“Well, you’re certainly doing that here.”

Needless to say, Hunter is pissed at me for not being a man and calling Madison. He really took to her, and although I’ve told him numerous times that it ended before it even began, he’s still living in denial.

“Just call her,” he exclaims for the twentieth time this hour.

“Why don’t you call her?” I suggest, but instantly regret it as his face lights up. “It was a joke. You will not be calling her, or seeing her at her work, for that matter. All forms of communication are off. Understood?”

When Hunter ignores me, I repeat. “Understood?”

“Yes, loud and clear,” he replies unhappily. “I just wish—” but I cut him off by holding up my finger.

“This conversation is over.”

Hunter huffs and folds his arms across his chest, but I refuse to give in.

I entertained the notion of maybe contacting Madison within the first few days after she walked out on me, but after those few silent days transpired, I realized her silence was almost deafening, and we were done.

I’m sick of women and their head games. I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime. So I’ve decided to go back to what I know, and what I’m good at. Work, sleep, and sex.

Work is easy. Sleep is easy. Sex is easy. It’s all the stuff in between that gets in the way.

“You looking forward to Boston?” Finch asks, trying to change the subject, and I nod.

“It’ll be nice to get away for a few days,” I reply, as I’m extending my trip out, and having a few extra days of R&R.

Thankfully, I’ll be going alone, as I haven’t heard from Juliet—bar a lacy thong she sent to my office—since the night I told her it was over. At least one good thing came out of that night.

Getting out of NY will do me good because, like the city that never sleeps, neither do I.

25

Kicking the Habit

DIXON

I arrive in Boston early the next morning.

The moment I enter my lavish room, I draw the curtains, switch off all forms of technology, and drink myself into oblivion thanks to the two bottles of scotch I purchased on my drive down here. I plan on staying this way till I pass out, as I’m too exhausted to face the harsh light of day.

Nature calls some time later, so I crawl out of my drunken stupor, unsure of what day or time it is. Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn. I have no plans, and the awards ceremony isn’t till Saturday evening, which is six days away…I think. On that note, time to face reality, as I think I’ve hibernated enough.

I shower, but don’t bother to shave. I throw on some jeans and an old tee, and I’m ready to face the world. Firing up my laptop, I groan when I see the three hundred plus emails waiting for me to read. But they can wait. Anything important, Susanna would have attended to anyway.

Checking my stocks and the Yankees score, I switch off my computer, having had enough for the day.

I power up my cell, and when I see it’s Monday evening, I can’t believe I slept through the entire weekend. But what was the point of staying awake?

My cell dings, indicating I have a text message. When I see who the sender is, I nearly fall out of my seat.

Miss me? ;)The message taunts me with its winky emoticon.

I really don’t know what to think other than why the hell is Juliet messaging me?

Honestly, I believed she would have forgotten all about me and moved onto the next chump. So when she texts me once again, I can’t help but think that maybe I was wrong.

I’ve missed you. All of you.

No guessing what part she misses the most.

I decide to reply, afraid that if I don’t, she’ll continue messaging me like nothing happened.

Hello Juliet. What do you want?

Not the nicest way to say hello to someone you’ve slept with, but I’m not in the mood for her formalities.

I was just wondering what time I should come down for the ceremony.

I read the message twice because it surely can’t say what I think it did. But it does.

Is she insane? When she sends through another text, I know the answer is yes.

I can’t wait to show you my dress…and what’s underneath.

Have I just been transported to the twilight zone without my knowledge? Why on earth does she think she’s still coming? I thought the whole “it’s been interesting, but I think it’s best we stop seeing one another” speech made my intentions clear, but she obviously thinks it was some kind of foreplay.

It’s time I set her straight.

I apologize if there’s been some kind of misunderstanding, but I thought I made myself clear. You and I, we’re done. Therefore, you turning up to an event, which is highly important to me, is really not appropriate. I do apologize for any confusion.

This is the nicest possible way I can tell her to fuck off. I don’t have the time or patience to be dealing with this, and quite frankly, I’m insulted that she thinks she can just message me after all this time and believe I would welcome her, dick in hand.

When I don’t receive a response for a few minutes, I don’t know if I should celebrate or hide. My growling stomach screams at me, demanding I stop being a pussy and go eat. I send a brief text to Hunter, Finch, and Susanna, letting them know I’m alive. I then grab my wallet and room key, and go in search for some food, making sure to leave my cell phone behind.

The moment the glaring sunset hit my light-sensitive corneas, I decided to dine in at the hotel restaurant, as I’m not that ready to face the world. I’m also quite certain I still might be a touch intoxicated—but two bottles of scotch over a weekend will do that.

Looking over the menu, I decide to order a feast and make up for lost time because I’m ravenous. After placing my order, I begin flicking through my iPad and decide to take some notes on the paper I’m currently writing. I finally have the time to focus on my research, and I plan on utilizing every second, seeing as I will be amongst fellow comrades who will appreciate my findings.

Lost in the current edition of the Medical Journal, I fail to notice someone standing beside me until I hear a throat being cleared. Looking up, I see the blue-eyed waitress who took my order earlier standing by my table.

“Can I get you another beer?” she asks, looking at my full Budweiser.

“I’m okay for the moment,” I reply, and notice her looking down at my iPad.

“Are you here for the doctor thingie?” she gushes, and points above her head, indicating the ballroom where the event will be held.

“Yes, I am.”

“That’s really cool,” she says, brushing a blonde lock of hair behind her ear. “Are you a doctor?”

“Psychiatrist,” I reply, slipping off my glasses and reaching for my beer.

“Ooh, so you can read people’s minds or something?” she says, and I’m not sure if she’s being serious or not, so I chuckle, not wanting to offend her.

“It’s one of my many talents.”

“I can believe that,” she says, her voice dropping low as she does a quick sweep down my body. “What other talents do you have, Doctor?”

God, this really is too easy. You’d think I’d be put off women, considering everything that has happened. But I’m not.

Curling my finger and beckoning her to come closer, she complies and stoops low, cupping her ear when I indicate it’s a secret.