7
Not a quitter
[Hank]
“I quit my job.” Instantly, I recognize her voice. Finally hearing from her, after her silence in the bathroom and no communication over the past few days, my heart taps an extra beat. Then I realize what she said.
“Wait, what?”
“Sweet cheese. What did I do?” She pauses. “I quit my job.” The hysteria in her voice warns me she’s on the verge of tears. I do not want her to go to pieces on the phone. I want to be there to pick them up for her, and I can’t do it from the crisis center. She called in again. Going against every oath I made, the code of conduct, and patient privacy, I do something I shouldn’t do.
“Hang up,” I snap.
“What?” Her voice cracks. This woman has haunted me for weeks, and I can’t subject our conversation to the recording of a hotline. Morally and ethically, it’s undeniably not right to say this to someone in need, but I repeat myself.
“Hang up.” A sharp gasp and the line goes dead.
Instantly, I dial another number from my personal cell phone, cursing as the line rings. “Come on, come on, come on,” I mutter.
“Hello?”
“Tommy, I’m calling in a favor.” A snort follows my request. Lord knows I owe him more than he owes me, but then again, this isn’t exactly true. I don’t have time for those thoughts, though. I need to get to someone. “I need Midge Everette’s number.”
“Why?” The sharp question startles me. Has she said something about me? Did she tell Edie what we did? What I did, and how she walked away? But then again, why did she finally call me?
The truth hits me like a sucker punch. She didn’t call me; she called the hotline. For a moment, I’m reminded of Kit—never calling me directly but sending someone to fetch me. I shake the memory and try again with Tommy.
“Look, something happened, and I need to speak to her.”
“Is she in danger?”
“No, nothing that extreme. Just…she needs me, and I don’t have her number.” I would have gotten her number had she not disappeared again after her son interrupted us. I lost her in the crowd of kids, parents, and the ongoing party.
“How do you know she needs you?” I didn’t. In fact, it might be I need her. There’s just something drawing me to her and I don’t want to look away. Maybe, I just want to make myself feel better about taking advantage of her. I overstepped boundaries, and I’ve tortured myself all week with what we’d done. I remind myself, she isn’t a groupie. She’s a lady.
“Tommy, I know you and I have history. And I know you have every reason to distrust me. But I have reason to distrust you. Can we just call it a draw for a second and you give me the number of a woman who needs my help?” Silence follows a beat.
“Darlin’, can you get me Midge’s number?” There’s a shuffle, and I’m assuming he covers the phone to give a brief relay to his wife before he comes back to me. “If you fuck her, I mean really fuck her, you better not fuck her over. Don’t make me regret this.” Seconds later, he gives me the digits.
“I owe you.” I hang up without further explanation.
It’s Hank. Answer this number. I text and then hit send. Then I dial her number. It goes to voicemail.
Fuck.
I try again.
And again.
Finally, she picks up.
A quiet sniffle crosses the line.
“Don’t cry, Middy baby. Talk to me.” Her silent tears kill me. I project back to the days of Kit, but I don’t want to go there. This isn’t her. Midge is nothing like my former lover. “Tell me what happened.”
“I work for Bigle Marketing. We design graphics, event displays, and campaigns for clients. I like my job, I really do, but my boss…” She exhales. “I can’t stand her. How can women be so insensitive to other women? A mother to another mother?”
I don’t actually know what she means about motherhood, but I know how cruel women can be to each other. I saw it often enough with Kit and how the other female artists were jealous of her success. My silence causes her to continue.
“She just pushed me too far today. I mean, I work hard. I give everything to my job when I’m there, and too often work over weekends and holidays. I have something for Liam this weekend and she asked me to work on a campaign she refused to give me in the first place. Mark Vanderburg needs a vacation,” Midge mocks. “I snapped. I’m just…I’m over it. I’m over everything.”
“What do you mean ‘everything’?” I sit back in the rickety swivel chair. I have got to replace this thing. Swiping a hand over my hair, I hold my breath, waiting for her reply.
“My ex-husband is getting married this summer.” There’s always something deeper. I sigh, remembering my training and my own desperate measures. I drank because Kit didn’t love me, but it was deeper than her rejection. I didn’t love who I was.
“You still in love with him?”
“Hell, no.” She snorts. “I don’t really care that he’s getting married. It’s the principle of it. He moved out, he moved on, and I’m still…stuck. I took this job when we moved here, because he wanted to move here.”
“How long you been divorced, little lady?” The endearment falls easily from my mouth, but her breath hitches through the line, and I fear I’ve overstepped again. I’ve already leaped a triple, bold typed line in the volunteer handbook.
“Three years.” She sighs. “He just didn’t love me anymore.” I can relate. Then again, I’m not convinced Kit Carrigan ever loved me. Time after time, she proved she didn’t. Lying to me was the biggest telltale sign.
“I’m sorry to hear this, Middy. But you know, I’m secretly delighted.”
“Why?” She chuckles without humor, and I realize the statement might sting.
“I’m hoping his loss is my gain.” Silence ticks between us, and I want to see her face. I want to hear the thoughts running through her brain. I clear my throat when she doesn’t say anything. “Anyway, I really wish I could see you, make sure you’re okay, but I’m working.”
“You work for the center, right?”
“Actually, I volunteer here.” She waits, and I take a deep breath. “I ran into some trouble a while ago. I hit rock bottom, as they say. I wasn’t in a good place, and I crashed. Detonated. Burned.” A heavy exhale escapes. “I went to rehab, got my head straight, and decided to give back a little.” Without realizing it, I’m scrubbing at my hair so hard, I’m giving myself a headache. The nervous habit soothes me, but I’m working into a lather of remorse at the moment.
“Is that why you don’t drink?” The question reminds me of what I said as we watched each other in the mirror at Tommy’s.
“Yeah.”
“How long have you been dry?” Hearing her use the correct terminology surprises me, and I smile slowly, proudly.
“Six years.”
“That’s a good thing.” I hear the pleasure in her voice, a hint of pride, and my chest swells. For some reason, I want this woman to be pleased with me.
“Yeah, it’s a real good thing, baby.” She giggles in response, and I feel lighter, relieved. Somehow, this conversation turned around to me, and as much as I don’t like talking about myself, I don’t mind sharing with her. “Look, I’m working the hotline, which means I’m on call until midnight. Where are you?”
“I’m still sitting in the parking lot. Maybe I overreacted.” She guffaws, a threat of hysteria returning as she rethinks her decision.
“Can you do something for me? I want you to get the hell out of that parking lot. Go home. Eat if you can. Get a glass of wine and fill your tub. Then call me on this number. It’s my cell. I’ll be here for a while, okay?”
She must be nodding because I hear the sound of clothing rustling, like the phone’s perched on her shoulder. “And drive safely.” I laugh after the demand.
“Okay,” she replies weakly.
“Okay, you’ll call me, or okay, you’ll drive safely?”
“I’ll do both,” she says, her voice a touch more confident. We hang up, and suddenly, I’m holding my breath again.
+ + +
The call center is slow and Reggie lets me leave just before midnight. I race home, hoping not to miss the one call I want to answer. When my phone rings, I’m already holding it with anticipation.
“Middy?”
“Hey, Hank.” Her breathy voice tells me she’s been drinking. The subtle slosh of water lets me know she’s in the tub. Suddenly, I realize I didn’t think my request through. She’s naked on the other end of this conversation, and the thought instantly makes me hard.
“You relaxing, little lady?” My voice lowers. This is dangerous territory, but I want her to feel good. I want her to release her worries. She hums through the line. I’m on her speakerphone. “You home alone?” Damn, I want to be there.
“Elston’s working. Ronin’s at a friend’s. Liam’s asleep in his room.” I imagine her mind’s like a calendar, cataloging places, dates, and events.
“Little lady.” I nearly choke as I stretch back, my dick straining in my pants. I’m sprawled out on my bed. “Circle your breast, baby. Cup the weight of it.”
“What?!” Her voice cracks as it rises.
“Do as I say,” I command, finding control in my voice. I need her to listen to me. She needs to listen to me, so I repeat myself. “Touch your breast.”
Water sloshes, and I close my eyes, imagining the heaviness. She’s tiny, but she has serious tits for a little body.
“Pinch your nipple. Squeeze it, baby.” Ah, fuck. Unsnapping the catch at the top of my work pants, the crown of my dick busts the seam with relief. I lower the zipper, moaning into the phone when I hear her breath catch. “Like that, little lady. Do it to the other side, too.”
I imagine the massage, the pressure, the tug. Hmm…I bet she feels good. The heel of my palm rubs along the stiff length edging out of my pants.
“Hank.” She gulps on my name, and I know she’s feeling it, the weightlessness of giving into herself.
“Tickle those fingers down your stomach. Comb through the hair at the top of your legs.” I didn’t see her, but I know she has a strip down there. I remember the prickly feel of it against my palm as I dipped my fingers into her. Fuck, she was so wet for me. “Go lower, baby.”
“Hank, I…”
“Do it,” I encourage. My hand slips into my boxers, encircling the engorged mass and tugging fiercely. What would she feel like all wet and slippery over me? The thought curls my hips, forcing more pressure from my fist. “Can I tell you what I’m doing, lady? I’m thinking of you. Wet. Slippery. Sliding down on me.”
A gasp escapes and water slaps in her tub. I want to be there. I keep my eyes shut, my head in the vision. I’d fill her little body as she straddles me.
“You touching yourself, baby? Touching where you want me?”
A lingering, breathy, “Yes,” reminds me of when we first met, and I’m growing close to exploding. Moisture leaks from my tip, and I use it to lubricate the shaft. I bet she’s fucking tight, being so tiny, and I squeeze my dick harder, imagining her riding me.
“Rub, baby. Feel how good it feels. I’m touching you, little lady. I’m slipping into you. Feel me.”
“Oh, Hank.” She chokes. “My finger…”
“No, my finger, little lady. Slip it inside. Feels so good, baby. So good.” Fuck, I’m almost there. Just another stroke. Another squeeze. My balls tighten.
“Hank, I’m gonna—”
“Come, baby. Come all over me.” She moans through the phone, and I release, making a mess on myself. I throw my head back and let the relief cover my fist. My eyes remain closed. In my head, I imagine her clenching, milking, drawing all my seed into her. I groan. “Aww, Middy.”
She sighs. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
My eyes fling open focusing on the spackled ceiling instead of the sticky mess on my fingers.
“Never?” I choke, unable to believe she hasn’t touched herself before.
“Not like this.” Something fierce fills me. My chest swells as I reach for a t-shirt on the floor by my bed. Damn, she makes me feel good.
“Feel better, then?” I tease, knowing there’s no way an orgasm didn’t distract her for at least a few minutes.
“Good enough I might try it again.” Her sultry voice hints at the wine and the satiation of her first orgasm. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t support her suggestion to perform again?
“I just got off myself, listening to you.”
“You did?” Her surprised tone makes me chuckle.
“Absolutely, so let’s start there.” And I talk her through touching herself one more time.