Dirty Dix (Hard Love Romance #1)

T
o my wonderful husband
, Daniel. I spy with my little eye something beginning with I...LOVE...YOU. Thank you for assuring me I’m possible, even when I said it was impossible.

“
I
just
…can’t…stop…eating,” says Shamu the Whale, inhaling her third Twinkie in one ghastly bite.

I really should be more horrified that this grossly obese girl is making out with her sugary treat in front of me, but funnily enough, I’m not. And that’s because all I can focus on is the way her plump, supple mouth gobbles down on that golden sponge, and I can’t help but envision it’s my dick she’s devouring like it’s her last meal, not the damn Twinkie.

Shifting subtly in my leather seat, I tell my cock now is not the time to rear its sinful head as I’m here to help Shamu, or rather Sharon, with her addiction.

Addiction, according to the ever-resourceful Wikipedia, is: “the continued repetition of a behavior despite adverse consequences, or a neurological impairment leading to such behaviors.”

So, what triggers an addiction? What makes people like Sharon here so completely and utterly addicted to something they can no longer function without it? I mean, it sounds utterly ridiculous that we can’t stop certain behaviors because we
are
the ones in control of our actions—no one else but ourselves.

So maybe it’s habit. But habit is done by choice; therefore, we could stop if we wanted to. So, in that case, maybe it’s a repressed memory biting at our heels, and we’re just using that as an excuse to get high, drunk, STD-ridden, or—in Sharon’s case—fat.

We all have addictions, whether big or small, in one form or another, and we human beings are complex characters that either deal with it, or sweep it under the rug and just don’t talk about it. But the people who do want to talk about it, whatever their addiction, come and see me.

My name is Dr. Dixon Mathews, and for $500 an hour, one can unload their deepest, darkest secrets and leave my office feeling healed and reborn. Most people just want the confirmation that there is nothing wrong with them, and their abnormal tendencies aren’t that abnormal after all. And my patients get that from me, they get the verification from one of New York’s top psychiatrists that their need to eat cat hair, or their need to masturbate in public, is completely normal.

In just a few sessions, I pledge that my treatment will cure them of their neurotic behavior, and they can blend back into society where citizens are none the wiser that they are walking amongst some batshit-crazy loony tunes.

The reason I can guarantee this is because the majority of people who walk through my doors just want to whine and complain, and once they get whatever the hell off their chests, most see the light and stop with the crazy. The small minority who do have earnest issues, I prescribe the ever-reliable benzodiazepines to treat their insanity, and the world thanks me for creating another pill-popping, asocial zombie.

So call me a bastard, but at thirty-two years of age, I think I’m allowed to be a little jaded and apathetic toward the dregs of society. You would be too if you had to listen to the same old sob story day in, day out, from the spoiled, rich folk who never had to work a hard day in their life. Yet they come to me with pathetic stories of injustice and wrongdoings, totally oblivious to how lucky they really are.

As Sharon is droning on about the woes of her life, I think back to my original question. What triggers addiction? Many trained professionals have stated that the causes of addiction vary considerably, but they are generally caused by a combination of physical, mental, circumstantial and emotional factors. But me, I know addiction comes down to one simple, primitive concept.

Desire.

Whether we desire success, beauty, food, alcohol, drugs, nicotine, porn or sex, the end result is the same, we all want to experience the euphoria that comes with these factors, and that’s
what
we become addicted to. The actual trigger differs from person to person, but in the end, we all just want to be…happy. And in most circumstances, desire leads to pleasure.

People with addictive personalities blow their addiction out to creepy levels, but the majority of us, we just dabble in our addictions to achieve that happiness, that euphoria, because we’re human, and we crave the proverbial “happily ever after.”

I told you I’m good.

“Dr. Mathews,” Sharon says in a small voice. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

Nodding my head, I refocus my distant eyes on her. “How about you tell me a little more about your father?” I suggest softly, giving her a gentle smile.

And 5, 4, 3, 2…and 1.

Right on cue, I witness Sharon’s full bottom lip tremble, and her eyes well with tears.

“There’s nothing to say,” she states, crossing her arms across her bountiful chest as she bites her lip to stop the tears.

“How would you describe your relationship with him?” I press, casually crossing my legs while attempting to hide my imminent erection as I try not to stare at her tits.

“It’s fine.” She sniffs, curling in on herself, her bright red hair shrouding her tears.

We all have a trigger, and I’ve come to learn that the trigger for overweight women is their non-existent fathers. I’ll never understand why they use food as a comforting tool, but maybe the binge eating fills a hole, and I do mean that in the literal sense.

So like I said, call me a bastard, because a shitload of daddy issues also means one thing: trying to find the perfect father figure to fill that vacant, loveless void. These women unconsciously seek out their future mate, using their asshole daddies as the blueprint for what they’re looking for in a companion. Or in some circumstances…a fuck.

Suddenly, my dick becomes very, very interested in Sharon Witherstone. Yes, she may be about fifty pounds overweight, but in this instance, I’m leading with the head between my legs because like I said, we all have a trigger, and just like everyone else, I want to find my happily ever after. And at the moment, my HEA is bending Sharon over my desk and fucking her senseless.

I may be certified in solving other people’s problems, but not mine—I know I’m a lost cause. I’m an asshole, and each day I’m losing sight of who I am, and who I once was.

I’m not a total prick, however, and I make women just like Sharon Witherstone feel good, because sex without emotional ties is so much easier than…feeling.

Placing my notepad onto the armrest, I slowly stand and peer down at Sharon, giving her a smile which I know will disintegrate her panties in seconds. She raises her eyes, and I can see the confusion flicker behind her emerald orbs. But as her gaze descends down my hardened body, that confusion turns to…desire.

Her entire demeanor changes and out comes daddy’s little girl as she shifts in her seat, pushing out her chest daringly. It’s really too easy, but I prefer easy as opposed to working hard, putting your heart and soul on the line, only to find out your fiancée is sleeping with your best friend.

So this, this is much easier.

“Do you love your father?”

“No, I hate him,” she confesses in a seductive whisper, biting her lip.

“Oh? Would you be comfortable telling me why?” I take a seat near her on the leather sofa, ensuring our knees are only inches apart.

“Because he loves my stepmother more than me,” she replies, her lust-filled stare focusing on my lap, as my erection is no doubt poking through my pressed slacks.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tenderly coo. However, I don’t mean a single word. “That must be very hard on you.”

“Yes, it is. It is very
hard
.” She nods, and I feel a single finger slide deliberately up my thigh toward my crotch.

Opening my legs in welcome, I ask, “Is that what you think triggered your addiction?”

“What can I say, Dr. Mathews? When something delicious is in front of me, I just can’t say no,” she huskily purrs, her fingers dancing around my straining fly.

“Well, sometimes,” I whisper, “it’s okay to say yes.” I know, I’m going to hell.

And that’s all the trigger Ms. Witherstone needs as her head dives into my lap, her fingers fumbling with my zipper.

As her warm, hungry mouth wraps around my red-hot erection, I close my eyes in disgust. I’m disgusted at myself for using someone I have no intention of ever seeing again. But I never said I was the hero of this story, or even the good guy.

Who wants to be good, when it feels so
good
being
bad
?

R
eaching
for the jacket off the back of my high-backed leather seat, I try not to recoil when I see my paperwork slightly askew. Memories of Ms. Witherstone’s face pressed into my mahogany desktop while I fucked her from behind come flooding back, and I make a quick beeline for the exit before I throw up.

Locking my door, I see that my receptionist, Susanna, is still here.

“Ms. Vale, you should have left hours ago,” I reprimand, as it’s now 7:30 p.m.

“Oh, that’s okay. Leroy is out of town fishing with his buddies, so I don’t mind working late,” she replies with a nod, her gray hair bobbing with the motion.

Susanna Vale should have retired years ago, but she keeps telling me she’s not ready to hang up her boots just yet. Good help is hard to find, so I’m not going to argue with her.

“Well, make sure you note down how many extra hours you’ve worked, and I’ll ensure Nancy pays you.”

“Oh, Dr. Mathews,” she protests with a wave of her wrinkled hand, “don’t be silly. Who else is going to make sure you leave at a decent hour?”

I give her a small smile because it’s true. On more than one occasion, Susanna has sent me home at an ungodly hour, but I went home to what? I returned to my empty Manhattan condo, which reminded me too much of
her
. Even after twelve months, her presence, her essence, is still living in the walls.

Shaking aside those unwelcome memories, I play it cool, not wanting my nostalgia to show. “If only you were ten years younger,” I tease, finishing the sentence with a playful wink.

“Oh, you beast.” She shoos me out the door. “Go get something to eat…you skipped lunch.”

I blanch at her comment, as my lunch break was occupied with eating—just not food. With that heinous thought in mind, I quickly bid my assistant goodnight and catch the elevator down to the ground floor. I’m meeting my two best friends, Finch and Hunter, at a local bar around the corner. We were once a foursome, but that was a lifetime ago when I believed in loyalty and love.

“Here he is. Dr. Love has entered the building,” shouts Hunter from across the room, as I walk in.

His loud, obnoxious voice alerts me to where he sits, but of course I know where to find him, as he never leaves the bar.

“Holy fuck balls,” he loudly curses, narrowing his eyes. “You totally got laid today.” He raises his Budweiser in salute while Finch chuckles.

“How ’bout you shout a little louder? I don’t think our neighbors in New Jersey heard.” I slap the back of his head playfully.

Taking a seat near Finch, I raise my hand, alerting the pretty blonde behind the bar to my presence. She gives me a small wink while mixing a cocktail.

“So, who’s the lucky girl?” asks Finch, nudging me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

“I don’t remember.” I snag his drink and take an unsatisfying sip. “Ugh, where’s the rum?” I cough, nearly gagging on the watered-down Coke.

Finch laughs while twirling his gold wedding band with a smile. “Gotta look after Gabriella in the morning. Heidi has some mothers’ club thing, so I’m on baby duty.”

I nod, because that’s what responsible parents do. They don’t go out with their single, man-whoring friend, who is looking to get drunk and drown his sorrows in a bottle of Jack jammed between the tits of some blonde barfly. That’s what a typical Friday night for me is like, but for Finch, who has been married for two years to the love of his life, Heidi, Friday night consists of one non-alcoholic drink with his best buddies before going home to his hot, loving wife and having amazing, freaky sex.

With that thought in mind, I reach past him and snatch up Hunter’s beer.

“You look like shit,” Hunter states, and as much as I love his honesty, I really am not in the mood.

But he presses, regardless of me clamming up. “It’s been a year, man.” He holds up a finger, just in case I didn’t hear him, but I got it, loud and clear.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I object with a firm shake of my head, and quickly chug the contents of my stolen beer.

“We’re just worried about you,” Finch joins in, his gray eyes softening when he witnesses my emotional retreat.

“I’m fine,” I retort, really needing another drink.

I try to flag down the bartender, but the crowd has suddenly grown, and she’s attending to other thirsty patrons.

“Do you want your dick to fall off?” Hunter bluntly demands.

“Excuse me?” I ask, unable to wipe the smile from my face, amused by his melodramatics.

“You heard me.” He leans forward, his huge body invading Finch’s small frame.

“No, Hunter, I do not want my dick to fall off. Get to the point, already,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

“Well, that’s what’s gonna happen if you keep boning these random girls.”

“I seriously doubt that,” I scoff, but Finch nods, obviously agreeing with Hunter.

“Chicks instantly drop their panties the moment you flash those big baby blues their way. It really is too easy, and in turn, you’re becoming New York’s biggest man-whore,” Hunter declares. His bluntness suddenly pisses me off.

“When did you turn into such a pussy?” I bark at him, narrowing my eyes. “I expected it from him…” I gesture with my head toward Finch. “No offense,” I add, and he shrugs, not at all offended.

“But you, man,” I say to Hunter. “Last I checked, you had no problem screwing random chicks. So quit it with the holier-than-thou crap.”

I’m getting pissed off rather quickly, but getting advice from Hunter, who of all people shouldn’t be lecturing me about my hook-ups, I can’t help but lose my cool. I’ve known these boys for the majority of my life. We did everything together. I know the shit we’ve done, especially Hunter.

Finch, however, he’s been our voice of reason. He’s saved us from many situations that could have turned sour if not for his levelheadedness. But Hunter, he’s always been wild and free.

I love these two morons like brothers. They’ve seen me at my worst and never once judged me until now.

“What’s with the third degree?” I ask, calmed down somewhat.

Finch nervously lowers his eyes, and I still have no fucking clue what’s going on.

When Hunter sees my confusion, he clarifies. “We’re worried, man. Next week is…ya know?”

“No, I don’t know. Are you high?” I loosen my navy tie as it’s suddenly suffocating me.

Finch’s thin lips pull into a tight line, which is never a good sign.

“Spit it out, Finch.”

“In a couple of weeks, it’s the thirteenth,” he replies, finally meeting my eyes.

“Yeah. And?” I question with a baffled shrug.

“Oh, dude.” He sighs, and I can hear the pity in his tone. “It would have been your one-year anniver—” He suddenly pauses, not wanting to fill in the blanks.

One year?

Holy shit. One year ago I would have been married to the love of my life, Lillian Davis. Just thinking her name makes me want to dig my brain out with an ice-cream scoop.

If I believed in soul mates, then Lily was mine. We met three years ago in a line at Starbucks, and it was love at first macchiato. I proposed to her halfway through our relationship because we were happy and ready to take the next step. Well, I was. And I believed she was too, until she met my buddy Leo.

Leo also grew up with Hunter, Finch and me in New Jersey, and he too moved to the Big Smoke. But Leo obviously didn’t value our friendship the way I did, because he was fucking Lily behind my back for months.

Lily dumped me six weeks before our wedding because she was in love with Leo. I couldn’t accept the words coming from her lips, but when she showed me the reason behind her recent weight gain, her words became crystal clear. Not only was she in love with my best friend, she was also having his baby. I knew it wasn’t mine because we hadn’t had sex in over three months. I know, I know, I should have seen the warning signs, but love is blind and all of that crap.

So things couldn’t get any clearer after that.

She blamed her infidelity on me, stating she never saw me and I put work first. I
did
put work first, but only so I could pay for the three-carat diamond on her finger, and the lavish, upscale Manhattan condo she insisted we buy.

I did all of this for her. And she thanks me by screwing my best friend and bearing his spawn.

So after she left me, I went a little wild.

But this lifestyle, it’s no longer just a phase—it’s who I am. I’ve become addicted to senseless, shameless sexual acts with random women, completely knowing that, on some level, I’m hoping to replace the face of the one woman who took an axe to my heart and hacked into it, leaving behind a bloodied, broken mess of the man I once was.

But these hook-ups, they’re slowly losing their appeal, and I’m afraid that one day, I’ll wake up and no longer recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.

So, there you have it, that’s my life in a nutshell. I eat, sleep, work and fuck because that’s what I have to do to survive. It’s a sad, miserable existence, but it’s better than being a lovesick puppy, pining after a woman who doesn’t give a damn.

Snapping back into the now, my shields slip into place and I try my best to appear nonchalant. “Big deal. I’m over it. I’m over
her
.”

Finch frowns, while Hunter disputes my claim. “No, man, you’re not. If you were, then you’d have no problem with me telling you that Leo the Ass and Lily the Whore are getting married next month.”

“Jesus, Hunter!” Finch scolds, shaking his head.

“What? If he’s over it, me telling him this shouldn’t be a problem,” Hunter states with a shrug.

Hunter’s tactlessness doesn’t bother me in the slightest. His statement, however, does.

“She’s
marrying
that asshole?” I spit out, disgusted, but more so, I’m hurt.

What does he have that I didn’t? I swallow down my defeat and repulsion, and need to get the hell outta Dodge before I fucking lose it.

“Dixon,” Finch says with nothing but pity in his tone, but I don’t want his sympathy.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand after finishing my lukewarm, stolen beer, I stand, hoping my friends understand why I need a minute alone.

“I’m going out for a cigarette.” I pat down my jacket pockets to find my smokes.

Thankfully, the boys let it go and don’t make a fuss when I push through the massive crowd. As I step outside onto the pavement, I light a Marlboro and take a much-needed drag as I lean back against the brick wall.

I would be a complete liar if I said I never thought of Lily, because I think about her more often than I care to admit. I gave up long ago on the dream of reconciliation, but deep down, I wished her relationship with Leo had failed.

My life is a mess, and the only person I could talk to about this is dead.

My mom passed away six months ago from breast cancer, and the loss destroyed my father. He had a major mental breakdown and now resides at Sunnyfields Hospital. Ironic, isn’t it? Dixon Mathews, New York’s finest shrink, can’t even help his own father.

Automatically taking a drag of my cigarette, I’m lost in the past—a place I’d rather not be. So when I hear the animated voices of a couple to my left, I welcome the distraction.

Turning to see what the commotion is all about, I see a short brunette being manhandled by a meaty jock, who is jerking her a little too roughly by her upper arms. She’s fucking tiny and his huge paws are going to snap her into two.

“Let me go,” she scowls, attempting to pull out of his grip.

I’ll give her points for trying, as she looks like she’s putting up a pretty good fight. But this asshole has about a hundred pounds on her.

Flicking my smoke into the gutter, I decide to intervene, as it’s pretty obvious she’s trying to get away. Her anxious green eyes flick in my direction when I’m feet away, and she silently pleads with me to help her.

“How about you let her go,” I say firmly, and the wildebeest turns my way with a cocky grin.

“How about you mind your own business, old man,” he replies with a deep, southern accent.

Old man?

Fuck this little pubescent jerkoff.

“How about you mind your manners? Let the lady go.”

“Or what?” he chides, but thankfully he loosens his grip.

“Or I’ll call the police, because from where I stand, those marks on her arms—” I point to her biceps as he releases them “—are a clear indication that you’re a low-life douchebag who likes to beat up on women to make yourself feel like a man. What’s wrong?” I mock. “Trying to act all tough ’cause you want to make up for what you’re lacking?” I hold up my pinkie.

The girl giggles, but quickly stifles her outburst with her hand when douchebag turns and glares at her.

“Ah, c’mon, there are pills you can take for your anger, and also, for your little
problem
,” I say in a sarcastic whisper as I point to his crotch.

His face blazes a bright red and I can’t help but laugh, because questioning a dude’s manhood always has the desired effect. I can see him mentally sizing me up, and he knows there is no way he can take me on. This guy is big, but he’s jacked up on too many steroids, and his ridiculous, air-inflated muscles wouldn’t pack a punch.

“So how about you do the world a favor and fuck off? Go work off that anger with some tweezers and a photograph of your mom.”

This time, the girl bursts out into fits of laughter, and the sound is utterly magical.

“Fuck you,” douchebag snarls. He leaves in a huff when he realizes this is a fight he’s bound to lose.

We both watch as he rounds the corner, and when I’m certain he’s not coming back, I turn to look at the woman in front of me.

During my tirade, I failed to notice that she is a total fox. She’s young, I’m guessing twenty-three, but holy shit, she’s beautiful. Large green eyes complement a head of long, brown hair which sits straightened just past her shoulders. Her full lips are the prettiest pink I have ever seen, and when her mouth tips up into a timid smile, I know I’m staring like a creepy old man.

Quickly composing myself, I ask, “Are you okay?” and make a point of looking at her arms.