Use Me

by Mj Fields

  By signing, you also agree not to discuss your involvement to anyone, including, but not limited to, press, social media, or the author, T. Longley.

  Enclosed is a check for ten thousand dollars for your assistance to the author, Tatum Longley, in this project’s research.

  Thank you for your time, anticipated acceptance, and quickly returning the legal document needed to move forward with publishing this work.

  Best Regards,

  Melanie Quinn

  Sr. Editor at PRH Publishing.

  I’m pissed. I feel like I have not only been used, but treated as a whore.

  Fuck the money. Fuck the legal bullshit. Fuck this.

  I stand and pace back and forth in the tiny office space, trying to ignore the fact that I am hurt. Yes, fucking hurt that she would think I would go after her, her book, her money. I want none of that. I wanted her. I still fucking want her.

  I sit back down and pull out the paper with little fucking Post-it flags, showing me where to sign. I put my M.M. on every spot it needs initials, and then sign my fucking name at the places that say to sign. Then I push it off the pile of papers and see a self-addressed stamped envelope and fold the damn thing up and shove it inside.

  Next is a big fat check for ten Gs.

  I rip it to shreds and toss it in that fucking envelope. Then I lick it and seal it up.

  “Let’s go fucking end this shit, Mutt,” I growl at him, and he wags his damn tail.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Tatum

  Four Weeks Later...

  “With us today is New York Times bestselling author, Tatum Longley.” The reporter smiles at the camera, and then back to me. “Thank you for coming in today to talk about your next release.”

  “Thank you for having me.” I smile, although it’s hard to do so when I have held his words, my words, our desires so close because that’s all I have of him, and now sharing it with the world feels so wrong.

  “Tatum?”

  I look up from my hands tangled together and at the reporter. “I’m sorry.” I nod. “What did you say?”

  He laughs. “How hard is it, switching from nonfiction to something you were once quoted as calling ‘Mommy Porn’?”

  “It’s not really as different as one would think,” I answer. “I suppose you pull from your real life; your feelings and emotions whenever you write.”

  “You write what you know,” he states.

  “I suppose that’s the truth in fiction as well as non-fiction.”

  “So, your characters in Breathe Again, Annie and Jonathon, how do you connect with them?”

  It was so much easier talking openly about my previous works after Gregory was gone. I didn’t worry about hurting him in anything I said. Angelo is alive and breathing; this novel is as much him as it is me.

  “Annie’s loss drove her to do what she did. She lived her life as a nurse, helping save lives. She traveled because, making a home, when you don’t feel at home within yourself, is nearly impossible.”

  “Are you at home here in New York City?”

  The interview feels far too personal, but I know it comes from my connection to this book. It’s not just any story. It’s our story.

  “I love the city. It’s nearly impossible to get lost in one’s head for too long, when you are surrounded by life and the constant activities.” I nod, fighting to continue. “I love this city. The energy reminds you of life—it has a heartbeat. The diversity shows you it’s okay to be you and difference is beautiful. The energy sweeps you up and keeps you moving. Each neighborhood is different and beautiful in its own way. The history and the reminder of history we see in the landmarks.”

  Emotions overwhelm me because I do love this city and the energy, diversity, and history. Since Angelo, though, I don’t feel at home in it.

  I shake my head and smile sadly. “The 9/11 memorial and the reminder of what we endured and overcame.”

  “And Jonathon’s character? Was he inspired by the man you loved, Gregory?”

  My heart grows heavy. I manage to shake my head. “My muse for Jonathon—”

  “A girl never tells.” Melanie laughs. I look at her, and she smiles. “Isn’t that right?”

  “No,” I answer and look back at the reporter. “I met a man in Detroit. He became my muse, and quickly, he became so much more.”

  “Please tell us about this so much more,” he encourages.

  “He wasn’t just a muse—”

  “Tatum,” Melanie interrupts, quietly warning me.

  I don’t care about the legalities. He didn’t, either; he signed away his rights. Rights I didn’t know she asked him to sign away. Since that day—the day I found out—I have been angry at her. When I found out she tried to bribe him, and he ripped up the check, I was angry at them both.

  “I never believed in insta-love, but it only took two weeks to know that it was true. And the thing I was fighting was in fact what everyone wants to find—that person who makes up half of their heart. I was lucky enough to find it twice.”

  “Lucky indeed. So, how are things between you and your Jonathon?”

  I feel tears well in my eyes at the thought of the space between us now, and the fact that I know it’s done.

  “Annie very much loves Jonathon. She’ll never stop,” I say, forcing a smile as tears threaten to fall.

  “And Jonathon?” he asks.

  Melanie is quick to answer, no doubt fearing what will come out of my mouth. “We mustn’t spoil the ending. Tatum’s readers will have to find out for themselves tomorrow, when the book is available worldwide.”

  The reporter nods. “As always, thank you, Tatum, for stopping in to see us.”

  “Thank you for having me,” I repeat, looking at the camera and praying that he is watching. “Thank you, Jonathon, for being so much more to me. Thank you for healing the part of me that died with him. And thank you for helping me learn how to Breathe Again.”

  Walking out of the studio, Melanie grabs my hand. “I won’t let you go there again.”

  “Go where?” I ask, not caring what she or anyone has to say.

  “Gregory wouldn’t—”

  “He’s gone, so is Angelo, Melanie. And look at me, I’m still here”—I throw my hand in the air, frustrated—“still breathing.”

  Tears immediately fall from her eyes. “Thank God for that, Tatum.”

  I nod. Saying what I want will only be mean, and I know she isn’t trying to hurt me. We have been through a lot together, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

  “Let’s go get some breakfast,” she says, hugging me.

  “Can we not?”

  She steps back and looks at me.

  “I’m honestly just tired.”

  I wasn’t making up a story. It wasn’t fiction. I was exhausted. Totally exhausted and nothing seemed to make things better. And if things couldn’t get any worse, coffee was making me physically sick.

  In the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. I look like I aged ten years in two months. Honestly, it feels like a lifetime since I last saw Angelo.

  Like Gregory, he is gone, not a part of my life anymore. As much as it pains me, it’s truth and reality, both things I avoided when I fell for him.

  Like a warm blanket on a cold Detroit February day, I wrapped myself in him. Now I am no longer in Detroit. I am in New York, a city I chose because of all the things I told the reporter today.

  I will not let my past hold me back. I will face my future and try to once again find happiness in the newness of the day.

  I open the cabinet under the sink to get a fresh roll of toilet paper, and next to it sits a box of tampons. The last time I had my period was the day after I left for Detroit. It’s not unusual for me to have light periods, or to miss a period during stressful times, but it’s been...

  “Oh, God,” I cry as I cover my belly with my hands.

  Chapter Thirty

  Angelo

  Lying in bed, looking at t
hat fucking spot while the mutt is pushing my hand with his cold wet nose, I am again annoyed by the fucking package.

  I gave her every-fucking-thing she asked me for, yet she has the nerve to shove my nose in the fact that I was nothing to her? She asked for this. She did. Then she walked, both of us struggling with it so hard that I cut ties for her ability to Breathe Again.

  Fucking book. Fucking love. Fucking shit; that’s what it is.

  I get up and throw on some pants to go piss. When I walk out, Buck’s in my recliner, mouth gaping as he looks at the damn TV he bought that takes up the entire wall. He should have stuck with the old TV and bought his own chair.

  I look away from him and at the TV, and my chest immediately tightens.

  “What the fuck?” Buck grumbles, pointing at my dick. “You still claim you ain’t in love with that woman?”

  “It’s morning wood, Buck,” I snarl while watching her smile and act like nothing is wrong in her fucking world while mine is turned upside down and inside out.

  I don’t ask him, too, but he turns up the volume.

  When I hear her speak, it fucking hurts my heart. When I see her smile, it hurts my soul. When I hear her say Annie will always love Jonathon, I want to fuck her to remind her who exactly Jonathon is.

  After I piss and brush my teeth, I grab the leash and hook up Mutt. My head spins with rage, anger, want, desire, pain, and confusion as I run hard. Only halfway through the run do I realize Mutt didn’t even attempt to make this morning about him.

  When we walk into the gym, everything goes silent. All eyes fall on me, and I know damn well they just found out who Tatum Longley actually is and what I was to her.

  Jonathon, a muse, for a fucking book about love.

  I swallow back my irritation, my embarrassment, and my fucking fury.

  “You need the day, man?” Jagger asks as I walk around him, trying to keep this fucking routine.

  Fucking routine... Hell.

  “Need a what?” I ask, not looking at him as I grab my shake from the fridge.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I lose my shit.

  I grab him by the neck and slam him against the wall. “Keep your fucking hands off me!”

  “Kid,” he says with eyebrows raised. “You’re the one who needs to get your hands off me.”

  When my grip tightens, he swings with his left arm, hitting me in the side of my head.

  “Jagger, no!” Tatiana screams as Buck grabs me and pulls me back before I can swing back.

  “Take a fucking walk, man. This ain’t you. Jagger’s a dick, but this isn’t about him,” Buck says. “It’s about her.”

  “Get your fucking hands off me, Buck, or you’ll be fucking out,” I snap, pushing him away from me.

  Jagger steps between us and shakes his head. “Fix your head and don’t come back till you do.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Please don’t...” Tatiana cries. “Please don’t do this.”

  Jagger bares his teeth at me as he pulls Tatiana into his arms. “I’m sorry, little one, so sorry.” He drops his head to her neck, and I realize it pains him to lose the calm he has worked so hard to claim.

  I understand. My calm is long gone, too. My everything is fucking gone, vanished, and I don’t really give a damn about getting anything back.

  Tatiana pushes back to get space from Jagger and looks at me with tears in her eyes. “You love her, you fight for her, not against your friends.”

  They aren’t my fucking friends; they are people I’m fucking linked to by an invisible chain wrapped around my neck, tight enough to cause torturous agony, but not death.

  “Take a fucking walk, man,” Jagger says to me before turning Tatiana around to face him. Kissing her head, he says, “I’m sorry.”

  I can’t take it anymore. I turn around and walk out.

  I want to fucking run, but I already did, and my legs feel like lead.

  I want to turn back time, but I can’t.

  I want to remind her who Angelo is and make her feel the hell I am feeling right this fucking minute. And I will.

  Nine and a half hours is how long it takes to drive from Detroit to New York City. The entire trip, I think about who I was and who I am: a killer, a martyr, a man who snaps and takes a man by the throat, even after rotting behind bars for so many fucking years for doing the same damn thing.

  I almost turn around five different times. However, I need to see her. I need to show her who Angelo is. To tell her Jonathon is a fucking joke. To tell her I hate her for using me. I need to get back at her by fucking her senseless so she, too, can never forget who I am.

  They say a man never forgets his first. It’s true. I can’t shake her. I could go fuck someone, use someone to get her out of my head, my thoughts, get her off my cock. But I’m not built that way. Instead, I am going to fuck her in a way she will never forget me. I will fuck her body in every degrading way she fucked with my name. Mine, not Jonathon’s.

  I am breaking parole, breaking the law. If she calls the cops, I’m going back to prison. I want exactly that. I want to be locked up. I would rather rot behind bars. At least they can contain me physically, and my fucking breaking heart won’t be able to lead me to the path I am on.

  I fucking miss her so goddamn much, but I hate her, too.

  After this, I will leave and never think about her again. I’m here to equal the playing grounds. I’m going to use her, and then go back and hope to hell my miserable existence ends sooner than later.

  I pull up in front of her building. 160 Riverside Boulevard, the Upper West Side. She had already given me her address that long-ago day she typed her number into my phone.

  After driving around the block five times, I finally find an open spot and parallel park the truck. Honestly, I’m shocked the damn thing made it. I hope to fuck it makes it back to hell, or from one hell to the other. None of it really matters.

  My nerves nearly get the best of me, but I force myself out of the truck and walk across the street. Then I watch long enough to know there is no doorman, which is bullshit. This is NYC. I even see people walk in and out; some not even buzzing in. Her security sucks.

  I shake my head, trying to rid the fucking bullshit I’m feeling. Her safety isn’t my concern. She used me, I will use her, and then we will be fucking even. When I walk away, I won’t bring Annie or Jonathon with me. I will walk away the way she found me—untouchable.

  A man in a suit walks out the entrance door without taking a second glance at me in my track pants and a fucking hoodie. I skate right inside.

  I see that access to the tin box requires a key. I don’t have a key, and I don’t like the fucking tin box, so I wait. Glancing around, it’s then I see the stairwell. There are at least a dozen people buzzing around me and none, not one of them, even gives a second glance. I feel invisible, which I fucking like.

  I get closer to the stairwell and see a woman look at me. She sees me.

  I don’t get the look of a woman who wants to fuck me. No, the redhead is annoyed by me, a look I don’t get often. I want to ask her what her fucking problem is, but I don’t. I really don’t give a shit.

  The stairwell door opens, and I catch it as it’s about to close and look at my phone. Seventh floor, apartment 777. The nuns would have loved it.

  Once at the top of the stairs, I swing the door open to see that red-headed bitch knocking on a door.

  I step back when she turns toward me so she doesn’t see me.

  When I hear her voice—Tatum’s voice—I step back out in the hall.

  “He’s here,” the redhead tells her.

  “Who?” Tatum asks, and I see her wipe her nose with a tissue.

  “That man from Detroit. He’s here in the building,” she hisses.

  “He’s not here, Melanie. You must have mistaken—”

  “The beast with the man bun?” Melanie asks.

  Fucking bitch hasn’t seen the beast, but if she keeps talking, I will happily sho
w her.

  I walk out into the hall and toward them. Both of them look in my direction, and Tatum gasps, tears sliding down her face.

  Normally, that would make me rethink this shit, but she’s not safe from me. I warned her. So many times, I tried to send her away, push her away. She should have listened. Now she will learn the hard way.

  “Angelo, what are you doing here?” she asks, dabbing her puffy eyes with the tissue.

  “We have some unresolved issues to discuss.” I try to stay as calm as I can, but I’m not fucking calm, and my voice carries that tone.

  “Are you even supposed to be in this state?” her friend asks.

  “Melanie,” Tatum scolds her.

  She ignores her and sets her hands on her hips, glaring at me. “Well?”

  “You call the cops if you want. I don’t really give a fuck. The ten-thousand-dollar question is: will you let me have an hour with Tatum first?”

  “I don’t—”

  “The answer is yes,” I interrupt, not looking at her as I walk past her, past Tatum, and into her apartment.

  “Melanie, I’m fine. Just—”

  “But you aren’t fine, Tatum. He’s—”

  “I said...” She pauses and clears her throat. “I’ll call you later.”

  I keep my back to her and look around her place as the door closes. It’s not fucking tidy. There are coffee cups, papers, tissues, and clothes strewn around. Otherwise, the place would be nice.

  “Angelo?” My name falls from her lips in a quiver of need and confusion.

  I turn around and look at her. She’s a mess, but she still looks beautiful.

  “I’m only here for one reason, Annie,” I tell her. “I’m here to use you.”

  “I missed you so—”

  “Shut the hell up with your lies,” I say, pulling out my cock that’s been rock-hard since I saw her. “I’m not here to talk or have smoke blown up my ass.”

  “I’m not—”

  One step and I close the distance between us. I grip the back of her neck, and she licks her lips, looking up at me, expecting a kiss.