Chapter Four
Trevor
“I don’t care, Darlene.”
“I know, but if you just let us use this property for the party, I promise I’ll stay out of your hair.” She squeezes my waist again, and I push her and Kiki off me. Jesus, these fucking women won’t leave me alone. And they interrupted a possible introduction between my cock and sexy neighbor.
“You can’t use the house. Last time I let you, it got trashed and one of your hooker friends started a fire in the kitchen.”
Her pout drives me fucking mad. That shit used to work on me, when I disappeared for days at work and she claimed she needed a weeklong spa retreat in the Alps to forgive me. Who the fuck knows what she actually did on those trips. Knowing what I know now, I wonder if she’s been muff diving longer than she admitted.
“I promise we’ll behave.”
“I said no. Now, you asked to use the house to lay on the beach. Do it before I kick you out. I have shit to do.” And by shit, I mean figure out why that little firecracker just flipped me off, then figure out a way to get her to sign the contract and move the closing date up.
I push both women off me and walk back inside.
Heading to my room, the call I placed to my overpaid realtor pushes itself to the forefront of my mind. Clara had no luck. I pay her a shit ton not to come back and tell me she couldn’t get the signature. I thought about going back over there and taking her hand and forcing her, but I was too much of a mess to handle it. I knew I should’ve called Dr. Winters and scheduled an appointment, but I wanted to be done with her. I was getting better. I didn’t need her.
This week proved otherwise.
I knew I was starting to relapse when I went to work calculating the probability of seeing her when I left. The ratio of favorable outcomes had me at seventeen. The problem was, I didn’t see her once. I was off, or she was hiding. But why? What was she doing in that shack? The list of those probabilities was so long. Over a hundred possible outcomes. By the time I laid my head down, forcing sleep, I was too far gone to do that. So, I went to the beach—a place I always seem to find solace. I swam, and jogged up and down the shore, hoping to exhaust myself. But the numbers kept forming.
I have no idea why I’m obsessing over this girl. She was in my presence for less than ten minutes and I can’t get her out of my mind. I want that signature. But I want something else with it. I’m a man. Admitting I wanted my dick in her mouth isn’t wrong. It’s honest. I beat off to the thought of her sucking my cock more times than I could count. Literally. But my mind always went back to numbers. The probability of that outcome. Getting her to suck my dick. Fractions among fractions, thinking of all the ways to get that to happen.
I need to shut it down. She isn’t as young as I imagined, but she’s still young. I’m guessing mid-twenties. Half my age. Not that age ever stopped me before. Pussy is pussy. But would she just be pussy to me?
She should be. I’m not in the right state of mind to get involved with anyone. I need to stay focused on the business. But having her watch me fondle my cock still has me at half-mast. I should go over there and force her to finish him off just for teasing me.
I shake my head. Get a grip, asshole. Call Dr. Winters. No. I can handle this on my own. I’ve been stressed before and dealt with it. I’ve been dealing with it my entire life. It wasn’t until Jerald Winslow, a counselor from the shelter I had been visiting, took interest in me that I realized what I was. Or at least confirmed I wasn’t retarded like my mother told me just before she left me on the beach, wanting nothing to do with me.
The center footed the bill for the testing. When the results came back stating I was a genius, everyone including me was shocked. A child prodigy they said. My level of output was that of an expert. I didn’t know how or why I was able to do the things I did, but when numbers were involved, my brain just solved them. My memory was sharp. Algorithms, calculating speed, fractions built into fractions. It all came naturally to me. They said I was rare. I thought I was a freak. I didn’t want this talent. I wanted to scrape the remnants of my visual vortex so the numbers would stop.
In the passing years of my young life, Jerald guided me. He helped me manage the stress of my mind. Taught me how to keep it at bay. And when it was time, he enrolled me in Harvard. I took the tests, stood in front of the university board, and got a scholarship.
Jerald Winslow saved my life. And I was forever indebted to him. He took me off the streets and made me feel more like a human than a freak. He gave me a home, even though I preferred the openness of the beach. The sand. He guided me where my own mother banished me. He saw me as a gift where my own mother saw me as a mutant.
Before I even bought myself a new pair of shoes, I paid Jerald back for all the money he spent on me. For all the testing. I donated enough money to the shelter, the entire town could live there without fear of starving. I never had a father figure, but he was that to me. When he died, I relapsed. We were in our second year with Four Fathers and life was great. I was married and just had a son. When the shelter notified me there was an altercation with a homeless man and Jerald was shot, I about lost it.
I wanted revenge. I didn’t care if I got killed or went to jail. I would have been in both those predicaments if Jerald hadn’t saved me. It was my turn to find justice for him. But Eric set me straight. He got me into a clinic under watch until I was able to clear my head. That’s when I met Dr. Winters. She taught me how to control my panic attacks. How to manipulate my mind when the numbers started to take control. And it helped. For the most part. Until recently.
I shove the memories to the back of my mind, walk into the master bathroom, and turn on the shower. Before I try to sway my little neighbor, I need a cold shower and a rough jack-off.
I’m coming up from the shore after a seven-mile run. My muscles are on fire. My skin feels tight from all the sand spitting up while I trekked along the coast. Walking up to the outdoor shower under the deck, I kick off my running shoes and step out of my running shorts. I turn the nozzle and don’t bother waiting for the water to heat up. The coolness of the spray feels refreshing on my sweaty skin.
I grab for the bar of soap and begin lathering up my chest when I hear her. Well…hear mumbling. I turn to see her walking down the worn steps of her deck and get a burst of annoyance over the fact that she’s even using the back stairway. The house is old as fuck and those steps are unsafe. With twelve steps, there’s a probability of her being able to use them ninety-two more times before one breaking. The number of steps that can give out at the same time are—
“You shouldn’t use those stairs,” I yell, startling her. She wobbles, grabbing for the banister, giving me another scare. The thing looks ready to fall off.
“Jesus, Numbers, you scared the piss outta me,” she yelps, glaring at me like she wants to rip my head off. And I don’t care, so long as she gets down those bunk stairs. That’s when she starts bouncing on each step.
“Don’t fucking do that. Those aren’t safe,” I snap back.
“Don’t do what, this?” She jumps again, slamming her feet back down on another step. My anger spikes. Is she out of her fucking mind? Can’t she see the stairs wobbling under her? She repeats the same gesture to the next two steps, giving me palpitations. The reoccurring effect has her falling through in less than seven more jumps. I glance over, noticing she’s only using one hand to hold onto the railing and has a bottle in her other.