Uncensored (The Manhattanites Book 7) Page 3

  Laird chimes in and adds that he misses marijuana. Some therapy programs allow for smoking pot, especially if you’re coming off booze, but not this one. Bottom line: drugs are drugs, and we’re all clean.

  As we each share our stories, I occasionally look over at Rod, who seems withdrawn and quiet. He is by far the hottest man I’ve ever met. I can still taste him on my lips. The mere thought of him between my legs eating me out like that causes me to quiver.

  “You okay?” Piper asks me as I shake.

  “Yes, just a draft.” I rub my shoulders, playing it off as the rest stare at me in confusion. It’s nearly eighty degrees outside.

  “Rod, would you like to tell the group something about yourself?” Piper asks.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Come on, man, we’ve all shared,” Laird, who sits next to him, nudges.

  “I’m good,” Rod defends.

  Pressing my shoulders into the back of the chair, I cross my legs and bite down on my lower lip. I study Rod’s handsome face. He’s angry, frustrated. He clearly doesn’t think he belongs here. But he does. We all do.

  “Part of living on this farm is sharing your past and present with the group, so you can move on,” Piper reminds him.

  “Fine. You want me to be honest?”

  She nods.

  “A while back, a tabloid ran an article on me and my use of steroids while playing tennis. It cost me my son, career, money, the love I had for tennis. All gone.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. Rather than make eye contact with him, I stare at the floor. I want to give him some space to finish his thoughts.

  “I remember the article, Rod,” Piper says. “That isn’t what ruined your life.”

  “Excuse me?” Sitting tall in his chair, he rounds his shoulders, glaring at her.

  “Who ruined your life? The article? Or you?”

  “No one would’ve known had it not been for that article.”

  He shrugs. “I’m done talking for today.”

  As we huddle at the doorway, saying our good-byes and thanking Piper for coming, I ask Rod, “What magazine was it that did the story on you?”

  Pissed off and sexy as fuck, he shoots daggers at me. “Debauchery.”

  Unable to move my legs, I stand there frozen. I don’t know what to say. To be honest, I don’t remember the article at all. Like zilch.

  As he storms off through the yard toward the house, I reach in my purse and pull out my cell to call Bari Robard. Now working as an adult film star—soft porn, nothing hardcore—she was my editorial assistant back when Rod claims the magazine ran an article on him.

  “Hey, stranger!” Bari answers after the first ring.

  “Quick question for you. Did we ever run an article on a tennis player by the name of Roddick Beckstrong.”

  “The Grunt?”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what they call him. The Grunt. Because he grunts loudly every time he hits the ball across the court.”

  “So you know him?”

  “Not personally, but yeah, we did a huge exposé on him. Poor bastard.”

  “By any chance, do you have a copy of that article?”

  “Sure, darling. I saved all my stories from Debauchery. I’m really proud of them, especially that one.”

  “Why that one?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “No, not really. I don’t remember much of my life last year, or the year before that. Or the year after that, for that matter.”

  “That was the article that got your subscription rate up to a million over People magazine’s.”

  “Oh, now I remember. You used a private investigator for the story, right?”

  “Yup. And that was the last piece I ghost wrote under your name. From then on you allowed me to use my own byline.” She pauses and then asks, “Why?”

  “Guess who’s living in my halfway house.”

  “The Grunt.”

  “Yup.”

  “No waaay. Get the fuck outta here.”

  “He’s gonna kill me. I just know it.”

  “I would kill you too.”

  “Bari!”

  “Well, we destroyed his career.”

  “Can you e-mail me a PDF of the article? I’d like to read it.”

  “Sure. I’m on location right now, but when I get home tonight I will.”

  “What movie are you shooting this week?”

  “It’s called Bedtime Stories.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Not really. The male lead is that guy from The Bachelor. You know, the blond. I’m not that into him.”

  “Isn’t that why they call it acting?”

  She laughs. “Okay, I gotta get back to work. I’m glad you’re doing well. I’ll get you that article. And for what it’s worth, I’m not sorry we wrote that piece on him. It changed the way the tennis games are run today and exposed doping for what it truly was to the sport.”

  “Doping?”

  “You know… steroids.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  “Bye, doll face.”

  “Later.” I slide my phone back in my purse and stare at the house. The last time I went in there, he ate me out to the point of total euphoria. Something tells me this time, that won’t be the case.

  You Say Tomato, I Say Tomorrow

  Rod

  After group therapy, I change into sweats and go for a run around the farm’s southern perimeter with the intent of trying to keep myself in check, tuning out the sounds of chickens clucking, their feet scratching the ground, horses snorting, and the workers calling to one another as they leave the fields, wrapping up their day of hard work.

  Moments ago, I came close to losing my shit on that therapist. How dare Piper patronize me with those questions about my situation being my fault and not that damn magazine’s?

  Picking up speed, I run faster over the crumbling soil, looking out at the leafy cabbage lining one of the smaller gardens.

  Of course it’s my fault, but Debauchery sure as shit made it worse. Much worse.

  Damn that publisher.

  I’ve never met anyone like Viveca Farnworth before. Her reputation of being a ruthless bitch certainly doesn’t match up with this dumb blonde routine she’s playing with me.

  Maybe that’s her shtick. You know, like that vegan-loving actress in the movie Clueless. However, something tells me that’s not the case.

  Vive carries herself like she has a good head on her shoulders. Could someone really be that drunk that they can’t remember the hurt they’ve caused others?

  Perhaps.

  I certainly had moments of rage while doping, moments that I look back on with such regret. Regardless, I did the twelve steps. I’ve looked back on my wrongdoings and wrote letters to those I’ve hurt, asking for their forgiveness. Why can’t Vive just acknowledge what she did and apologize to me?

  As I came up around the bend, the middle point in the land where the acre splits down a hill while the other side is flat with rich green grass, I notice her, smoking.

  The sun starts to set behind Vive, creating a warm glow with hues of sunburst pink and yellow, almost angel-like around her face and long blonde hair.

  “I read the article,” she blurts out between puffs in my direction, causing me to slow down.

  “What?” I stop and tie my left shoe tighter than before.

  “Just a moment ago. My former assistant e-mailed it to my phone.”

  I peel off my T-shirt and wipe my face. Her crystal blue eyes are set wide as she looks me over seductively. Raising my hand to signal that I need a minute to catch my breath, I inhale deeply, smelling the ripening sweetness of the fruit in the fields, the fresh hay from the barn, and the earth, warm from the sun, thinking how to handle this situation.

  Be a gentleman.

  She motions to a bench under an oak tree and we sit next to one another in silence, watching as a wild rabbit with long floppy brown ears hops by us.

 
Is the bunny a sign for peace? I hope so….

  “Vive, you act like you haven’t a clue in the world, like you don’t realize what that article did to me. How can that be?” Throwing my T-shirt over my shoulder, I cross my arms and press my back into the bench. The rough wood grazes my sweaty skin.

  “This is my fourth time trying to get sober. About six months ago, I was desperate to kick the craving of booze and pills. My besties, my family, my business, all of it was on the line if I didn’t dry out, but I just couldn’t stop obsessing over the wonderful feelings I had when I was high. So… I underwent a series of ECT treatments.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Electroconvulsive therapy.”

  “Come again.” My mouth hangs open.

  “Shock therapy. It’s rare and uncommon, but effective with addiction, and also things like bipolar disorder and depression.”

  “Are you… bipolar?” I ask without thinking, then realize it’s really none of my business.

  “When you’re taking pills like oxy, you display signs of bipolar behavior, such as the manic episodes and stuff. But no, I’m not.” She rubs her palms over the tops of her shorts.

  Clearly she’s nervous. I can’t imagine admitting that to anyone. I reach for her hand and hold it in mine before asking, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t have any excuses for Debauchery, other than it lives up to its title. All I can offer you is an apology. A sincere one. I am truly sorry, Rod. I’m not passing the blame onto my staff, but I didn’t write that particular article.”

  “Huh? Who did?”

  “My assistant at the time. I put my name on it. And of course I paid for the private investigator. In fact, he was on retainer. Debauchery used him many times to break many stories.”

  “How can you put your name on something and claim it as your own when it’s not?” Annoyed, I let go of her hand and cross my arms over my chest. Shaking my head, I inhale sharply. The smell of manure causes me to pinch my nostrils and switch to breathing out of my mouth.

  “When you’re the publisher and editor in chief at a small magazine like Debauchery, you wear many hats, and often outsource things like writing and photography.”

  “Your magazine isn’t a one-man band?”

  “Not anymore. Stories like yours took us up a notch to compete with publications like People and US Weekly, that much I do remember.”

  Speechless, I can’t let it go. I glare at her for a second. “How can you sit here and not take ownership of this shit, Vive? Your lack of empathy is upsetting.”

  “Empathy?” Her pretty face scrunches in confusion. “Listen, most days from that year were spent trashed. My bestie Lex had met her fiancé. My other bestie Taddy had fallen madly in love with this guy named Warner. And even my gay friend Blake was married at the time. Though now he’s divorced from that guy and remarried to the love of his life.” Shaking her head, she laughs.

  “You sure do have a lot of friends.”

  “I’m blessed that way. I might not have a hubby or children, but I have my friends, and in many ways they’re like my family.” Sitting tall, she turns her body into mine. “Can you ever forgive me? I’ll do anything to make it right by you.” Her eyes fill with tears as I think of a response. “I’ve spent the last few months trying to do good by everyone I’ve harmed—my parents, my brother, my friends. Looking back, I didn’t realize all the people I’ve wronged with my magazine. Obviously there are more victims out there like you.”

  “Can you remember who else you’ve smeared over the years?”

  “Not entirely. But off the top of my head I’d say Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton. The list goes on and on.”

  “Who’s running your magazine while you’re gone?”

  “I have a staff. My friend Poppy White—you know, the talk show host—really wants to buy the publication from me. Or should I say her parent company does.”

  “Do you think you could get Debauchery to print a retraction?”

  “No. We only do retractions when we’re wrong or print an untruth. You did dope at those games, didn’t you?”

  Hearing the word ‘dope’ still sends a chill up my spine. I nod while gritting my teeth. “What about a follow-up story? One that shows me sober?”

  “Redemption stories always sell well. Readers love a comeback. We can certainly talk about it as we get closer to leaving this place. How long do you think you’ll stay at Shull Farms?”

  “One to six months, I guess.” I shuffle my feet under the bench. “That’s the norm, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you miss the city?” I ask, clearing my throat.

  “Terribly.”

  “What do you miss about it?”

  “I miss the fun with my friends. Seeing powerful handsome men in expensive suits walk down the street with someplace important to go. Lunches on the Upper East Side that last so long they turn into dinners. Shopping at Bergdorf’s. Traffic sounds. The smell of curry in the East Village. Construction workers whistling at me as I walk by. The chiming noise the subway doors make when they close. I miss it all. Especially the hot sex.”

  My chin dips in her direction, my heartbeat accelerating as I repeat, “Hot sex?”

  “Yeah. Toe-curling, orgasm-inducing, panty-wetting, nail-biting, cock-into-the-vijayjay s-e-x.”

  Breaking out into a deep laugh, I shake my head. Vive is outspoken and ballsy, yet there’s a tender side to her too. Maybe that’s from the therapy, I don’t know, but I like it. I like it a lot.

  “Couldn’t you tell when you were eating me out that it’s been a while?”

  “How long has it been?”

  She glances down at a slim diamond-encrusted watch wrapped around her left wrist. “Three hundred forty-eight days, and twelve hours.”

  “You’re almost a reborn virgin.”

  “I know, right.” Small faint laugh lines appear around the corners of her eyes for just a split second before fading against her porcelain complexion. “Plus, I’ve gained all this weight. I just haven’t felt sexy since getting sober. They say weight gain is normal, but I’m not comfortable with it.”

  “I love your curves.” I admit without any hesitation. I like a woman who’s full-figured. Always have, always will. “Did you feel sexy earlier… you know, when we were together?”

  “Very.” She pauses for a second, as if pondering something. “There were photos of your ex-wife in that article we did on you. She seems pretty thin.”

  “She’s anorexic and probably does—or at least did—more drugs than you and I combined.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “She’s unhealthy. It is what it is. I just wish I had custody, at least part-time, of my son. That’s one of the reasons why I came here to get sober. The judge says I can file for visitation once I leave here.”

  “That’s wonderful, Rod. I’ll do everything in my power with your follow-up article to help you get your parental rights reinstated.”

  “Thanks. It means a lot to me.”

  She stands to her feet. “It’s getting dark. We better get back to the house.”

  “What? You afraid Freddy or Jason is going to come out from the tomato fields and chop your head off?”

  “Hey, I read Children of the Corn. That book scared all the farmer fantasies I ever had out of me. You’ll never seem me traipsing through these fields in the dark, that’s for sure.”

  “Do you always read scary books?”

  “Yeah, especially when I would binge drink or go on a bender. The best cure for a hangover is a horror novel, a cold beer, and a bag of penny candy. The adrenaline rush it would give me was enough to sober anyone up. The scare factor is fun.” She puts her hands on her hips.

  “How about now that you’ve dried out?” I stand and take a step closer to her, enjoying her fresh linen scent.

  “Nah.”

  “What do you like to read now?”

  “Romantic comedies mostly.”


  “That sounds nice.” My lips widening into a smile, I pull her to me. Her beautiful full breasts press against my chest as I stare at her heart-shaped face. “This feels nice too.”

  “Ah-huh—”

  Without letting her finish, I lock my lips onto hers and we kiss as darkness sets in around us. Cock hard, eyes dilated, every little hair on my body stands to attention. This woman turns me on.

  “Let’s finish what we started earlier.”

  She heads for the house, and I’m right behind her.

  Freaky-Deaky

  Vive

  I open the door to the small farmhouse. Expecting to see my sci-fi roomie Suzanne, surfer Laird, or mob princess Juno, I’m shocked. There’s no one here.

  Hmmm. “Where do you think everyone is?” I shout, opening the door to the fourth and final bedroom upstairs. Hedda follows me as best she can. I pick her up and give her a kiss before placing her on an Oriental rug in the hallway. Its rustic colors blend nicely with Hedda’s brown fur.

  “Probably dinner in the main house,” Rod replies from downstairs in a loud husky voice, which excites me to think we’ll be alone, at least for a while. “Gonna take a quick shower.”

  “Okay.” I check the mirror in the hall. Pinch my cheeks. Lick my lips. Give a pouty face. Toss my hair and adjust my cleavage so it’ll appear fuller than usual. I admit, I may not like my big butt right now, or the fact that none of my jeans will zip up to my waist anymore, or the fact that I have to wear stretchy shorts this summer, but I’m loving my larger-than-life girls. My breasts are centerfold-worthy. All real, no implants.

  For years I’ve been flat-chested, especially when compared to Taddy who did Playboy while we were in college, and Lex who’s also had that J. Lo booty. After all, it’s Lex who invented shapewear largely because she couldn’t find anything that would fit her busty frame.

  My cell phone chimes and the screen lights up: Poppy White.

  Ughhh. My #1 frenemy.

  “Hey, hooker!” I answer, part jokingly, part annoyed. Poppy’s been under my skin since we were nineteen years old.