The microwave dinged from the kitchen. The greatest culinary achievement known to man, the pepperoni Hot Pocket, was ready.
I limped to the kitchen, leaving the cane leaning against the couch. I didn't want to have to use it anymore. Orizaga said I should, that it would help with the healing process, but fuck it. No pain, no gain. Isn't that what we were always told?
He'd prescribed me several thousand medications, as well. Also to help with the 'healing process'. There were nine bottles of unpronounceable chemical blends on my counter top, each one assigned to alleviate pain, swelling, general discomfort, sleep disorders, and blood clots.
I hadn't opened a single one of them. There were too many horror stories about America's number one addiction. Addiction can also be described as dependence, and I would die before allowing myself to become dependent on anything. Plus, I didn't want to be another statistic. And I didn't want to die like Josh.
I opted for Tylenol and medical cannabis. Nightly masturbation also helped. And you don't need a prescription for the latter. I was self medicating, in a way. Ever since I returned from Nassau, I could bring myself to the most satisfying, death defying, lengthy orgasms of my post-pubescent life.
All I had to do was imagine me back on the island, my legs spread wide as they straddled Maddox, his arms tied far above his head. I'd hover my hips just above his thick, throbbing dick, and smile as I licked my fingers. Rubbed them over my nipples, then his. Pinched them. Then mine.
I pictured him moaning, gutturally, his head thrashing side to side, arching his back and pushing his pelvis as far as he could, begging for me to swallow him whole. I would hook my ankles on either side of my mattress as I envisioned this, pinching my nipples and squeezing my breasts. The heat inside my pussy rose to mercury-crushing temperatures, craving, hungry to the point of unbearable. My hand trailed down to my torso, my waist, then lingered against my pubic bone.
Maddox's wide, green eyes locked onto mine. He craned his neck, his lips parting, pleading for me to kiss him. I would grant the desire, devour his mouth, and ease him deep, deep inside me as I flicked my tongue against his.
My hand would caress me, teasing me just enough to keep me on the edge of climax. It was a beautiful, sexual insanity. Epic – as I've heard me called.
I would begin with just a little touch against my clit, then more, and more, picturing Maddox's chiseled chest and shoulders strain until my entire palm was rubbing my sex harder, and harder.
My toes would clench, my own back arched upwards, and I would come with the force of a tidal wave. I throbbed in pleasure, could almost hear him moaning, as I pulsed, and quivered. Until finally, it was over.
I would lie on the mattress, breathing hard and heavy, clenching the sheets with my fists, and as the last of my climax vanished like an ebbing tide, sleep would wash over me. Every night before I drifted off, I smiled. I always thought the multiple-orgasm thing was a myth.
When one gets right down to it, who needed meds when I had memories?
Not this chica.
This sexually awakened chica who was limping around her little one room apartment with a soggy Hot Pocket. Which, when one gets right down to it, had some pathetic elements.
I eased myself into the chair, and looked at my food. Luckily, the gentle effects of my last edible encouraged my appetite. No one in their straight mind could stomach one of these nuclear puffs of tomato sauce and carbohydrates. But they were cheap and easy. And two minutes out of the microwave, still hot as fuck.
I burned the shit out of my mouth, and dropped the god damn thing on the floor. Its replicated cheese product oozed onto the linoleum, little bits of pepperoni coming along with it. The pocket steamed, deflated, and looked genuinely angry with me.
“Well, fuck you, too,” I told it. And realized I was talking to microwaveable food.
I blew a strand of hair away from my face. Sighed.
“I miss the shit head, okay?” I said, even though the pocket had not asked. “I know. It's weird. Stupid. But he's fucking disappeared. Because he's a shit head.”
I pushed myself up from the table and went to get a rag from the sink. I'd stuffed a rag into his mouth at one point, didn't I?
I smirked, ran the water over the cloth, and it dawned on me that the trip from table to sink wasn't as painful as it used to be. I was improving.
But I could be better.
“A lot better,” I said, scooping the remains of the pepperoni concoction onto the plate.
What I needed to do was talk to someone. A real someone. I had quite a lot of options, given my limited choices.
I could call the Lawyer Barn. The cops. Hell, the networks if I wanted.
I dumped my defunct microwaveable into the trash, and settled on the someone to whom I would speak.
It was time to sort this shit out, once and for all.
Chapter Thirty-Two
RAMONA
I sat in the back of a handi-capable ride share – a late model sport utility vehicle that smelled of three different kinds of air fresheners and old French fries.
I thought about how fucking ridiculous it was, all the shit we take for granted.
I wasn't able to drive yet, having re-tweaked my stupid knee in all the wrong places, and I was in the process of maxing out the last of my credit cards on Ubers and Lyfts. If I ever did see Maddox again, I'd tell
