Page 99 of The Fix

The man is so ingrained into my subconscious, I swear I hear him speaking. His words muffled as he tells me all about that same rehabilitation spell, just as he does in every voicemail he leaves me.

Every night he calls.

And every night, I listen.

Ever since the cabin, I’ve taken up torturing myself like it’s become my new pastime. My new favorite hobby.

Especially when it involves the bassist of the band I have failed to keep pieced together.

It’s exactly why I have to leave.

“Anyways...” Toby says as if dismissing my internal dilemma and preparing his defense of my self-deprecation, boosting me up in his own way while I tear myself down.

It’s one of the things I miss. Hearing what he thinks about things.

“You clearly haven’t blocked this number after last week’s jerk-off message.”

That is not what I was expecting from my subconscious.

“Did it make you hot, Mama?”

Realization has me shooting up off of my couch, tossing my laptop to the cushion in the process and wheeling around the room.

Am I losing my mind?

A faint groan interrupt the otherwise silent space and my wide eyes land on the spot I just vacated.

The spot between my laptop and my phone.

Oh, no.

“Did you touch yourself to the sound of my voice?”

I can barely hear his words over the rushing of blood pumping around my ears and the racing breaths escaping my lungs.

Crap, crap, crap!

“I don’t wanna get cut off this time, but—uhhng—just the thought of you listening feels too good.”

My thighs clench and my hands go to my hot face.

What the heck do I do?

Why am I sweating?

My mind, the smarter of the two organs controlling me, screams to run back to the couch and hang up the phone. Separate myself from him and never listen to another voicemail he leaves me. Maybe even block the number.

My heart, though, begs me not to cut off the real time connection with the man that it yearns after.

It’s what has me sinking to my knees next to the couch and flipping the phone over.

The screen lights up with his name, confirming the connected lines.

I bite my lip.

He shutters out a breath.

I don’t pick the phone. Instead, I run my finger along the edge of the cream-colored case that has golden sparkles imbedded in the back.

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