Page 32 of Dirty Dix

Famous last words.

So when Mary said we were going out, I thought we were going out for pizza or to a movie. I didn’t realize she meant out, out.

I’m sitting at a table that overlooks a huge dance floor, completely and utterly out of my comfort zone. I watch as Marybumps and grinds against some pierced rock god without a care in the world. She recently broke up with her high school sweetheart, Corey, and I know under her tough exterior, she’s hurting.

The man she trusted, the man she gave her virginity to, turned out to be a lying, cheating jerk, so I really don’t blame her for being so bitter. But I like to believe that not all guys think with their dicks.

I mean, yes, Dixon is an ass for totally bailing on me, but not once did I ever feel objectified when in his presence, nor did I ever feel like he was talking to me because he wanted to get into my pants. I felt we had a genuine connection, and maybe he was different from all the other guys I’ve met.

But I guess I was wrong.

Reaching for my tequila, I decide to drown my sorrows in this sunrise. I don’t have class till late tomorrow afternoon.

Just as I begin to feel a buzz, the barstool next to me scrapes along the floor, and I turn to look at who has stolen Mary’s seat.

“Hey, is anyone sitting here?” asks the hot, green-eyed stranger beside me.

I nod with a smile. “Actually, yes, there is. You see that crazy redhead on the dance floor?” I point at my best friend, who is currently surrounded by a group of eager suitors.

The hottie beside me nods as he narrows his eyes, looking Mary’s way.

“Well, that’s who was sitting here,” I conclude with a grin.

My stranger gives me a dimpled smile and leans closer to yell into my ear as the music blares over the speakers. “I don’t think she’ll be back anytime soon,” he replies, and I laugh because I think he just may be right.

I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the fact I feel a little rejected by Dixon’s “rain check,” but whatever it is, I extend my hand and smile.

“Hi, I’m Madison.”

“Hi, I’m David,” my stranger says, and I try not to cringe at the fact his name reminds me of another name that starts with D.

“Nice to meet you, David,” I say, quickly recovering from my Dixon depression.

“You too. Can I buy you a drink?” David asks, his long bangs falling into his eyes.

I chug down the rest of my tequila and smile. “Sure.”

David laughs, and I instantly feel at ease with him.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and I watch as he makes his way through the crowd, impressed with what I see.

Maybe there’s hope for me yet. I mean, everything happens for a reason. Maybe I just haven’t figured out my reason for meeting Dixon.

Two and a half months later

“Is the garlic minced or chopped?” I mumble to myself as I flip through this wretched cookbook, trying to find the recipe for the confit of salmon with crab crush and dill drizzle.

How can one’s life change in the blink of an eye?

One moment, Juliet was my fuck buddy, and in the next, she’s my…snuggle buddy?

I really don’t know what to call Juliet. She’s not really my girlfriend, but she’s not really my booty call, either. I haven’t slept with anyone other than her for over two months, and the reason for that is because being with Juliet is easy. I don’t haveto put in the hard yards with her, and she satisfies my every need.

She tells me she hasn’t slept with anyone else either, which is a big thing for an ex-sex addict. However, we both agreed it was best she continued therapy for her addiction because once an addict, always an addict. We also agreed I wasn’t the best person for the job, as that was all kinds of messed up. I didn’t really fancy hearing about how badly she wanted to deep throat her aerobics instructor.

So what are Juliet and I? Honestly, I don’t know.

I’m too old to use the word girlfriend, so I don’t refer to Juliet as anything other than Juliet—the woman I am currently “sort of” seeing but definitely not dating.

---