The Very Bad Fairgoods - Their Ruthless Bad Boys

by Theodora Taylor

  He takes my silence for acquiescence, or perhaps my squirming which, on the face of it, could easily be taken for what it actually is. Wanting. I’m now so helpless with desire, I’m going against everything I believe and know. So desperate to have him fill me, that neither my mind nor my body knows what to do.

  I gasp when he pushes into me, giving me all of him in one hard stroke. I’m so wet, it’s easy for him to get all the way in, even in this position. Above me, I hear a deep, approving growl tumble out of him.

  Right before his voice turns mean.

  “You wanted to have a conversation,” he practically snarls into my ear. “Let’s have a conversation. How about we talk about how lost I was feeling before I met you? So fucking confused and weak. Then I saw you. Beautiful as hell. Teaching dying kids to sing. How about we have a conversation about you showing up in my room with that sandwich and that music?”

  He thrusts into me again and again, his voice hard and nasty. “If you really want to talk so bad, let’s talk about you telling me you’re my family now. Let’s talk about you bringing me into your home so I could give you what you deserve. Everything you deserve for being such a beautiful angel to me.”

  I cry out, his words and his rolling thrusts devastating me, melting me, despite, or maybe even because of, his cruel tone.

  “You want to talk to me about protocols and professional standards and a bunch of other stuff I don’t give a shit about. Not when it comes to this, Doc. Not when it comes to us.”

  Us. “Yes!” I cry out to a question only my soul dares to ask.

  But he mistakes my “yes” as something else. His thrusts become stronger, more intense until he says, “Fuck talking. I already got all the answers I need.”

  With that, he forces his cock into me one more time. The orgasm that washes over me very nearly breaks my mind. I scream as pleasure rushes through me, obliterating every thought I have of who I am, what I should or shouldn’t be doing, and why I should never have allowed this to happen in the first place.

  Above me, I can feel John coming. He talked a lot while he was fucking me out of having a logical conversation. But now he’s gone quiet, his forehead pressed into the back of my neck as his body quakes with his final release. For what feels like eons on end, we come; squeezed together in a rictus of intense pleasure.

  “Okay, Doc, okay…” he says when we’re finally done.

  He rolls off and eases himself out of the bed.

  “I can…” I start to offer.

  “I got it,” he answers, removing the condom and tossing it into the small wastebasket next to the nightstand.

  His leg hasn’t escaped unscathed, I notice, as I watch him grab the cane he left hanging on the bathroom door. John’s limp is a little bit more pronounced as he walks back to the bed. But despite having been in a sexual relationship with him for less than twelve hours, I already know how he’ll respond if I express any remorse or sympathy whatsoever.

  So I decide to focus on getting back under the covers. I burrow beneath and turn on my side with my back to him so I don’t have to watch what he’s doing. Or feel guilty. And confused.

  The bed depresses when he gets in, and I reach over to the lamp on my nightstand to turn off the lights.

  Then I lie there in the dark, trying not to think too hard about what all this means. For my career. For my sanity.

  But when I’m not worrying, new thoughts pop up about what just happened. His hot, sweet words melting my heart even as his hard, unrelenting sex completely dominated my body. Seriously, who is this guy? And where the hell did he come from?

  “Doc, you still awake?” he asks on the other side of the bed.

  “Yes,” I admit quietly.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  I turn over on the pillow, not sure my thoroughly used body can tolerate another “conversation” and prepare to protest. But I find him lying there on his back, heavy cast slung over his eyes.

  “You think I’m too messed up in the head to be serious,” he says from beneath the cast. “But serious is exactly what I am.”

  My heart tightens and beats hard in that confused way it does whenever I’m around him.

  As if echoing my erratic heartbeat, he says, “I got a lot of confusion in my life right now. But you and me—that’s the one thing I’m 100% clear on. Stop questioning this, Doc. You gotta believe me when I say you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Because that’s what you are.”

  I don’t answer him. Of course, I don’t answer him. How could any sane person respond to that?

  What I need to do is go to sleep. I’ll feel more rational in the morning. That’s what I tell myself. But long after he falls asleep, breathing steadily beside me, my heart remains restless and awake in the dark. Beating with an emotion I’m afraid to name.

  Chapter Eight

  Eventually sleep does come. And the doubts stay away while I’m off in dreamland, but they come right back the next morning as soon as I wake up, wrapped in John’s arms, my muscles aching, and every soft part of my body—from my breasts to the skin between my thighs—tender.

  Easing out of his arms, I get up and stumble into the kitchen, attempting to go through my normal morning routine as if there isn’t one hell of a first act surprise waiting for me back in my bedroom.

  Switching my mind to the Left Coast, I check my current special phone which I keep in the catch-all drawer. There’s a missed called from Dad, followed by several pissed off texts from Sandy.

  “Sorry!” I text Dad. “Can’t talk this morning. Work emergency. Will talk with you same time in four weeks. Okay? Thanks! Sorry! But thanks!!!”

  I know Dad won’t find that answer remotely satisfying, and I pre-emptively turn the phone all the way off, lest he and Sandy start inundating me with calls I really don’t want to take with a certain amnesia victim in the house.

  So instead of talking with my dad, I make John and myself the most gourmet of breakfasts: Kashi Cinnamon Harvest cereal with almond milk.

  Okay, not exactly the breakfast of champions. But it’s what I grew up eating back in Compton, and also one of the few things I have left to eat in the house until the grocery delivery comes this afternoon.

  I don’t expect John to be all that impressed when I walk back into the room with the tray of hastily prepared food. But I also don’t expect to find him sitting on top of the bed in a pair of boxer briefs, strumming out a song on my guitar.

  After a few bars, I recognize the melody.

  “That’s ‘Ghosts,’ a Colin Fairgood song,” I say, setting the tray down on the never before used nightstand on his side of the bed.

  “You know it?” he asks, looking up at me.

  “Yeah, pretty much everybody does. It was his first super huge crossover hit.” I bring out my iPhone and after a few swipes and touches, Colin Fairgood’s voice fills the room.

  John tilts his head to the side. “Yeah, that’s the song. It’s ‘old’ to me. I like it.”

  “Country isn’t my favorite,” I admit to John. “But I like it, too. And hey, look at you playing a guitar!”

  I take my guitar back and press the bowl of Kashi into his hands. “Maybe you’re some sort of musician,” I say as I set the guitar back on its stand in the far corner of the room. “I mean, if you’ve got country songs down like that.”

  But he shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I saw your guitar sitting over there and I got this feeling if I played it, I’d be more relaxed.”

  “You’re feeling anxious?” I ask, studying him sharply and remembering what happened when that neuro jerk accidentally triggered him.

  But then he throws me a lazy smile and says, “Not now that you’re back.”

  I look away. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Why not?” he asks. “It’s the truth.”

  “Because…” I shake my head, unable to explain all of it to him. About boys and girls and the games we play, so no one will b
e accused of liking the other too much. “It’s just not what most guys do...”

  “So, I’m different,” he says after considering my words for a quiet moment. “Tell me, Doc. How am I different from the other guys you know?”

  “Well, you’re a lot more direct. I mean, you say whatever’s on your mind, and you don’t seem to care how it makes you look. Most guys hold their cards a lot closer to their chests than you do. Does that make sense?”

  “Hmm,” he says after a long while.

  It’s my turn to ask, “What?”

  “I’m listening to what you’re saying, Doc, but I’m also thinking, ‘she’s talking about other guys. And I don’t like that.’”

  Again, I’m not quite sure what to do in the face of his stark truth, so I treat it like a medical mystery. Keep my voice neutral as I answer, “Yes, I noticed you’re kind of dominant.”

  “Dominant,” he repeats.

  “Controlling. Like you expect to be in charge. The way you had sex with me last night—it was like you were putting me in my place. Establishing who was in control.”

  He doesn’t answer, but when I dare to look up from my cereal bowl, a new presence has joined our conversation. His cock has hardened into a long, thick line under his thin boxer briefs.

  “So that turns you on?” I ask, swallowing to contain my breathlessness at the sight of him. “Dominating me?”

  He holds my gaze, blue eyes shrewd, like he’s thinking really hard about his answer to my question. But in the end, he nods. “Yeah, it does. When we’re together like that, I want you under me. That’s all I know.”

  Again I have to swallow.

  And he crooks his head, studying my reaction from his superior height. “That scare you?”

  I try my best to explain without confusing him even more. “It doesn’t not scare me. I had a friend who had a controlling boyfriend. He got worse and worse and then, when she tried to break up with him, he hit her.”

  “I’d never hit you,” he answers so automatic, it could be easily mistaken for fact. “I don’t hit women. That’s a conviction. I know I’d never do anything to hurt you, Doc.”

  I look at him, and he looks at me. Neither of us really knowing his true self for sure…

  Eventually I decide, “Okay, I believe you. Maybe that’s just your thing in bed. Wanting your partner beneath you. Hey, I’m from California. That means I’ve pretty much seen and respect it all. Namaste.”

  It’s a gentle joke, meant to diffuse. But his gaze continues to hold mine. And though we’re just sitting there with bowls of Kashi Cinnamon Harvest in our laps, it feels like he’s fucking me again; going hard and then slow on top of me.

  “Anyway…” I say, deciding it’s time to get out of this bed. “I was thinking maybe we should do some yoga after I wash the dishes.”

  I stand, take both empty bowls, and set them on the tray between us.

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his hesitation to go along with my yoga suggestion in his perfect stillness. And I get the sense he’s considering putting me underneath him again. Trying to decide whether or not to take back control of this morning.

  But in the end, he throws me a lazy smile and says, “Yeah, Doc, let’s do some yoga.”

  “I’m not going to lie, I kind of hate West Virginia. But I love living this close to nature,” I tell him as we walk on the footpath behind my apartment building toward the nature reserve—the only thing North Independence is known for other than the University of West Virginia.

  “This new?” I ask him, after we make it to the main dirt walking trail.

  “Old,” he answers with a shake of his head. He wraps his hand around mine, enveloping it as if walking with me like this is a must, despite his cane. As natural as the sun’s steady rise above us. Then he smiles over at me and asks, “You don’t have nature in California?”

  “We definitely do,” I answer. “But I grew up mostly in a place called Compton until we moved when I was twelve, and let’s just say my family isn’t exactly into nature walks.”

  He scans the path we’re hiking up, taking in the brush, trees, and dirt as far as you can see. “I don’t think I used to go on a lot of walks either. But I like being outside,” he says. “This feeling I got right now is old. I feel more free out here than indoors.”

  “Me too,” I answer. “But don’t get used to it. We’re having a warm week, but spring in West Virginia is super funky. Next week it could be all rain. Or snow. Then in the summer, you’ll have to deal with the mosquitoes.”

  He goes quiet, and I wonder if he’s familiar with mosquitoes. But then he asks, “Why Seattle?”

  I shrug. “Why not Seattle? It’s a beautiful city. And they have a wonderful children’s hospital. I’m lucky they want me to serve there.” More than lucky, I think to myself, especially considering my past.

  But John doesn’t know about my past, and he says, “You said you love your family. That you miss them. Then why aren’t you going back to California to live near them?”

  I shake my head, a chill going up my spine at the mere thought of returning home. “It’s a long story. A really long story,” I answer. “I just can’t go back there.”

  “You can’t go back to California, but you hate it here in West Virginia,” he says.

  “Well, hate’s a strong word,” I say

  “But that’s what you said.”

  “I said I kind of hate it.”

  “Because you don’t like to use strong words.”

  I glance over at him, kind of getting—no, really getting that he’s been listening to every word that comes out my mouth.

  “No, I’m fine with strong words. But West Virginia and me have a complicated relationship. On the one hand, I never would have been able to become a Pediatric Specialist if not for this state’s program. On the other hand, it’s West Virginia.”

  He shakes his head. “What does that mean?”

  I sigh, not really wanting to get into a conversation about race and ignorance right before we’re supposed to zen out with some yoga. And his innocent question makes me wonder anew about him.

  In his old life did he ever date a black girl? Maybe he prefers them. That would explain why he was so instantly attracted to me, and why he’s such a Colin Fairgood fan. I think of all my girlfriends who suddenly decided they loved country music when the handsome singer showed up to the Grammys with an African-American fiancée on his arm.

  “It’s different from California,” I answer vaguely. Then I gratefully change the subject when I see the patch of green grass where I like to do my morning practice in warm weather. “So here’s my favorite place for outdoor yoga...”

  After we set down our mats, I lead us through a routine that’s half mine, and half of what Ken included in John’s discharge papers. But I never quite find my center. John is better at yoga than I’d expect a man with his injuries to be, and it’s hard not to watch him instead of focusing on my breath and form.

  “Is yoga old?” I ask him as we walk back down the path.

  “No, it’s new, but I like it,” he answers. “The strength training stuff is old though. I like that, too. Like moving my body, even when it’s hard.”

  Trying not to think about my prison theory from the day before, I consider his situation. Without insurance, the hospital wouldn’t be too keen on him coming back to use their rehab facilities. Poor Ken was forced to release him with little more than his discharge paperwork. But it’s not like he can join a gym without ID…and even if he could, there isn’t one nearby other than the facility at the university.

  “I’ll pick up some weights on the way home from work tomorrow,” I decide out loud.

  But he shakes his head, his hand squeezing the cane tight. “I don’t want you buying any more stuff for me, Doc. You’re already doing enough.”

  “But you should be doing resistance training at the very least—it’s in your paperwork,” I point out. “Plus, I’ve been meaning to get some weights
anyway.”

  I don’t mention that I haven’t bothered up to this point because my temporary housing in Seattle also includes a gym. Instead I insist, “Seriously, it’s no big deal.”

  He doesn’t answer, but his jaw ticks in a way that makes me suspect this situation—having a woman buy him things—is most definitely “new.”

  We walk back to my apartment, and I can tell the yoga and brief hike took it out of him. As soon as we get inside, he heads to the couch and puts both legs up on the ottoman I placed for him beside the coffee table. And by the time I return from the bathroom, he’s dozing, chest rising slowly up and down.

  He looks so peaceful that I don’t bother waking him. Instead I eat a sunbutter and banana sandwich, my version of a mid-morning snack. I make him one, too, but he’s still sleeping when I finish. I hesitate, not wanting to wake him, even though there’s food waiting.

  Also, there’s something so inviting about him sleeping on my couch. The position isn’t great for his back or leg, my inner-doctor notes, even as my inner-girl convinces me to set the plate with his sandwich on the table and sit down beside him.

  But then the awkwardness comes back. Real life is so much harder than I thought it’d be when I left California. Figuring out what to do with my body and words between all the specific stuff—like doctoring and editing videos and playing guitar and half-watching old musicals—that’s hard. Knowing what to do with myself when I am in the same room as John—even harder. What would a real life person do in this situation? I wonder to myself.

  I gingerly lean back and rest my head on his shoulder. Only to let out a little gasp when he immediately moves to accommodate me in his sleep, shifting so his arm is around my waist, his cast rests on my thigh, and my head has no choice but to lie on his chest.

  I might not have known what to do with myself, but he seems to know exactly what to do with me. He presses a kiss onto the top of my head before settling back into a deep sleep. And either his tiredness is contagious, or I must be pretty wiped out, too, because I wake up a few hours later, dazed and confused.