Chapter 7: Static Charge

Devin’s bedroom smelled of sweat and fabric softener—laundry piled in the corner, baseball medals dangling from the mirror, the twin-sized bed barely containing their tangled limbs. Brianna’s knee hooked over his thigh, her fingers tracing idle circles on his palm where their hands lay entwined. The overhead light was off, just the desk lamp casting long shadows, turning the hollow of her collarbone into a dark pool.

“You’re killing me,” Brianna whispered, her voice sandpaper-rough. She rolled her hips against him, the friction deliberate, and Devin’s breath hitched. Her tank top had ridden up, exposing a sliver of stomach, and her shorts—his shorts, stolen last summer—were frayed at the hem. “Two weeks. Two weeks, Dev. I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

Devin swallowed, his free hand hovering above her hip—close enough to feel the heat, not close enough to satisfy. “Dad’s got the ears of a fucking bat,” he muttered. “And Mom’s been ... weird. Like she knows.” He flexed his fingers, resisting the urge to slide them under Brianna’s waistband. “We can’t just—bang one out like we’re sneaking a beer.”

Brianna’s laugh was sharp, desperate. She dragged his hand to her chest, pressing his palm against her racing heartbeat. “Then think. Car? Garage? The fucking pool shed?” Her thumb rubbed over his knuckles—a slow, filthy promise. “Or are you scared?”

Devin’s jaw tightened. The challenge lit something primal in his gut, but the risk—Dad’s whiskey-fueled rages, Mom’s sudden need to “check in”—was a bucket of ice water. “Fuck.” He exhaled hard, tilting his head back against the pillow. “Maybe ... maybe we ask Dr. Renworth. She’s got that whole privacy thing locked down.”

Brianna stilled. Her pupils dilated—hunger or hesitation—before she nodded, slow and deliberate. “Tomorrow,” she agreed, lips brushing his earlobe. “But if she says no...” Her teeth grazed his pulse point. “Pool shed.”

Devin shuddered.

Soon.

But not yet.

Sean Nolan stared at the empty tumbler on his desk, the ghost of whiskey lingering in the glass like the ghost of satisfaction lingering in his bones. The intern—no, not an intern, not anymore—had left twenty minutes ago, her tight little body swaying as she’d pulled her panties back up over that smooth, hairless cunt. She’d moaned when he’d come inside her, fingers clawing at his back like she wanted to crawl inside him. He’d fucked her raw, twice, until his hips ached and his dick throbbed from overuse. So why did he feel like he’d just eaten a gourmet meal and still wanted to vomit?

He poured another drink. Gulped it. The burn in his throat didn’t match the hollowness in his chest. The office was quiet—too quiet—the kind of quiet that made a man think. And Sean didn’t want to think. Thinking led to memories of Diane’s laugh, Diane’s hands, Diane’s fucking eyes when she’d looked at him like he was something worth loving. Now she looked at him like he was a cockroach scurrying across the kitchen floor.

The whiskey blurred the edges but didn’t drown the truth: none of these girls—these tight, willing, nameless girls—filled the hole Diane had left. He’d thought pussy was pussy, that any warm hole would do, but fucking them was like eating cotton candy when what he really wanted was steak. Sweet, empty, nothing. He poured a third drink. Gulped it. The office spun.

Somewhere, in the back of his whiskey-soaked brain, a voice whispered: You miss your wife.

Sean laughed—bitter, broken—and reached for the bottle again.

The whiskey sloshed, half-missing the glass. He didn’t bother wiping the spill. What was the point? Cleanliness? Decency? Those were Diane’s words, Diane’s rules, Diane’s life. And Diane was gone. Not physically—yet—but in every way that mattered. The way she flinched when he touched her, the way her eyes skittered away from his like he was something vile. No, that ship had sailed, burned, fucking sank. He’d fucked too many interns, barked too many drunken curses, smashed too many glasses against too many walls. There was no coming back from that. Not even if he wanted to.

And Christ, he wanted to.

But wanting didn’t change facts. Diane would never look at him like his again. Not after the models, not after the fights, not after... them. His fingers tightened around the glass. The interns—the endless parade of tight, young bodies—had been a distraction. A piss-poor one. Fucking them was like chewing gum when what you craved was a meal. Sweet, fleeting, empty. But it was all he had now. And if Diane was lost to him, then fine. He’d find another Diane. Younger. Softer. Better. Someone who didn’t look at him like he was the villain in her story.

He grabbed a pen, scrawled CALL LAWYER on a sticky note, and slapped it onto his monitor. The ‘D’ word curdled in his gut, but denial was for cowards. The papers would come. The house would split. The kids would ... Christ, the kids. He drained the glass, the burn doing nothing to cauterize the wound. Fuck it. If he was starting over, he’d do it right. No more interns. No more quick fucks in empty offices. He’d hunt for something real this time. Or at least something that fooled him longer than five minutes.

The whiskey bottle gurgled as he poured another.

Soon, he told himself.

But not yet.

Not quite.

First, he had to drown the ghost of Diane Nolan.

Sean poured whiskey until the tumbler overflowed, amber liquid spilling over his fingers like liquid regret. The office—his kingdom, his prison—reeked of sex and shame, the intern’s perfume cloying beneath the sharp tang of bourbon. He’d fucked her raw against the desk, her moans echoing like a bad parody of the sounds Diane used to make. But Diane’s moans had been real, torn from her throat by his hands, his mouth, his cock. These girls? They were mannequins. Warm holes to fuck, not wives to cherish.