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Dissent (Scars #2)
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I lost my virginity when I was twenty-five years old
That was, until I met Darcy Monroe, and
Six years after escaping his cloistered, abusive, fundamentally religious upbringing, ISAIAH finds himself still dealing with the demons of his past, detached from society as a whole, and wholly unable to connect with, or trust, women. He engages in constant, meaningless sport sex with women, trying to numb the feeling of inadequacy inside.
Then he sets his sights on his new neighbor…
DARCY is strong, capable, outspoken, and in no way going to put up with some random jackass next door who decides to make a game of trying to get her into bed.
But Isaiah is relentless. And Darcy finds herself torn between not letting him win, and giving into her own desire.
Just as they start to get close, they realize that something more sinister is afoot and they will both be forced to confront feelings of betrayal that will set their lives in an unexpected direction
** This book is NOT “Safety Gang” safe. Triggers for childhood abuse, OW, stalking, attempted rape (not by H). Isaiah is a deeply flawed character and can be hard to love as he tries to overcome his abusive upbringing. He has many missteps along the way. This is not a book for everyone. **
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I lost my virginity when I was twenty-five to a hooker my sister hired because she felt bad for me. I hadn’t known who she was or what she did for a living until a year later when I got a birthday card in the mail from my sister, Fiona.
Happy Birthday, Isaiah-
I hope your day is full of strippers, booze, and bad decisions. If it’s not- you’re doing it wrong.
Also, remember “Mary”? Well, her real name is Candy and she’s less of a… teacher and more of a… prostitute. I knew that with all that fucked up shit our father put into your head, that there was no way a woman would come within five feet of you until you got a little more exposure to the real world.
I hope enough time has passed that this is funny.
If not… whoops.
I’d like to say I wasn’t pissed, but I was. Even though it was exactly the kind of thing Fee would do. Fee, who spent her time after escaping our shack in the woods making a living as a phone sex operator. And I had been pestering the shit out of her for months about women, dating, sex… all the normal things most guys get to know from actual experience with actual women.
I was never given that opportunity.
But the reality was- when I was trying to figure out the whole life thing, I always flashed back to the time spent with Mary as an example of one thing I had done right. One experience that had gone over well. One connection with another human being that hadn’t felt forced and awkward.
When it turned out that had been a lie that had been sought and paid for by my sister who seemed so much better at acclimating to life after… well… after everything, I had felt the preciously small piece of solid ground I stood on crumbling beneath my feet.
And I didn’t exactly handle it well…
“So how have you been this week?” she asked, crossing her legs and settling her notebook on her thigh.
I hated her office. Everything was neutral: tan walls, dark woods, plush green plants, nondescript clothbound hardcover books on the shelves. Comforting. Safe. A place you can let yourself be who you truly are. That’s what I was supposed to be doing there. Every Tuesday. From three until three forty-five in the afternoon. I paid this woman close to three-hundred dollars an hour to ask me questions and try to get to the root of why I am the way I am.
Two years and she still hadn’t even scratched the surface. But I promised my sister when she moved away that I would seek out someone to talk to.
“Busy,” I said, shrugging.
“Busy with social engagements?” she asked, sounding eager, but the tension around her eyes suggested that she knew the truth.
“Have you gone out at all since the last time you were here?”
“Yes,” I said, glancing at the clock.
“Where did you go?”
“To a bar,” I said, looking back at her.
“Did you meet anyone?”
“Yep,” I nodded, sitting up and leaning my elbows on my knees. “Look, Dr. Todd,” I said, smiling slightly, “it’s the same story every week. I go out to a bar or club or art exhibit. I find a woman. I take her home. I find new and inventive ways to fuck her brains out. I make her leave before morning. Do we really need to go over it every week? What are you hoping to hear?”
“I’m hoping to hear that you are taking this therapy seriously. I am hoping you will follow my advice…”
“To stop having one night stands,” I cut her off.
“To stop keeping people, especially women, at such a distance.” She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward like me. “I want you to start telling me why…”
“Fine,” I said, sighing. I held up my hand, palm out at her. There in the center from the bottom of my ring finger to my wrist was an old, but raised and pink, scar of a cross. “This,” I said, looking at her, “is what happened to me when I started puberty and my father thought I was succumbing to the sins of the flesh.” I curled my hand back up, putting it on the couch next to me. Her face looked suitably distressed at the new information. She liked the bits and pieces. She enjoyed learning of them slowly and trying to stitch the damage together and figure out how I came to be how I am. “He wasn’t wrong,” I said, smiling devilishly at her.
“Wrong about what?”
“About my grabbing my cock whenever I got a moment alone,” I said, trying to hold back a smile at her flinch.
Dr. Todd is an attractive woman in her early forties with the body of someone half her age, brown hair, and dark eyes. She wears business casual clothes that are snug around the hips and short of either skirt or bodice. But never too much. Never crossing the line.