Page 39 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

“The gym will fire you if you ghost them again.” Paul puts my phone in my hand.

He sits there coaching me through each step. The gym manager knows about my condition, is very warm and accommodating, but I fully expect to be fired anyway.

“I’ll let Jude know. Dex or Tony will cover for you.”

“Thanks.” I drop back into bed.

He leaves my pillbox on the nightstand.

What happens if you take them all at once?

I open my bedside drawer and slap the box out of my line of sight.

Oh, come on. Just a thought experiment.

****

Tonight, the sound of the club is particularly galling. I should be down there. That’s my crowd.

I’m impossibly lonely. But I also hate every single person I have ever met.

So? Leave it all. Bet they’ll blame that ugly asshole. Maybe that will teach him not to be so mean.

“Oh, fucking hell.” I hate my own thoughts and know it’s hopeless to try to escape them.

Maybe I could put on a DVD to drown them out.

Don’t lie to yourself. You’re not leaving this bed. No matter how sad and disgusting you get, you’re stuck here.

At the deep low of the cycle. I had to keep telling myself that. Cycle. I’d come round again soon. Feel better for a while.

Then swing right the fuck back here again.

Endless and fucking awful. Angry, lonely, and pathetic. I’m the worst kind of douche and no one wants me. I’m lucky I’d fooled the ones I had. It’d be a blessing to every single one of them if I walked into oncoming traffic—

Or had the determination to drop onto the mesh and execute my jump from there.

“Fuck!" I roll off the bed and sprawl on the bare floor.

You do you, boo. Sometimes a change of scenery helps.

I thought about the only man who’d ever told me no. About gas on bonfires. And his conversation with the refugee orphans, and his sex dungeon, and the morning after, which might have been the start of something good, if I wasn’t a moron.

I spiral into helplessness, hopelessness, and that sick loneliness that comes when you are desired for the night, but not for longer, worthy of fucking, but never love.

Then my door rattles. It’s a jarring sound and I turn my head to look under the bed, through the bookshelf, and to the door. It doesn’t help. All my lights are out. No one is home. Certainly not Chard. Probably drunks from the club looking for a place to bone.

There’s a scraping sound. Someone moving my fake plant. Jude and Paul had keys, but they’re both working. Maybe it’s one of the Cuties sent up to check on me. Probably Teddy.

I call, trying to sound cheerful, which makes for a desperately dry and unpleasant sound. “I’m fine, thanks. I took my medicine and I don’t want to go anywhere quiet.”

“It’s, uh … me.”

Laur.

I lift my head and catch a whiff of myself. Jude would have told him I wasn’t home, or was unavailable. And he’d probably scoffed and said something about owning this ass and having it when he wanted.

Yeah. I can’t navigate this asshole. How could I have a future with him? He needs someone to tend his inner fire and keep life bearable. He needs someone like Teddy.

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