Love Addicts Anonymous: Part One

by J. C. Reed

  It’s a black Darth Vader keychain.

  “Nice accessory,” I say pointing to her hand. “Can I see it?”

  She hesitates for a moment before she stretches out her hand, long enough to let me get a better look, but not close enough to let me touch it.

  “It was a gift from my little brother,” she says almost apologetically and pulls back again.

  “He has a great taste.”

  “He’s nine.”

  She offers me a soft, almost apologetic smile. Her hand brushes over the length of her skirt. It’s impatience, I assume, but I can’t be sure.

  She’s unlike any other woman I’ve met before—cagey, almost hostile.

  Judging from her posture—all rigid, her gaze glued to the rug beneath our feet, her perfect teeth gently chewing on that full lower lip of hers—I can sense there’s something she wants to say but doesn’t know how to say it without sounding rude.

  “What?” I prompt.

  She looks up, and her eyes meet mine again. “Are you really a sex addict?”

  “Why are you asking?” I cock my head to the side. “Is it because I asked you out? You know it was a joke, right? Something that people laugh about and don’t take seriously.”

  “I know. It’s just…” She takes a deep breath and waves her hand, looking for words. “In spite of your obvious preference to run around naked, you don’t look like a sex addict to me.”

  “You don’t look like a love addict, either, and yet here you are, stuck in this place with me.”

  She nods her head. “Fair enough.”

  I regard her amused. “Out of interest, how do you think a sex addict should look like?”

  She shrugs. “Bald. In his forties, I guess. Maybe someone with a few divorces behind him, because no woman is good enough for him so he feels unloved and has channeled that emptiness into his sex life. Definitely someone older than you.”

  “You seem to have a very clear picture of a sex addict. Who’s judgmental now?” I grin at her. “To answer your question, you don’t have to worry that I’ll come running to your bedroom door in the middle of the night and force myself on you. I’m not that kind of guy.”

  She looks embarrassed at my insinuation. “I wasn’t worried about that.”

  “Good,” I say. “But just so you know, I’m not a sex addict. People keep insisting that I am, but I’m not. Honestly, I’m not.”

  “Why do they insist that you are, then?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Earnestly, it’s not an addiction if I love what I do. I could stop whenever I wanted, but why would I want to?”

  “That makes sense.” Laughter erupts from her throat. And wow. She really has the most beautiful laughter.

  Pearly, infectious, coming from the heart.

  Everything about her seems real, unlike all the fake women back home that are after my money.

  “You’re good.” She laughs again before growing silent. “Look, honestly, I don’t really care what you are or what you do. You could have slept with half of the female population in the world, and I wouldn’t care. I want to go home, meaning all I care about is getting this whole thing over and done with. The only reason I wanted to talk is to ask you not to clog the sink with hair and what not—” she points at my crotch “—and please don’t touch my things, not my food, not my private stuff, and particularly not after you’ve touched yourself.”

  Why does her reference to me jerking off make her sound so damn hot?

  Ignoring the sudden stirring in my crotch, I grant her an innocent smile. “That’s all?”

  “I think so. I’m not looking to hook up with anyone. I’m not interested in getting into more trouble than I’m already in.”

  “Done deal, roomie.”

  There is a short, heavy silence.

  She opens her mouth, then closes it again, surprise apparent in her face. “You’re fine with it? No arguing? No questions? No complaints? Just like that? Because you said—”

  “I know what I said, and the answer’s yes.”

  She leans back, all tension gone, but I can feel the waves of suspicion wafting from her. “Why?”

  “What do you mean why?” I frown in mock annoyance. “Can’t your roommate be friendly with you and agree to your rules for the sake of building a good relationship?”

  “Wow. You’re serious then?”

  “Absolutely. Now, talking to me wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Her skirt rides up a few inches as she crosses her leg. The way she’s leaned back gives me a good view of her breasts straining against the thin fabric of her top. God, it’s hard not to stare at them and imagine all sorts of things I could do to her naked body.

  “It’s all settled then,” she continues, completely oblivious to the thoughts I’m harboring this instant. “You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. And if you could slip into something less discomforting,” she breaks off as she catches my face, then adds quickly, “or not. That’s totally fine, too.”

  “You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?” I say, amused. “But all right, if it helps you feel more at ease around me, I’ll slip into something ‘less discomforting.’ Even though I’ve got to say, I still don’t get what’s wrong with it.” I consider getting up, then decide against it. For one, I’d rather be in her company than in the confines of my bedroom, unsure what to do with myself outside of my office. And then there’s the tiny inconvenience in my pants. I don’t think she’d appreciate seeing another hard-on—at least, not quite yet.

  “It’s called having manners.”

  “You keep mentioning that.” I wink. “Let’s not go there again.”

  “I don’t know a lot about you.” She shrugs. “So, obviously, I wouldn’t know if you had any or not.”

  “Then let’s change that, shall we?” I stretch out my hand over the table. “My name’s Kaiden Wright, but you may call me Kade. Obviously, I’m your new roommate.”

  “Victoria Sullivan. Usually no nickname, but you can call me Vicky.” She takes my hand and gives it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Vicky.”

  I let her name roll off my tongue, realizing that it’s both sweet and innocent, and somehow fits her perfectly.

  In spite of her firm grip, her hand feels soft inside mine. I marvel at the way it fits like it was made to feel perfect against my skin. She looks into my eyes, and for a moment I think I can see a sparkle that wasn’t there before. Her lips part, and her gaze lowers to my mouth the way it does when women have their own naughty thoughts about me and think they’re being discreet about it.

  I would have held on much longer if she didn’t let go.

  As she settles back against the sofa, her eyes grow distant. It must be something I said or did. I comb my memory to find the thing that’s turned her distant again.

  And then it hits me.

  It’s not me. It’s about someone else.

  I watch her start playing with the keychain again. “He must be pretty special if you don’t want to upset him.”

  Vicky looks up, her irises widening, surprise written on her face. “How did you guess?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Judging from the fact that this is not exactly a vacation, it was either that you’re recovering from a bad relationship or that you’re here to get rid of him. Call it a wild guess, but I don’t think it’s the latter.”

  “He has nothing to do with it.” She wets her lips, and for the first time I see nervousness and something else—vulnerability—flicker across her face.

  I wouldn’t usually pursue the issue, but with her it’s different. It’s partly entertaining, partly interesting, and partly, to my surprise, I find that I care somehow.

  “You’re not here because of him?” I ask.

  “I’m here because I violated my restraining order that ordered me to keep away from him.”

  I lean back. It’s my turn to be stunned. I never expected her to be so frank.<
br />
  “I take it you’re a professional stalker?”

  She lets out a fake laugh. “I’m anything but that.” Her laugh grows silent, the words soft. “It’s all a big misunderstanding. That’s all there is.”

  My body tenses at the way she says the words. As if she’s grown tired of having to repeat them over and over again. Vulnerability stains her voice, her stance, even the air surrounding her.

  It makes me want to touch her, to hold her hand in mine and make her laugh again, which is absurd. I’m not someone who likes to comfort. Heck, I usually don’t give a damn.

  Her hands brush over her skirt, and then she gets up. “I should get going.”

  I rise with her. “Want me to help you find your way around?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, but thanks.” She offers me a weak smile.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “Your room is—”

  “—is the first door down the hall. I know,” Vicky says, interrupting me.

  “That’s correct. I took the bigger room, seeing that I arrived first. First come, first serve, dibs, and all that.” I offer her a smile, but she doesn’t return it.

  “I don’t mind. I prefer the smaller one anyway.” Her gaze travels the front of my robe.

  With a soft groan, she lifts up the box. I take it out of her hands. “Come on. Let me help you.”

  I follow her down the hall and we reach her room. I open the door for her and step aside to let her past. She steps inside, barely giving me a second glance as she hauls her luggage into a corner. As she turns around, I pass her the box. Our hands touch again and her last words echo in my mind.

  “To hell with them, Vicky,” I whisper. “I believe you. If you say that it’s all a misunderstanding, then that’s all it is.”

  I don’t know what just made me say that, but it feels true.

  For whatever stupid reason, I believe her.

  “You are?” Surprise replaces the weariness. I expect her to withdraw her hand, but she doesn’t.

  “Why not? I’m not the person to judge you. Right?”

  My gaze meets hers again, and in that moment something happens. I don’t know what it is, except that it feels like a vault’s just opened. It’s deep, intense, and a hell of a lot intimate. As my eyes zoom in on her, I know she feels the same way.

  We’re standing near the door. She pulls back and places her hand on the handle. It’s my clue to leave. I know it is, and yet I find myself glued to the spot, fighting the sudden want to stay.

  She places the box onto the table and then she turns around. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  She shrugs. “For making it all so easy, I guess.”

  I let out a chuckle. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not doing it for you. I’m selfish and incredibly vain and really need my beauty sleep. A yelling, angry roomie wouldn’t be in my best interest.”

  Her lips twitch. “Okay. I don’t want to hold you back longer than necessary.”

  Turning around, I head out the door. She closes it behind me when I remember her ugly accessory. I can’t leave without making a last impression.

  “Hey, Stalker!”

  The door opens again and her head pops out. “Yeah?”

  I put on my most serious expression. “May the Force be with you!”

  She frowns, confused. Finally, as my words sink in, her lips start quivering, and then a laugh erupts from her chest.

  It’s really addictive.

  Her lips. Her eyes. Most of all, her laugh. I love people who can laugh like that. Open. Full of life.

  “May the Force be with you too, Panty-chaser.”

  I can feel her gaze on me as I head down the hall, realizing I like it. I like her. But most importantly, I want her.

  The little, sexy nurse.

  10

  VICKY

  * * *

  Jane Austen Fan Club

  PO Box

  * * *

  June 8th

  * * *

  Dear Jane,

  * * *

  This may sound silly at first, but would you say that Elizabeth is suffering from a love addiction just because she loves Mr. Darcy? I don’t think so. See, my dilemma is that I’m very much in love with someone. I know he loves me. I know he wants to be with me. I know he’s afraid of disclosing the magnitude of his feelings, which is the only reason why he’s not replying to any of my messages. I also know I’m in rehab because his ex is trying to ruin his life.

  She’s trying to ruin our relationship.

  Because there’s no way he would do this of his own will.

  But I won’t let her.

  As tiresome and inconvenient as it may be, I’ve got to say that I’ve reached a crossroads in my life. It’s either give up or fight for us.

  I’m not ready yet to give up what we have because I truly believe that we belong together. A restraining order won’t stop me. People may not see what we have, they may call me crazy, but I know our connection is special. I know that if I love hard, fight hard, the reward will be great.

  When darkness prevails, love remains.

  I truly hope so.

  * * *

  Lots of love,

  Vicky Sullivan

  11

  Vicky

  * * *

  Shit.

  I think I’ve just reached the lowest point in my life.

  As I stumble out of the counselor’s office into the hall, tripping over my own two feet, someone almost hits me. My stomach is churning; the urge of emptying my stomach overwhelms me. Inside my mind I know that I’m in denial, and yet I can’t quite grasp the meaning of it all as her words keep coming at me like an echo.

  “You need to accept that your feelings for Bruce are unhealthy.”

  Unhealthy.

  That’s what she said when I mentioned how often I think about Bruce, and I didn’t even admit the full extent.

  Bruce is constantly on my mind.

  Like. All. The. Time.

  Even now, flashes of Bruce keep circling before my eyes.

  His smile. His eyes. His happiness whenever his team scores a win.

  How can she, the counselor, the judge, everyone, be so wrong?

  The fact that I can’t see him, haven’t heard of him in what feels like an eternity, is too much.

  The smell of coffee hits my nose as I stumble into the canteen. There are only a few tables, but most are occupied, the unfamiliar faces as grim as mine. Without a doubt, they want to be here as much as I do.

  Which is not at all.

  “Hey, Vicky. Over here.”

  I turn in the direction of the voice calling my name and spy Sylvie waving from a corner booth on the east side. She’s wearing a short dress and cowboy boots that draw attention to her long, tanned legs.

  I make my way toward her.

  “Coffee?” Without waiting for my answer, she pushes her cup toward me.

  “No, thanks.” I grimace at the strong smell.

  “Not a fan?”

  “It’s not that.” I press my fingers against my temples in a futile attempt at easing the tension inside my skull. “I’m kind of sick.”

  Which is an understatement.

  I feel like I’m being squeezed into a can of sardines where even talking requires Herculean effort.

  “How’s the coffee?” I ask.

  “Worth trying, I guess. But it’s nothing like my usual blend back home. Or a good bottle of wine.” She leans over and pats my arm conspiratorially. “You’re coming straight from your counselor’s office, right?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “How do you know?”

  “I can tell from the way you look.” She grimaces. “I had my meeting yesterday and it wasn’t pleasant. I locked myself up inside my room and had a whole bottle of wine. I’m surprised you didn’t get the same idea.”

  “They serve wine here?”

  She grins. “Of course they do. We’re not exa
ctly alcoholics, are we?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that counselor of mine could turn me into one in no time.”

  I laugh, feeling the tension slowly lifting off my shoulders. “God, I wish someone had told me about this place yesterday. I would have claimed the whole bar.”

  “There goes my plan of keeping this little secret all to myself. I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.” She joins in my laughter. “I’ll get you some tea. Wait here. Don’t move from the spot.”

  Before I can protest, Sylvie’s gone. I lean back in my seat and close my eyes for a few moments. When I open them again, I take in the surroundings. The walls are painted in yellow and green tones. Pictures of early settlements adorn the walls, and there’s a large grandfather clock in the far corner, its unnerving noise carrying over.

  Sylvie takes her sweet time, during which more patients arrive. I scan their faces, but there’s no sight of Kade.

  I realize I haven’t seen him since yesterday. A wave of disappointment washes over me, even though I don’t understand my reaction one bit. I close my eyes again, waiting for Bruce’s familiar face to flash before me. Instead, I find myself smiling as I remember my conversation with Kade.

  He’s so different from Bruce.

  In some strange way, he reminds me of my little brother and his inability to stay serious, which can be both irritating and endearing.

  “I bet they’re not rated PG-13.” Sylvie’s voice draws me back.

  I open my eyes in time to see her sliding back into her seat. On the table are two cups of tea and a bowl of fries.

  “What?”

  “Your thoughts,” she clarifies and pushes a cup of tea toward me. “You looked all flushed and miles away.”

  Judging from the color and strong smell, it’s an herbal blend. I wrap my hands around the cup, warming my hands because it’s too hot to drink. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “I wanted to. You’re my only friend here, and there will come a day when I’ll hit rock bottom and need you.” She pushes the bowl with fries toward me. “Try them.”