Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(61)
I met Adam’s solemn eyes. “But then there are people like you to stop them and people like me to fix them. And we do the best we can, knowing that we can’t win them all.”
He gazed at me for the longest moment; it was evident that something was troubling him. “Erin, I’m… Sorry, but I have to go.”
His demeanor had changed so abruptly; I was confused by the sudden turn. But he grabbed his coat, looking lost, confused, and scattered, and hurried for my front door.
Adam barely looked at me before he gripped the doorknob. “See you later,” he muttered and before I could stop him, he slipped out of my house.
And then he was gone. The blustering wind and winter chilled ice crystals swirling in his wake, leaving me just as cold and barren as the dark February sky.
I WAS GLAD Sarah had finally found other things to obsess about beyond my lack of a love life. Over the course of an emotionally trying solid week, her bubbly and excited, “Did he call yet?” daily questioning morphed into a somber, “Still no word?” with an extended bottom lip to show her solidarity.
No, he didn’t call. He didn’t ask for my phone number before he ran out my front door and unless he had police officer ways of finding my cell number, all points indicated to him never calling.
Believing I’d have a shot with someone so gorgeous—and locally famous as Adam was—well, let’s just say I was fairly certain he didn’t need my number. I’d be willing to bet women tossed their numbers at him daily and, if they got extremely desperate, they could always spray paint their phone numbers on the gigantic billboard advertising his television show that I’d discovered by accident yesterday near the underpass on Grant Avenue.
I was such a sappy ass. I even turned my car around so I could gaze at the ginormous picture of him. Adam was front and center with the rest of his team flanking him on both sides, looking all badass and sexy in their ATTF uniforms.
I parked in a space at the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street, staring at a freaking billboard, wondering if I ever crossed his mind. Lord knows I surely couldn’t get him out of mine. I couldn’t stop the tears once they started. Silent tears, my grandmother used to call them—the kind that fall when you think there’s no one who could possibly understand your sadness.
The stress from trying to follow my dreams was taking its toll. I’d achieved becoming a doctor—it was a blur of years mixed with spirit-rending days as a resident, barely existing while studying incessantly, balancing everything on the delicate precipice between killing someone and curing them. I’d made my mark, proved my competence time and time again, and gained the respect of my superiors and mentors.
But love? There was no pill or cure or pathology for that.
After ten minutes of reminiscing over something I never quite had while staring at his enormous likeness, I wiped my face with the backs of my hands, feeling stupid, foolish, lonely, and once again, not good enough.
Which is why on day six of Sarah’s incessant questioning and my feigned happiness, I found myself calling an old friend, Tommy Rizzotti.
Six days of dwelling in my self-imposed misery spiral was enough. What I needed was to feel alive again. To at least feel desired, even if it was for meaningless sex. Tommy was my secret outlet when my limited array of personal pleasure products weren’t enough to bolster my failing self-esteem. He had dropped out of med school his second year, returning to Philly and his first love of music. He was tall and lean, with a tiny birthmark on his cheek that accentuated a gorgeous face. Tommy was the lead guitarist in a rock cover band that was quite popular within the local club scene. He also had the dirty-blond unkempt bed hair and dexterous fingers of a decent musician, which made him one hell of a desirable package. This he used to his advantage, and finding his bed empty was hit or miss. One thing was for certain, Tommy may be a man-whore but he was vigilant when it came to wearing condoms.
And he was my man-whore standby.
And man, did I need his services—badly.
I felt sort of disgusted with myself that I’d have to resort to washing the residual hope of Detective Adam Trent away with a meaningless booty-call, but at least I wasn’t crying inside anymore.
Tommy was unfortunately in Connecticut and wouldn’t be back until the afternoon. He had a local gig Friday night at ten, but was willing to get a quick pre-show f*ck in before it at eight. It was either that or I’d have to wait until after the show and then his options for bed partners would quadruple.
Must be nice to be in such demand that you could schedule getting laid.
Perhaps he was onto something; having your physical needs met without investing your heart and soul in the deal. It was actually a brilliant setup now that I’d spent some time analyzing it.
Tommy and I never had that emotional connection that brought about jealousy; he liked to f*ck and was always willing to take me in like a sad kitten in desperate need for a meal, which made our encounters safe and manageable for both parties. It helped that he was one hell of a nice guy with the tongue skills of a madman.
I loved how Tommy managed to make the act of requesting meaningless sex over the phone as effortless as ordering Chinese take-out. “Yeah, hi. I’d like to order the number two sex combo platter with extra cock. Does that come with one or two finger penetration with the oral? Two? Excellent. No, hold the post-sex awkwardness. Oh, can I get an extra helping of CumOfSomeYoungGuy? Thirty-five minutes? Perfect.”