My Remedy (Open Door Love Story Book 3)

My Remedy

By

Stacey Wallace Benefiel

Title Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

About the Author

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I
want a guy who can pick me up and hold me against the wall when he kisses me. Preferably in the rain. This is probably because I’ve read too many Nicholas Sparks novels or seen too many movies based on Nicholas Sparks novels. Or maybe because the only boy I ever thought might actually like me for me – not because I was letting him kiss me and fondle me and generally take advantage of me in a drunken state – picked me up and held me against the side door of his garage. He turned out to be a using a-hole like the rest, but still ... garage boy set a precedent. I’m big on precedents. And first impressions. And holding grudges. And wishing for white knights in shining armor to take me to my happily ever after. Even if I know it’s all a crock of shit.

This guy I’m talking to tonight in this sort of divey sports bar, in the new town that I’m living in, has pick-me-up-and-hold-me potential. The bar, Ringo’s, is next door to a CrossFit gym, so when I drove by and realized that a gym in close proximity to a bar could be a good thing, I subsequently made a U-ey and pulled into the parking lot. I was hoping I’d find some ripped hottie coming in for a cold one after flipping a big ass tractor tire or doing 500 push-ups or whatever it is CrossFitters do. All I know from my tumblr and Instagram and Facebook and Snapchat is that those dudes lift crazy amounts of weight and drink craft beer. CrossHipsters is more like it...

What was I saying? My mind is a little scattered. I’m in a bar, and I’m chatting up this guy, and he’s not as cute as I want him to be, but I’m trying to stay sober and it’s taking everything in my power to keep up this ruse that I’m drunk and not actually get drunk.

On the day I left Boise, at the airport standing in the line to go through security, I promised my dad no more futile trips to rehab. Later that day, I promised my aunt and uncle who are letting me crash at their house that I would try to stop being such a drunk, slutty piece of shit. (I may have used other words with them – maybe not – I can’t remember. I was a teensy bit tipsy when we talked. Thank you, cute male flight attendant!) Three hours ago, when I realized I’d made it two weeks without taking a drink and it wasn’t the first thing I’d thought of this morning, I promised myself that I was going to get some tonight, take no prisoners, no holds barred, because I deserved it.

I look at this guy’s mouth. It’s moving. He’s regaling me with some great story about how he made this killer paella or something. He wants me to know he’s awesome because he cooks and he likes to eat things besides hamburgers. I get that this is his A game. Whatever. I want to know what his hands feel like cupping my ass and digging his fingertips into my flesh. I want something visceral to happen. I do not want to hear about paella.

“When’s the last time you got laid, buddy?” I say, interrupting him.

The sly smile on his mouth tells me he doesn’t mind.

“A week ... or so,” he lies. He licks his lips. I’ve got him hooked. I’m not going to have to hear anymore about Spanish cuisine.

I slide off of the scuffed up wooden bar stool, letting the back of my already short skirt get caught on the edge, pushing the fabric up until I’ve got him staring down at the spot where my thighs meet. He licks his lips again. I hold my hand out to him and he takes it, but just the very ends of my fingers. Like he’s unsure about touching me. Like he enjoys it that I’m forward, but he also knows what my being forward means. Like he’s not supposed to care that I definitely get more dick than he gets pussy, but it’s hurting his ego a little already. I push my hand further into his and grasp his fingers tight. I lean in, brushing my breasts against his biceps.

“I’m going to need you to break your losing streak, with me, right now.”

“My car...” he stutters.

“No time to walk all. The way. Out there.” I find guys think it’s sexy when I break my sentences up like I am so horny I can’t even speak clearly.

I’m right.

He drags me toward the back of the bar. We go down a hallway, past the bathrooms around the corner to a dead end and a door that says Employees Only.

It’s quieter back here, but also brighter than in the main area. I finally get a clear look at him and wish I had my beer goggles on. His hair is dirty blond and plastered to his head with too much gel. He’s got a row of tiny pimples all along his hairline and his nose is a sharp point, crooked, and veering to the left.

I focus on his mouth. His mouth is still nice. And his hands are large and his biceps are strong enough to lift me.

That’s the whole point of this encounter, I tell myself. I sought this out and I’m going to get what I want.

I step in his direction and he slides his arms around my waist at the same time I slide mine around his neck. He mashes his chapped (damn) lips into mine and instantly gets super tonguey on me. I take it. I work with it. Maybe it’s always like this with all of the guys and I’m too drunk to notice? I crave a beer. A cold, fizzy, stinky beer to take the edge off of this itch that I unfortunately need to scratch.

I could have chosen better. I could have gone to a classier bar, but they usually card and places like this don’t. One condition of living with my aunt and uncle is I had to give up all of my fake ID’s and I did it in a fit of redemptive hope.

My body makes a deal with me and helps me out. I get wet so I stop thinking about the beer and start thinking more about this guy and his grabby hands.

He moves them to my ass and takes hold. He pulls me to him and starts to bend his knees, get his bearing. He’s going to lift me up.

But then he turns me and presses me into the door.

I don’t like it. I close my eyes.

“Can I fuck you against the door?” he asks.

What a gentleman. “Will you pick me up and kiss me hard against it first?” I ask, because I’m sober and forget that I’m not just thinking what I want but actually asking for it.

“Uh, sure,” he says. He turns me back around and goes for it, digging his fingernails into my flesh, and hoists me up. I wrap my legs around him, getting a little of the release I want. He jams his tongue into my mouth with great enthusiasm and I play-act like I love it in the hopes of convincing myself that I do. I rub my crotch up and down on his enormous belt buckle, (Yuck, if I wanted that I would’ve stayed in Idaho) and he goes wild.

“Oh, yeah, you fuckin’ want some of this cock, don’t you, babe?”

Uh, sure. Whatevs. “Yes, give it to me.”

He shoulders me into the door for leverage and moves one hand around to the front of us, unzipping his jeans and then gruffly moving the crotch of my underwear to the side. After futzing around for what feels like an eternity, he finally gets his dick in me. He’s gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes closed by the second thrust.

Damn. Party over.

“Oh, my god, I’m gonna...” he starts and I barely have time to roll my eyes.

Except, instead of this being the most humiliating moment of my day – talking myself into letting some pimply loser fuck me and calling it getting lucky – said loser and I fall backward through the door into an office. I get the wind knocked out of me at the exact moment loser boy cums all over the bunched up front of my skirt.

And to make matters even worse, before I can even inhale a full breath, I’m suddenly being pulled to my feet by another guy. He’s clean cut, wearing a royal blue polo shirt tucked into his dark jeans, and the impression I get is he’s so embarrassed for me he wants to die.

“Um,” he says and looks away.

“Um,” I say and pull my skirt down.

“Fuck yeah!” says loser boy as he tucks his limp dick back into his grungy boxer shorts and zips up his pants.

When he begins to buckle the monstrosity around his waist, I snap out of my shock. “Oh my god!” I say, taking off. I have got to get away from ... all of this. I’m down the hallway quickly, thankful my long legs cover the distance in ten strides. Then I’m rounding the corner, avoiding all of the people looking at me – I know they’re wondering what happened to make my face so red, wondering what in the hell I have all over the front of my skirt,
I mean, it surely can’t be that, can it?

I keep my eyes focused on the shabby gray carpet in front of me and hustle. The juke box is playing some CD from the ’90s and a lady in the partitioned off video poker area is singing along at the top of her lungs about
Joey, Baaaaaaby,
and then I’m at my stool and thankfully my purse is still there hanging on the hook underneath the bar. I grab for it, but it gets hung up on the chair, so I start laughing nervously. I finally get it unhooked and I yank the zipper open, search around for a five to pay for the Sprites and maraschino cherries I’ve been downing all night. Giving up, I toss a bunch of ones onto the bar mat. I’m outta here! I take the side door, because the front door has a bell and I don’t need to draw any more attention to myself.

But, of course, this is the kind of place where the bartenders say hi and bye to every customer. “Have a good one!” The clueless bartender shouts after me.

I don’t look at him, but give a backhand wave as I push through the door.

I hear the same bartender say, “I know Ricky did!” and break into laughter.

Okay, so he isn’t clueless. I can’t ever come back to this bar again, that’s for sure. It’s for the best. Too bad it’s so close to my aunt and uncle’s house. It doesn’t matter. I’m positive Beaverton has other crappy bars to go to. And this is Oregon. Even the crappy bars have good beer.
You don’t drink anymore! Get that into your head, Izzy! You cannot drink again. Not one drop. Think about why you do these things to yourself. Why are you embarrassing yourself again? Why can’t you just be normal? Why are you talking to yourself in third person?
Damn it!

I jam the key into the lock of the beat up old Toyota pickup my uncle is letting me “borrow” while I’m living with him and whip open the door.

“Hey! Hey! Wait up!” some guy shouts at me.

I ignore him and get in the truck. Like I’m going to give loser boy my number? What, he thinks that lame lay was the beginning of a love story? Yeah,
that
was pretty much the most romantic experience of my life. Although, the real truth is it wasn’t the worst. How saaaaaad and tragic for me.

Key in ignition, and I’m backing out of my parking space.

Someone comes up next to me, knocking on the window, freaking me the fuck out. My first reaction is to slam my foot on the brakes. I turn and glare at loser boy.

But it’s not him. It’s the clean cut manager type guy who opened the office door. My demeanor goes from haughty anger to mortified.

God, if he thinks he can hold this over my head, or can somehow use this to get a blowjob out of me ... he’s got another think coming. The anger returns.

I wrench the door handle and kick the door open with my foot. He backs up a single large step.

“What the fuck?” I ask, staring him down.

“You shouldn’t be driving,” he states firmly. “I will call you a cab.”

“Yeah, thanks man,” I say, snorting in disgust, only not at him, but he doesn’t have to know that. “I’m not drunk. I’ve been drinking pop all night.”

His dark eyes grow wide and then he cocks his head at me, skeptical. “That’s what Doug the bartender said, but I figured there was no way you were sober if you were...” He realizes he’s about to slut shame me and abruptly stops speaking. Props.

I shake my head, though, unable to keep myself from engaging. “What? There’s no way I’d fuck some random in the back of a bar if I was clear-headed enough to know what I was doing?” I say it like a challenge, but it sounds as bad in my ears as it must in his.