Heartstrings: A Dirty Affliction Novel

by Regina Frame

  I pushed her back on the sofa and crawled on top, and when she gasped, I moved in. I covered her mouth with mine and kissed the ever loving fuck out of her. When we finally broke apart, we were both gasping for air. Her familiar scent of vanilla wrapped around me, lighting up my senses and causing my balls to draw up tight. I needed to be inside her, and I needed it now.

  "Is this okay?" I asked with my fingers on the button of her jeans.

  "Wait," she gasped, pushing her small hand against my chest.

  Shit! I pushed too soon and now she's going to kick me out.

  "I'm sorry. I should've never . . . "

  "No. That's not it. I want you just as bad as you want me, but we still have some things to talk about. I need to know that you're really serious." Her blonde brows dipped with worry.

  "I thought I made myself clear about how I felt about you."

  "That's not what I'm talking about." She studied me for a moment, and then said, "You need to talk to someone, Chance."

  "I'm talking to you now." I grinned, knowing that was not at all what she meant.

  "Don't be a smart ass! You know what I'm talking about. You need to see a professional about what happened to you as a child. And before you remind me that you've seen a therapist, let me say this. Maybe that person wasn't right for you. Everyone is different, so maybe it's just a matter of finding the right therapist for you."

  I sat there and did as she asked while she spoke, taking everything she said into consideration. Maybe she was right. Maybe the jerk I paid thousands to a few years ago was just some quack that didn't click with me.

  "I've heard you talk in your sleep. The things you spoke of in your dreams break my heart. You have every right to feel the way you do, but it could be so much better with the right therapist and the right medication." She reached up and placed her tiny palm on my face. "If you're not willing to give it a shot, to try for us, then I need to leave." I was already a step ahead of her. The first thing I did before coming to her place was get Honesty to research therapists and schedule an appointment for me. I trusted her, and had no doubt she asked a hundred and one questions before making an appointment.

  "I have an appointment this Friday with Dr. Perkins." Her brows shot up in surprise, and she gave me a big smile. "There's one more thing you need to know."

  "Okay," she whispered.

  "I'm going to hire a private investigator to track down my mother. Maybe she's still in Denver, and then I'm going to my dad. I'm going to work hard at putting all this shit behind me, but I can't do this without you."

  "I know an excellent PI." She snapped her fingers and bit down on her bottom lip. "I can't remember his name off the top of my head, but I can get it for you. My uncle hired him to find Trevor, which he did by the way."

  "I'm glad to hear that. I hope they throw that asshole under the jail where he'll never see the light of day again."

  "Yeah. Well, I kind of had something else in mind. I've had fantasies of him dropping the soap." She laughed a full on belly laugh.

  "I think I like your fantasy better," I agreed.

  "I have another fantasy," she added. Gone was the laughter, something else taking its place.

  "And what would that fantasy be? Do tell."

  "It actually involves you." She grinned playfully.

  "Me?" I asked, hooking my thumb back at me with a grin of my own.

  "And that wall." She pointed to the opposite side of the room.

  "Me and the wall. Sounds good so far."

  I gave her a cocky grin, my eyes moving back and forth between her and the wall. I had an idea of where this was going, but I was going to make her say it out loud, because this little fantasy of hers had my dick straining to break the confines of my jeans.

  "I want you to fuck me against that wall. Hard."

  She bit down on her bottom lip again, and every bit of control I had went right out the window. If she wanted hard, I’d give her hard. I scooped her up, and her legs automatically wrapped around my waist. I could feel the heat from her core pressing against me.

  "You sure about that?" I asked as I pressed kiss after kiss along her neck and collarbone.

  "Y-Yes!" she breathed. Her eyes closed and her head dropped back against the wall with a thud.

  "Eyes on me, babe. I want to see you fall apart for me." Her eyes met mine, the crystal blue now a darker shade and filled with lust. "You better hold on, Sparkles. You're in for the ride of your life."

  I sat her on the floor long enough to strip her of her jeans before I picked her back up and pressed her against the wall. I had my dick out of my pants and inside her tight little pussy in a matter of seconds. Damn. I'd missed how perfectly we fit together. It was as if we were made for each other.

  "Harder!" she demanded through panting breaths.

  I slammed into her, hard, until she had every inch that I had to offer. The familiar tingle began at the base of my spine, and my balls drew tight against me.

  "Are you there, sweetheart? I'm about to blow," I warned.

  "Yes! Oh-my-god!" she shouted as her muscles clamped down on me, ringing every bit of release out of me. I slid down the wall and sprawled out on the floor, pulling her on top of me.

  "I've missed you," she whispered as she trailed her fingers on my Mary Jane tattoo.

  "That tattoo is not what you think."

  "You don't have to explain."

  "I do. I want you to know everything, including the story behind this tattoo. You remember I told you that we met in one of the foster homes we'd been placed in."

  "Yes," she confirmed.

  "Mary Jane was raped by one of the foster parents’ sons. The guy wouldn't leave her alone. She told him that she wasn't into guys, but he didn't believe her. She started coming into my room at night and sleeping with me because she was afraid of him. He came into my room for something one night and found her in bed with me. After that, he caught her in her room one night, called her a slut, and said he knew she'd been sleeping with me. That was when he raped her."

  "Oh-my-god," Honor said, her bottom lip trembling.

  "When she reported it to the caseworker, the guy lied and told them he knew that she'd been sleeping with me. He made her out to look like a liar. We were moved after that to separate foster homes, but not before I beat the shit out of him. It wasn't until several years later that we ended up together again. I wrote a song for her about being true to yourself, staying strong, and surviving. That's the reason behind this tattoo," I explained, running my hand down my side over the inked music notes.

  "Just when I thought I couldn't possibly love you more," she whispered, pressing a kiss over my heart.

  "I've been a fucking mess without you," I declared. "I've slept in your bed every night since you left." I realized the picture I just painted, but I was being honest. She lifted her head from my chest, her grin full of amusement.

  "Wow. You really did miss me."

  "It's your damn perfume or shampoo. I just know that I like it," I replied.

  "I have a confession of my own to make." She chuckled. "I took your Albert Einstein shirt because it smelled like you and you had it on the day I arrived at the studio. You were a sexy beast in that damn shirt." She traced her fingertip over my bottom lip and toyed with my lip ring. "We're a fine pair."

  "Yeah. Well, don't go telling the guys. They'll hand me my balls in a purse and tattoo the word pussy across my forehead."

  "You're secret is safe with me."

  "Enough talk. I need to be inside you again."

  Gripping her hips, I rolled her over and slipped inside. This time there was no hard or fast. I took my time to worship her the way she deserved to be worshiped.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Honor

  One Week Later

  "What are you going to do if they can't find her? What if she's disappeared again?" I asked Chance.

  The private investigator he'd hired to find his mother had left thirty minutes ago, and Chance was still s
itting on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. That worried me tremendously. I could tell that he was fighting a war within himself the whole time the investigator was questioning him.

  He sighed and lifted his head, his haunted green eyes meeting mine. "If that happens, I'll do my best to move on. I'll deal with it in therapy," he replied.

  He had made good on his promise so far to see a therapist. He'd met with him every day for the past week, and while I could see some improvement in his outlook on things, his nightmares were worse. He'd woken me several times each night, either talking in his sleep or thrashing about the bed.

  "I'm not going to use again if that's what you're thinking."

  We'd made a deal when I moved back in with him, when I agreed to stay; we promised that we'd be honest with one another. No secrets and no bottling things up inside.

  "How can you be so sure? You've used it as a crutch for so many years." That may have been a little harsh, but it was a concern of mine.

  "You're right. You have every right to think that, and you have every right not to trust me, but I have you and no amount of drugs is worth losing you," he replied with sincerity. I could almost feel the weight of those words on my shoulders.

  "What if I'm not enough?" I had issues of my own. I was beginning to doubt myself. Could I be strong enough for the both of us?

  "Don't say that! You are worth everything to me. I love you. Never doubt that. We're going to make it through this together. Me and you."

  He reached for my hand and tugged me onto his lap. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. Nothing urgent or sexual about it. It was a kiss of understanding and courage. A kiss of reassurance that, together, we could face anything.

  ***

  Chance

  Two Weeks Later

  My knee bounced nervously as I sat in the reception area, waiting to see Dr. Perkins. I wiped my sweaty palms on the knees of my jeans and checked the clock on the wall above the reception desk. My appointment was scheduled for thirty minutes ago. There was one thing that I'd never had much of, and that was patience. I was a right now kind of guy, hence the drug use. It was a guaranteed instant high. I knew with each hit I took or each line I snorted, the memories that haunted me would melt away.

  "Mr. Roberts."

  A pretty brunette stood across the room, holding the door open for me, with what looked like an IPad in her hand. She looked up at me and smiled with perfect white teeth. Her dark brown eyes sparkled, and she had a light dusting of freckles on her cheeks. If this had been six months ago, I would have been all over that, but seeing her now, with no drugs in my system and my brain free from the fog, I saw that she was too young.

  The sad thing was that I probably wouldn't have given it a second thought that she might be too young, but looking back now, I realized just how sick I was.

  I followed her down the hall to an empty office. "Just have a seat in here and Dr. Perkins will be right in." I gave her a polite nod and sat in the ugly blue suede chair. She followed me inside and closed the door. What the hell? "I know I'm not supposed to do this, but I'm a big fan!" She giggled. Definitely young. "Is there any way that I could get an autograph?"

  "Sure. Always happy to meet a fan."

  I forced a smile, but had to bite my tongue to keep from saying something rude. After all, where would we be without our fans? I watched as she pulled a small white pad and pen from her uniform pocket. It was one of those advertisement pads that drug reps supplied them with in hopes that they'd prescribe their particular drug. How the chick ended up with a Viagra pad was beyond me. I scribbled my name across the white paper along with the words ‘You rock’, and handed it back to her.

  "Thank you so much!" she gushed, clutching the pad against her chest. "Oh! One more thing." I arched my brow in question, because what the fuck! This was not a damn meet and greet. I was there to see the damn doctor. "Can I get a picture with you?" she asked, her voice full of excitement. At that point, I'd do just about anything to get her the fuck out of there.

  "Happy to."

  She clapped her hands together like a damn two year old before pulling her phone from her pocket.

  I wrapped my arm around her and leaned in close, smiling like my world wasn't fucked up, because we were not allowed to have issues. Rockstars weren’t allowed to have real life problems. Our fans placed us on a high pedestal where they worshipped us like idols. That right there fucked with your mind. At least she kept her word and left me alone once she got what she wanted.

  After another thirty minutes of sitting in that uncomfortable blue chair, Dr. Perkins walked in like his tail was on fire. It reminded me of Kramer from Seinfeld. If I'd met the man on the street, I would've never guessed that he was a well respected physician. He looked more like a biker than anything with his long white beard, his gray hair pulled back in a pony tail, and his hands covered in tattoos. Another good example of not judging someone by their appearance. The man had to be at least fifty, if not older. He leaned against the wooden desk and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  "How are the nightmares, Mr. Roberts?"

  "Chance." His eyes shifted from the IPad in his hand and pinned me with his gaze."Please call me Chance. Mr. Roberts was my fucking old man, and I'm nothing like him." He nodded his head in understanding. "They're coming more frequently now." I paused a moment and pulled at the ring in my bottom lip. "I sometimes have several a night, and they're very vivid. I wake up a lot of times and swear I can smell his cigarette." I scrubbed my hand over my face and gripped the back of my neck, feeling the burn scars underneath the ink. "My girlfriend wakes me, but they start all over again once I fall back to sleep."

  "I see." He swept his finger across the screen on his IPad a few times until he found what he was looking for. "There's a new medication that's just hit the market . . . "

  My head snapped up and I stopped him before he could finish.

  "I'm not taking medication. I'm trying to quit the damn drugs and you're wanting to push them on me?" I snapped.

  "It's not like that. This is a non habit forming medication . . . "

  "Not an option."

  He exhaled a heavy breath, walked around his desk, and dropped down into his leather chair. The rest of the appointment was spent with him digging into my dreams, my past drug issues, and the abuse I was subjected to by my parents. Namely my father. There was one thing that I kept from him, and that was where I was going when I left his office.

  I was going to confront my father.

  ***

  The tires of my Hummer crunched on the gravel driveway as I rolled to a stop in front of the piece of shit house where I used to live. It was obvious that my old man hadn't lifted a finger toward improving it in years. The white paint was peeling on the front of the house, and there was still a big hole in the screen on the front door. There was a rusty push mower that sat in the middle of the knee high grass. It probably ran out of gas and that was where he left it.

  I stared into the rearview mirror, silently giving myself a pep talk of sorts to try and prepare myself for what was about to happen.

  "Let's get this the fuck over with," I muttered to my reflection.

  I threw my door open and stepped out. Taking a deep breath, I wiped my sweaty palms down the front of my black button down shirt and stomped up the driveway and to the front door. I knocked on the door, and after several minutes when no one came to the door, I knocked a little louder this time.

  "Nobody's there."

  My head swiveled in the direction in which the voice came. A tall, thin man with hollowed cheek bones stood on the front porch next door, smoking a cigarette.

  "Do you know when they'll be home? I'm looking for Charles Roberts," I told him. He blew out a puff of smoke, and then tossed his cigarette butt into an empty flower pot beside the door.

  "Charles died several years ago. Nobody's lived there in years. Did he owe you money?" I stared at the guy, not saying a word. I was still trying to proces
s that information. "If he owed you money, get in line. He owed a lot of people," he remarked again.

  "No. Nothing like that. Just someone I knew," I mumbled. "Had he been sick?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Don't know for sure. He rarely came outside, but there were people in and out over there all the time. It was never the same person. One day, the cops and the coroner showed up and hauled him out of there in one of those bags you see in those TV crime shows. Don't know what happened, though." He pulled another cigarette from the pack and stuck it between his lips.

  "Appreciate it, man," I replied, looking back at the house one last time.

  "I always felt sorry for that kid." He pointed toward the old house with the cigarette between his fingers as he exhaled smoke through his nose.

  "Oh yeah?" That stopped me in my tracks.

  "Yeah. Something wasn't right over there."

  I took a moment to study him, and then I recognized him. Mr. Jameson. Time had not been good to him. He looked old as dirt.

  "Why didn't you step in then?"

  "None of my business what goes on behind someone else's walls."

  "That's what's wrong with this world today. People don't step in to defend the helpless. You just turn a blind eye and forget you ever saw anything." He studied me for several long seconds before breaking the silence.

  "How did you know these people?"

  "I'm that kid. The kid you looked away from."

  He lifted his chin in the direction of my black Hummer sitting in the driveway.

  "You look like you made it alright."

  "You don't know shit about me." I turned and walked toward my truck. When I reached for the handle, I turned and looked over my shoulder. "I guess it's a good thing he wasn't here, because I would've killed him myself," I gritted out between clenched teeth.