Mister West by R.J. Lewis (animal farm read .TXT) 📕

nothing but the clothes on my back. But what logic didn’t tell me was how many nights I’d stay awake, remembering the good times, the times Derek lifted me up, the times I sought him out when I needed him the most. The times he had been there. The years we had spent together, from children to adults, changing and clinging to each other when life threw its curveballs. Logic doesn’t always give you the push, or the answers; it just tells you how it should be.

Separated or not, the tether between us still exists. Rupturing it is a scary thought.

I rub my eyes, resisting succumbing to the tears behind them. I’m not a crier. I’m just exhausted, and now my mind is too alert for sleep.

I fill the kettle up and turn it on. As it boils, I pull out a mug and a small packet of soup. When the water is finished, I stir the contents together and sit down at the tiny round table.

“If you were mine, I’d fuck you in ways you can’t imagine.”

That man's words won’t leave my head. Every time I think of the low, dark growl in his voice, shivers run down my spine and my core clenches.

“Once you have a taste of me, you’ll never walk away. That I can guarantee.”

He was an asshole, really. That kind of arrogance would have put me off – and still would – so why did I find it so hot coming from him?

I shut my eyes and tuck my bottom lip into my mouth. I imagine him behind me. His front to my back, his hand on my shoulder, slowly trailing that large hand of his down to my breast. I’d arch my back for him, let him take my entire breast into his hand. He had big hands. They’d easily swallow it whole. He might pinch my nipple, roll it between his fingers…

“…I’d fuck you in ways you can’t imagine…”

I let out a breath and open my eyes. I need to stop. I take a sip of my soup and attempt to keep the fantasies at bay. I don’t know what to do about this anymore. He won’t leave my thoughts – a man I will never, ever see again!

Well, if it’s just in your head, what’s the harm? You met a man that’s made you wet just thinking of him. You know you’ll never see him again. Technically you’ve done nothing wrong.

I chuckle scornfully.

Oh, Ivy, what a load of rubbish.

Because it’s more than that. Feeling this buzzed over a man is dangerous. I want to return to the hollow feeling in my chest. Apathy was easier because apathy shut everything off and allowed me to live in this cycle without knowing what might be on the other side.

I take my time drinking my soup, and by then the sun has slowly come up over the horizon. The light hits my eyes, and I know it’s started.

Another day.

Another fight.

Another attempt at accepting what my life has become.

Aidan

I need more alcohol. This night’s never going to fucking end.

“So, like, I bought the black Prada purse instead because my Louis Vuitton got all these smudge marks a week before I even booked my ticket, and if I’m going to go sunbathing in Monaco, I need to be versatile, right? Black is versatile.”

I narrow my eyes at the plastic brunette across the table from me. “Remarkable, Joy,” I reply, dryly. “I’m relieved you’re managing to tackle on the hard problems for your Monaco trip.”

Joy smiles and does that hair raking thing with her fingers again. She’s done it forty- seven times since we sat down a half hour ago. I’m so fucking bored, I counted. “Thank you.”

Clearly sarcasm is lost on her.

“You should come too,” she adds.

“I’m working.”

“You’re always working, Aidan.” She puts on that pouting face I want to fucking bite off with a Rottweiler, or a chainsaw – I’m not picky. “I think we need to take that extra step in our relationship, don’t you?”

“We’ve been seeing each other five days.”

“Five A-MA-ZING days!”

Did I really fuck this girl? A girl that breaks her goddamn words in syllables. What is wrong with my dick? To be fair, I can’t even remember it. In my mind, I was envisioning a different brunette, and in my desperation, Joy was the only one I could find that fit Ivy’s description.

Ivy.

I inhale sharply. Just her name has me wound up all over again. Every day that has passed since our flight, I’m forgetting her more and more. It’s a tragedy in the making and sitting here with this fucking MORON is insulting to her memory.

I tell myself to relax. It’s not like Ivy is dead. No, she’s here in the city I live in, being married/separated/complicated to an asshole that didn’t even pick her up from the airport. That’s her life choice, and I need to accept mine: dining in a stuffy restaurant with a girl discussing the purse she wants to take to fucking Monaco.

I worked over a hundred hours last week. Practically lived in my office. This was not what I wanted to do with my precious spare time.

I pull out my phone as she speaks about sunbathing in the nude, like that will entice me into neglecting my work and responsibilities to run off with her. It doesn’t. I don’t give a fuck. Instead, I’m focusing on the battle I have officially lost against.

Ivy Montcalm.

I write that name down in the search engine and wait for the results to come up. The first thing I see is a Facebook page. I click it, and the picture before me has blood rushing to my head.

There she is, my beautiful incomplete quest. Black and red pin straight hair, smiling softly at the camera with her arm wrapped around another girl’s shoulders.

As I stare at her I wait for my interest to finally die. I’ve done it. I’ve sought her out. It took two seconds