I hear Hazel’s voice in my head. I shake it to regain focus.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, praying I’m not having a nervous breakdown.

  Tiffany slides closer to me, tracing the hem of my shirt with her finger. “I said, where do you want to go, handsome?” My body tenses at the way she looks at me. Not in a good way. Come on, T. Get your thumb out of your ass and your head in the game.

  “Outside. Let’s get some air.” I motion to the side entrance that I know leads to an alley.

  As soon as the fresh air hits my lungs and replaces the stale, stuffy feeling from inside the bar, I make my move. I push Tiffany up against the wall, caging her in with my arms. The cool concrete feels solid under my fingers, giving me the grounding I need. I angle my head to look at her, her short stature no match for my six-foot frame. She grinds her hips toward mine, her chest heaving with excitement. For the first time I notice that her eyes are green, which makes me think of Hazel’s soft, sweet face.

  “Fuck!” I groan, backing off.

  Tiffany flinches, startled. “What? What’s wrong?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and press my thumb and forefinger over them before blinking a few times, desperate to un-see the feisty redhead fucking with my mind. I look back at Tiffany and command, “Go back inside. I can’t do this tonight.”

  She sticks out her unnaturally plump bottom lip in a pout before looking at me like I’m some sad puppy dog. “Aww . . . don’t feel bad. It happens to a lot of guys. He probably just needs a little encouragement. Here, let me help.” She reaches for the front of my jeans.

  Jesus, she thinks I can’t fucking get it up? If only that were my problem. I might prefer it at this point. My ego still takes a hit, though, so I throw my hands up defensively while putting as much distance between us as I can.

  “That’s not the problem. Can’t you take a fucking hint?” I bite out harshly.

  Now Tiffany is the one who looks offended. She crosses her arms and hisses, “Screw you, Tristan,” before turning on her heel to stalk back inside.

  I take a few deep breaths and pace the narrow alley before screaming “FUCK!” loudly into the night.
I punch the concrete wall hard enough for my knuckles to bleed. I welcome the physical pain because it sure as shit beats the throbbing in my chest that started the minute Hazel Blake stormed back into my life.

  Hazel

  It’s been three hours since Tristan dropped me off and I don’t think I’ve sat still once. I’m so amped up from our almost-kiss that I think I might spontaneously combust. It took every ounce of my composure to casually walk away from his car. I could have sworn we both felt our old spark again, but by the way he shut me down I probably imagined it. Either way, I know I deserve the rejection.

  As soon as I knew I was out of sight, I practically sprinted up to the pool house, locking the door as I leaned against it, my heart racing. I blasted loud music then spent a good hour pacing, got ready for work way too early, paced some more, and now I’m raiding my cabinets, since I never did eat at the party. I look from one empty shelf to another and curse when I realize I’m going to have to go up to the main house. I look at the clock, seeing I still have some time before I need to catch the bus to make it for my usual 10 p.m.—3 a.m. shift at the Crown.

  I let myself in the back door that leads straight into the kitchen, trying to be quiet as I open the fridge and look for a snack. As soon as I grab an apple from the crisper drawer I hear a loud voice.

  “Hazel, is that you?”

  I jump, slamming the door shut with more force than I anticipated. “Jeez, Mom, you scared the shit out of me!” I clutch the apple to my chest, trying to calm down. Nothing like a jolt of adrenaline to make the already on-edge girl feel like she’s having a heart attack.

  My mother clicks her tongue. “Oh for goodness sake, Hazel, watch your language. And maybe you wouldn’t be so jumpy if you weren’t sneaking around like a cat burglar in your own home. Why on God’s green earth are you wearing all black like some sort of hoodlum?”

  I look down to my dark yoga pants and zip-up sweatshirt that’s pulled over a T-shirt of the same color. The diner requires all waitresses to wear black and I like to be comfortable during my shift. It’s not like I expect to meet anybody worth dressing up for in the middle of the night. Although apparently my mother does, since she’s sporting a silk dressing gown with matching high-heeled slippers that have some sort of fluffy feathers attached to the top.

  “What? It’s comfortable.” I shrug, opting for a half-truth. I really don’t feel like arguing about my choice of employment right now.

  She shakes her head, clearly unable to comprehend my logic, before sashaying to the sink to fill a glass with filtered water. “Where were you this afternoon? I came looking for you when I got home but you weren’t here.”

  I rest my hands on the large marble island in front of me, spinning the apple on the smooth countertop to keep my hands busy. In rehab we learned that secrets, no matter how big or small, are a gateway drug—keeping them only leads to worse things. And while I understand that, I also know my mother. She has such a warped sense of reality that sometimes it’s better to keep her in the dark. Besides, Ryan is the one who made me swear not to tell her about the baby shower, and as much as I might owe my mother for getting me into rehab, I don’t want to make things worse between them. Ry and Mom have always butted heads, and she’s not exactly thrilled with his choice of fiancée at the moment. Although I have to admit it was amusing to watch his soon-to-be-wife go toe to toe with my mom the night of the holiday party . . . I’ve never seen anyone do that but my brother. Ryan and Kelley are like a match made in Holly Blake-Hating Heaven.

  “I was visiting with an old friend.” Not exactly a lie . . .

  My mother takes a sip of her water before getting to her real point. I should have known she doesn’t actually care where I was. “I had lunch with Mrs. Brattelboro today and she told me her son has been asking about you. You remember Thomas, don’t you?”

  In ninth grade Tommy Brattelboro offered me a hundred bucks to show him my boobs. He’s kind of hard to forget.

  I nod, once again deciding to omit certain details from this conversation.

  “Well I told her she should have him call you. I think he’s quite the catch.”

  I groan and try not to roll my eyes. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  My mom sets her glass on the counter and sighs dramatically. “I don’t know why you have to be so difficult. You should consider yourself lucky a boy like Thomas Brattelboro takes the time to ask about you. He’s a respected man with a good job. Not like poor Mitsy Hamilton’s son, Jackson. I heard he’s quite the drunk and went to rehab three times in as many years.” She shakes her head in pity and I have to resist the urge to scream. It’s bad enough I have to listen to her ridiculous gossip, which serves no purpose other than her own sick form of entertainment, but the judgment in her tone makes me cringe.

  “Mom, I’ve been to rehab. And your son used to be a drunk, too, remember?”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t be dramatic. I’m talking about Jackson Hamilton, not you. That boy is real trouble.”

  Oh my God. The way this woman is able to ignore what she doesn’t want to see is impressive. No wonder I used to prefer being high to dealing with her crap. She’s always been more concerned about appearances than truth, but I’m starting to think she actually believes the lies she tells herself.

  I suddenly get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe I’m more like my mother than I think. After all, haven’t I tried to rewrite the past and lie to myself when it comes to Tristan? I guess I tried to pretend I didn’t treat him like complete garbage all those years ago so we could forget it ever happened and go back to being friends. But he also made it pretty clear he doesn’t want to talk about the past, either. So what was I supposed to do?

  I argue, “If someone makes a mistake, that doesn’t mean they’re a bad person.” I’m no longer just talking about Jackson. I add in a softer, more hopeful tone, “We all have our flaws, but people can change, right?”

  My mother laughs. “Oh, Hazel.” She comes around the side of the island to stroke my hair in what I assume is meant to be an affectionate gesture, but feels patronizing. “A flaw is a weakness for a reason, my dear. Those who suffer bring it upon themselves.”

  With that uplifting nugget of motherly advice, she air kisses me on the forehead and makes her exit. As she heads through the doorway she calls over her shoulder, “Just remember, a leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

  We admitted that we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable.

  Tristan

  “Yo, Tristan! Did you hear me?”

  Shit. “What?”

  “I asked if you have the plans for the house over on Collins Street? I need to get some guys over there this week or Old Lady Buress is going to cut my dick off and feed it to her fucking Chihuahua.”

  I focus on measuring the same length of two-by-four for the eighteenth time as CJ looks at me expectantly. “Fuck, I forgot them at the office. I’ll bring them tomorrow.”

  CJ laughs, so I look up from my tape measure and carpenter pencil. “Now what?”

  He crosses his arms and leans against my makeshift workbench, which is a piece of plywood propped up on two sawhorses. “Nothing, except that’s what you’ve been telling me for the past three days. Kinda makes my job as foreman on this one hard when I don’t even have the blueprints. What’s up, man?”

  I toss my pencil on the bench and place my hands flat on the wood surface. I drop my chin to my chest and take a deep breath to clear my mind. It’s been ten days since I last saw Hazel, and it’s pissing me the fuck off that I can’t get her out of my head.

  Even more concerning is that it’s been more than ten days since I’ve gotten laid, and the longest I’ve gone without sex in the past three years is five days. Six, tops, if I double down with some solo hands-on action. But ten? It must be the stress of a busy workweek. No way the mere thought of Hazel Blake has me cock-blocked.

  I roll my shoulders to try and shake off whatever the f
uck is wrong with me. “I’ve just got a lot going on. Too much to do and not enough time in the day to do it.”

  “Is that why you’ve been working from four in the fucking morning ’til it’s darker than hell? I’m all for putting in hours, man, but damn, you might wanna ease up a bit. You’re starting to look like shit. Well, even worse than usual.”

  Busting my balls is nothing new for CJ, since we’ve worked at Charter Hill Construction together going on eleven years, but right now I’m not in the mood. “Well somebody has to make sure this shit gets done,” I snap, my usual joking tone replaced by a frustration even I don’t understand. Usually I’m the most easygoing guy there is. Why the fuck is everyone annoying me lately?

  CJ looks shocked at my unusual outburst and holds his hands up in surrender just as Mr. Turner approaches with a blue cardboard tube in his hands.

  “Watch out for this one today, sir; somebody has his hot-pink panties in a twist.” CJ laughs, thinking he’s funny shit.

  Mr. Turner shakes his head, used to our constant ribbing, and holds out the tube to CJ. “I saw this back at the office and thought you might need it. Now why don’t you make yourself useful and get to work, huh?”

  “With pleasure, Mr. T. At least somebody is paying attention.” CJ shoots me a shit-eating grin before heading off the job site.

  I try to get back to measuring this damn two-by-four as Mr. Turner comes around the opposite side of the workbench. He stays quiet, observing me, which is how I know I’m in trouble. Ben Turner is the kind of guy who doesn’t have to say anything to get you to admit to something. He’s been the closest to a father figure I’ve had in my life, and other than Logan I consider him my only family. He’s the one person I try not to disappoint.

  “I know I dropped the ball. It won’t happen again.” I don’t look up from what I’m doing.

  “Hey, it’s your ball to drop. No need to explain it to me, son.” Mr. Turner puts his hands in his pockets and for a second I think I’m in the clear.