Dirty Dix (Hard Love Romance #1) (10 page)

“Enough with the third degree. I don’t see you happily married to your soul mate.”

“That’s because I’m not an idiot,” he replies, but quickly corrects, “No offense, Finch.”

Finch shakes his head, not at all offended because he’s heard it all before.

“Women are trouble, and I plan on living like Hugh Hefner.”

“Old, lonely and addicted to Viagra?” I ask with a smirk.

Hunter throws a bread roll at me, and I dodge its flight path. “No. Rich, surrounded by Playmates, and happy.”

Finch and I look at Hunter and chuckle. I suppose one can dream.

“Just call me Hunter Hefner,” he jokes, eyeing a blonde waitress and making bunny ears at her.

“How about I call you Hunter Half-Wit instead?” I suggest, still chuckling.

Hunter crosses his arms across his broad chest as he leans back in his chair. “Okay, Dixon Mathews, Cock on Call. Oh, sorry.” He coughs, fist in front of his mouth. “I meant, Doc on Call.”

I can’t stop the cackle that bubbles from my throat, and as Finch and Hunter join in with the laughter, I can’t believe we’re talking about this over brunch.

A
fter brunch
, I come home and decide to catch up on some paperwork. But I’m soon distracted, as I can’t stop thinking about what Finch said.
Do
I have feelings for Madison? Surely that’s not possible. If it were, why did I choose Juliet over her? I know it’s not that clean-cut and simple, but I could have said no to Juliet the day I was meant to see Madison.

Before this morning, I immensely enjoyed sleeping with Juliet, but now, the thought isn’t as appealing as it once was.

I decide to bury my head in the sand and focus on my new research paper.

As I’m drowning in innate behavioral patterns, my phone dings. I reach for it and see it’s a text from Juliet.

I
’m deliciously sore
from this morning. Thank you. X

I
would usually reply
with a dirty comment and not-so-hidden innuendo of making her even sorer, but I don’t. I don’t even reply.

I
t’s
9 p.m. on a Saturday night and I’m home. I’m also alone.

I can’t remember the last time this happened, because before Juliet, I was chasing tail and about ready to seal the deal. But she’s been taking up a big hunk of my Saturday nights and up until now, I hadn’t realized how much so.

I check my cell but she hasn’t texted, but I didn’t reply to hers earlier, so the radio silence makes sense.

Goddamn—when did this become so relationship-like?

Sighing, I focus on the idiot box, hoping some mindless T.V. will occupy me.

T
wo
Jaws
movies
and twelve beers later, I’m craving scotch and porn.

I guess I could jerk off, but the thought has me wondering whose body and face I would use as inspiration.

That’s definitely a mood killer, so I reach for my phone and decide to check my emails. However, for some unexplained reason, I go to my contact list instead and stop on the letter M. I really shouldn’t be contemplating what I currently am, as it’s quite late on a Saturday night/Sunday morning. I’m also semi-drunk and extremely horny. In no way should I text Madison…says no one ever.

Before I can stop myself, I’m typing out a short message and hitting send before I can talk reason to my impulsive brain. The text was harmless and I kept it clean as it
is
roughly

1 a.m., and I don’t want Madison to think I’m drunk-dialing her for sex.

I stare at my screen for endless minutes, but nothing. Just as I start to curse my reckless move, my screen lights up with a reply from Madison.

What?
she asks, in reply to my joke of, “A man walks into a psychiatrist’s office wearing nothing but underwear made of saran wrap. What does the psychiatrist say?”

I know it’s lame, but it’s better than the alternative of “What are you wearing?”

I can clearly see your nuts
,
I reply.

I cringe at how stupid I sound, but it’s an icebreaker. I admit it’s a juvenile one, but at least I got her attention with my idiocy. The wait is giving me heartburn and I toss my phone onto the sofa. But the moment it chimes a second later, I dive for it, eagerly awaiting her reply.

LOL. My turn…What do you call a nurse who is waiting for someone to call?

I read the message twice to ensure I haven’t misread it, and even though it seems we’re no longer joking, I decide to humor her anyway.

What?

The wait in between replies is killing me, but thankfully I don’t have to wait too long.

Confused. Why didn’t you call?

Well, this punch line is worse than mine.

I really am an insensitive asshole to think I can just contact her after so many weeks and expect her to laugh and swoon at my lame-ass jokes. I owe her the truth, and I also owe her an apology.

I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.

She replies within seconds.
Yes, you are.

Her simple reply is a clear indication of her leaving the ball in my court. Pondering on what to say, I know this is my moment of glory.

I was fucking
but I quickly erase that and settle for,
I
was kind of seeing someone.

My finger hesitates over the send button, but I press it and hold my breath.

Minutes tick by and I’m just about to text her again when she replies.

Was?

I let out a relieved breath, glad that her response didn’t involve the words, “fuck you, asshat.”

Yes.

It’s too complicated to explain via text without sounding like a sick, sex-crazed maniac. So in this instance, yes will have to suffice.

Me too.

Oh?
I reply quickly.

Well, seeing as I just saw him tonight.

No guessing whom.

Oh, you and Damon?
I reply, not able to type his name without wanting to stab myself in the eyes.

You know his name is David
, she replies, calling me out on my bluff.

And yes
, she adds a second later.

My teeth clench at the thought of that giganotosaurus touching her, but I remain composed as I write back.

Congratulations
, I reply, but in reality I really want to say, “I hope he catches yellow fever and dies.”

Thanks. He’s actually my Personal Trainer.

I clench my fingers around the phone as I picture David sporting serious wood while watching her work out in her skimpy tight gym clothes. But I decide to play it cool.

Explains a lot.

Was that a compliment or an insult?
she replies, and I let out a chuckle.

Definitely a compliment.

I know, I know, she’s in a relationship, but a little harmless flirting won’t hurt.

Wanna elaborate?

I can just imagine her intuitive mind mulling over what I exactly mean by that comment. But she surely knows she’ll never win this mind play with me.

You can’t handle the truth!
I text back, using the classic Jack Nicholson line.

But suddenly I realize she’s probably too young to know that movie, and I quickly tap out a text, not wanting her to think I’m being rude or aggressive, or just plain weird.

But before I have a chance to reply, my phone chimes.

Ooh, I love that movie. Jack Nicholson is a total hottie.

I read the message three times over, and my dick begins to stir, due to the fact she finds someone double my age “hot.” Maybe she likes older men? My dancing libido pipes up in interest, but I swiftly shut it down before I start getting stupid, or
stupider
ideas.

Deciding to steer this conversation in a totally different direction, I reply.

What’s your favorite movie?

I know it’s completely lame, but I find myself wanting to actually know what her favorite movie is. I also want to know what Madison’s favorite everything is.

E.T. Yours?

Wow, she knows who Jack Nicholson
and
E.T. are. And just like that, my lame joke wasn’t so lame after all.

T
hree hours
and a bottle of scotch later, I found out what Madison’s favorite
everything
was.

We texted until the early hours of the morning, and not once did I feel bored, or want the conversion to end. I wanted to know everything there was to know about her, and by her probing questions, I dare say she felt the same way about me.

She steered clear of the topic of my father when I made it more than obvious he was a matter I was uncomfortable discussing. But there were elements to Madison’s past and present (like David the dickhead) that I sensed were also off limits, and I respected her, just as she did me.

But everything else was open for discussion, and I don’t think I’ve ever known this much about one human being.

Not even Lily.

If I had any doubts as to what I have to do in regards to Juliet and our “situation,” tonight cleared up any reservations, as I don’t think I’ve had a conversation with her that’s lasted longer than five minutes. I know all the bare essentials that separate us from being total strangers who fuck, but I don’t really know her, unlike I now know Madison.

But I don’t know how, or
what
to tell her. If I end things, it’s not like I can pursue Madison because she’s seeing Gigantor. Therefore, I’ll have to seek out the company of another lady friend, but mindless, faceless fucking has suddenly lost its appeal. I have Juliet, who is more than capable of satisfying all my needs, but can she? After yesterday, has our passion finally burned out? Did our “thing” come with an expiration date all along? I guess there’s only one way to find out.

But for now I’m going to sleep, and I plan on having sweet dreams about Madison and her Double Ds.

Yes, I asked her. I mean, how could I not?

I
’ve hit the gym
, gone for a run, and it’s only 9a.m. on a Sunday morning. There’s something I’ve been putting off, but today is the first day since I buried my mother that I’ve had the balls to pay her a visit.

I park my blue BMW, and taking a deep breath, I look at the gates of the Hillcrest Cemetery. I haven’t been back home since the day I admitted my father. Taking yet another deep breath, I look at my pale reflection in the rear-view mirror and tell myself to man up.

I walk through the manicured gardens, and the early June weather is bringing out some pretty flowers and plants. But no matter how visually appealing the foliage is, they can’t hide the fact there are headstones as far as the eye can see. I can’t help but feel a sense of sadness for all these souls that were once alive. Each gravestone represents a person’s life, and their life story is chipped away on stone for the world to see what a great person they once were.

I can’t help but wonder what my life story will entail. But more importantly,
who
will be the author behind my tale.

Shaking those thoughts aside, I give a polite smile to a woman dressed in black who, no doubt, is mourning her loved one. This place is filled with sadness, but it’s also a place for reflection. The living need to weep for the dead, and this is the place where one can do so.

When I reach my mother’s grave, I stop a few feet away, my aviators shielding my approaching tears. I can’t step any closer, and for now, this is close enough. Dropping to a squat, I stare at the marbled headstone and remember the care taken when I chose it. It had to be perfect for her because she was perfect in life, and I wanted to ensure that followed her into death.

“
Ciao, Mamma
,” I say, addressing her as I would if she were alive.

My parents both migrated to the USA in their teens from a small fishing village in Sicily, Italy. When they were barely adults, they met at a factory and married a year later. Two years after that, I was born.

My parents didn’t have much when they came to America, but they made it work. They worked hard and blended in as best they could, as they didn’t speak a lick of English the day they arrived. If the current generation of kids had to rough it like my parents did, they wouldn’t survive half a day without their iPods and cell phones.

In a way, back then, things were simpler. You married young, had kids, and provided for your family the best you could. It was hard labor, but family was number one, so you did anything for your loved ones.

If it wasn’t for my father and mother working their asses off, then I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in today. I thank them every day for the sacrifices they made for me.

“I miss you,” I whisper, staring at her grave. “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit. But you’re in my thoughts every day, and not a moment goes by that I don’t wish you were still here.” I hesitate before I sadly confess, “I’m sorry for what I did to
Papà
.” I hang my head in shame.

If my mother were alive, she would be disgusted by what I did to my father, and also how I’m living my life. She’d tell me to marry a nice girl and make her many grandbabies.

As I think about Juliet bearing my children, I realize I can’t even picture it as it’s too farfetched to even imagine.

“I’m lost,” I confess, running a hand through my hair. “I just wish I had more time with you.”

I hold onto my tears and sniff back my sorrow because life really is a bitch. When you’re younger, you don’t appreciate your parents and all that they’ve done for you. Loving your parents is seen as uncool, and all that matters is your friends, booze, and girls, girls, girls.

But the older you get, you realize that your parents are going to be there for you when your friends and girlfriends are long gone. Friendship comes and goes, but family is forever.

For today, this is enough. This is more than I expected I could handle.

“
Sogni d’oro
,” I say, wishing my mother sweet dreams. “I’ll see you soon. I promise,” and I stand, feeling like a tiny part of the old Dixon has returned.

Lost in thought while walking to my car, I think back to all the times Juliet and I have spent together that didn’t involve sex. Sadly, all those times can be counted on one hand.

In the words of Shakespeare, “love is merely a madness,” and that’s because in one corner, I have Juliet, who is a freak in the sack, but boring as batshit out of it. And in the other corner, I have Madison, who I bet would be as interesting
in
the sack as she is out of it, but who is now seeing someone else.

I knew one woman sexually, while I knew the other intellectually, and like a typical male, the pussy won out. Now look how that’s ended up.

Unlocking my car, I flip off the sky ’cause karma…can kiss my ass.

T
he drive
back to Manhattan is long and boring, and to top things off, I’m stuck in traffic. Thanks to the wasted time spent in peak hour, I find my thoughts wandering to my father.

Marie said he’s better. I highly doubt that, but I decide to find out for myself. Going through my contacts, I find the number which taunts me every time I see it. Telling myself to grow a pair, I hit dial and wait for it to connect through my Bluetooth.

The moment it rings, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, a sense of dread overtaking me. This is the reason I don’t go visit him. This is the reason I don’t call. Talking to my father will highlight what a failure I am, and confirm that I’ve let both my parents down.

Just as I’m about to hang up, a friendly voice answers, asking where she can direct my call.

“May I be connected to Pino Di Matteo’s room, please?” I say, waiting a few seconds before speaking.

“Certainly. Putting you through now.”

I’m thankful I’m stationary because all I can focus on is the tacky music which separates me from my father. Will he really want to talk to me after all I’ve done to him?

“Hello?” a female voice says.

“Um, hello,” I reply, confused. “I must have the wrong room. I was looking for Pino Di Matteo.”

“Yes, this is his room. Hi, I’m Julia, Pino’s nurse. I’m looking after him today,” she says cheerfully.

“Oh, right. I’m Dixon…Pino’s son,” I explain, because she probably doesn’t even know he has a son.

There’s a slight pause before she replies. “Oh, what a lovely surprise. Hang on a second.” I hear her place down the receiver, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum as she walks across the room.

“Pino,” she says, my heart in my throat as she addresses him. “Pino, your son is on the phone. Would you like to talk to him?”

Silence.

“Pino?” she says, pressing once more.

I can’t help but smile, as my father always was a stubborn man. Looks like some things never change.

“Hello?” she says into the receiver. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” I reply, although I know this has all been a mistake.

‘I’m going to put you on loudspeaker, okay? That’ll make things a little easier,” she kindly explains, but I know my dad doesn’t want to talk to me. “Okay, you’re good to go. I’ll give you some privacy,” she says, and I hear the door shut.

There is complete silence, apart from my father’s raspy breaths, waiting for me to speak.

“
Ciao, Papà. Come stai?
” I ask, which is a stupid question, seeing as he’s cooped up in a hospital.

But I persevere. “
Mi dispiace per non visitare. Lavoro èstato occupato,
” I say, using the same excuse I gave to Marie for not visiting.

I know he’s listening because his breathing has increased. I decide to switch to English, hoping I’ll get a response out of him.

“Have you been doing any gardening? I remember seeing a beautiful garden out back.”

I’m still greeted with silence.

I know my father and he’s not interested in my work or gardening; he wants answers. He wants me to say I’m sorry for abandoning him when he needed me the most. He wants me to explain why I left him.

Clenching the steering wheel, I take a deep breath and say what’s been on my mind since the day I left him there. “I’m sorry,
Papà.
I really am. I…I didn’t know what else to do. When we lost Mamma, I think she took a piece of us with her. You especially. I know I did you wrong, but I’m asking you to forgive me.”

Why won’t he talk to me? I can hear him, and I know he can hear me, too. Suddenly, I hear his slippers scuff across the floor. His steps are small and measured, and I can’t help but think they’re the footsteps of a broken man.

“
Papà?
” I beseech, sitting up straighter in my seat.

It’s a plea, a plea for him to talk to me.

His breathing rattles in his chest, his exhalations coming out louder and choppier. The sound has me choking up, and I say the only thing I can that really expresses how I feel.

“
Ti amo
.”

My words of love are greeted with silence, but this time, the silence is because my father has hung up on me.

Closing my eyes in defeat, I numbly end the call and rest my head on the steering wheel. I don’t know what I expected, because if I were him, I would have done the same.

Only when a car horn blares behind me do I raise my head to see that traffic has finally started moving. I put my car into gear and take off, speeding away from demons I must one day face.

That day, however, is not today. And I don’t see it happening anytime soon.

I
’ve invited
Finch and Hunter over for pizza and beer, as basketball is on, and I couldn’t think of a better way to distract myself from my non-relationship woes. A knock on the door interrupts me from stocking the fridge with beer. I look at my watch and see the boys are early, which is a first.

“Couldn’t wait for my boys to kick your ass?” I say as I open the door.

Instead, I’m greeted by Juliet.

“Oh yeah, I can’t wait,” she purrs, giving me big, innocent eyes.

“What are you doing here?” I abruptly counter instead.

She’s visibly taken aback by my curtness, but after this weekend, she’s the last person I want to see.

However, she soon recovers from my insolence. “I’m here to fuck your brains out,” she boldly replies, not holding back.

Before, the very vivid picture she just painted would have me tearing her clothes off, but now, it just makes me cringe.

Juliet sees me hesitate and takes a step forward, wrapping her arms around my neck. “What’s the matter? You’re not happy to see me?” she asks, pouting.

“I just wasn’t expecting you,” I reply, subtly unchaining her hands from around my nape.

“Well, what a surprise,” she replies cockily, her blue eyes glowing with mischief.

Indeed.

We stand silent for a few moments, and Juliet’s body language is highlighting the fact she wants me to invite her in. But the thing is, I don’t want to. She looks way too intoxicating in her skinny jeans and peach camisole, and I know she’ll end up destroying whatever resolve I have left.

“I actually am expecting guests,” I reveal, feeling a touch guilty, as I’ve made it more than obvious she’s not invited to join us.

“Oh?” She raises a fair brow.

“Yeah, just a couple of the guys are coming over to watch the game,” I explain with a firm nod.

“Oh,” she says once again, brushing back her hair. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

She gets it. She understands loud and clear that I don’t want her socializing with my friends, and she doesn’t…care.

Most men would think they’ve struck gold, but I’m not most men, and I know Juliet doesn’t care because she doesn’t care about me. For a while, sex without strings was fun, but now, now it’s just sad.

Is this change of heart because of Madison, who I have a genuine interest in physically
and
emotionally? Or is it because I’m sick of the person I see staring back at me every day? Whatever the reason, I know I should have never started whatever this is between Juliet and me.

“I’ll see you during the week?” Juliet asks, disturbing my thoughts.

“Sure,” I reply, as I don’t want to share my revelations when my friends are due to turn up on my doorstep any minute.

Tracing my stubbled jaw with her fingernail, she says, “I’m going shopping for the perfect outfit this week.”

I cock a confused eyebrow, and she smiles.

“For the awards night, silly. I’ll be the perfect plus one.” She winks. “Speaking of plus ones… What happens in Boston, stays in Boston.” She licks her plump lips. “I’d be willing if you were.”

I remain stone-faced and nod. “I’ll think about it,” I reply, casually addressing her suggestion of a threesome.

“Okay. Well, don’t think too hard, think about me riding your face while you’re fucking another girl,” she states, while I almost choke. She leans forward and kisses me passionately.

My mouth, the traitorous bastard, kisses her back, and her knowledgeable tongue coaxes my dick to shift to attention. However, I pull away before I lose control.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Juliet,” I say, my voice wavering.

“Bye, babe.”She turns on her booted heel, giving me a clear view of her tight ass as she walks away.

I slam the door shut and lean against it. I completely forgot I asked Juliet to be my plus one for the awards ceremony next month. I was caught in a vulnerable moment, as I was fucking her over my desk and the gold invite caught her attention. She asked who I was taking, and the fact I was buried balls deep in her had me asking if she would come. Moments later she
did
come, and then she agreed to come to the awards night with me. I was planning on going alone, as it’s not typically acceptable conduct to bring your fuck buddy to a prestigious event involving your work. But I couldn’t exactly tell her that.

Now I’m stuck with no other option but to deal with my fuck-up and spend the weekend with Juliet, and a possible plus one, if she has her way. I could retract the invite but honestly, knowing Juliet, she’ll just turn up anyway.

Frustrated, I push off the door and head into the kitchen to grab a much-needed beer. Tossing back my Budweiser, I reach for another, as I know I’ll need it to deal with Hunter, who will smell something is up the moment he enters the room. My cell chimes and I grab it off the marbled counter. I hope it’s not the boys cancelling, as I really need their advice again.