Ryan Field - Bad Boy Billionaires #2 - The Wall Street Shark
The Wall Street Shark (Bad Boy Billionaires #2)
Ryan Field
erotica/billionaire
Chapter One
"I can't help feeling as if this is my last chance," Evan said. He was sitting opposite Dr. Lorne, a psychiatrist at the Havilland Recovery Cabin in northwestern New Jersey. It was the next to last day of his fourth pass through a twenty-eight day program for sex and alcohol addiction. The sex addiction was questionable; the alcohol was not.
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean by your last chance," said Dr. Lorne. He sat at his desk in the usual position: leaning back in his chair, with his elbow on the blotter, tapping a ballpoint pen against his chin. He showed no emotion or any signs of bias. There were times when Evan felt like kicking him in the leg to see if he was still breathing.
But Evan Littlefield had been through enough sessions like this to know Dr. Lorne wanted to draw out his feelings and emotions without influencing him. This was the first time Evan had ever been this honest in all the times he'd been to rehab. He spoke in a smooth even tone, without much emotion. "I can't keep doing this," Evan said. "It's become a way of life and I'm tired. It has to stick this time. I want to write again, I want to enjoy my kid while he's still a kid, and I want my life back once and for all. And I'm going to get all this, and more, if it kills me this time. Because I'd rather be dead than go back to waking up drunk in the back of some strange guy's pick-up truck, with my head between his legs and an empty bottle of vodka in my hand."
"Do you think you're putting more pressure on yourself this time?" Dr. Lorne asked. Nothing Evan said ever seemed to shock him.
"I love all bars, not just gay bars," Evan said. It was the first time he'd ever admitted this aloud to anyone. "I love bars where there are men drinking and looking for nothing but casual sex. I love that hungry look in their eyes and the way they smell and feel. I love the way they look at me. The first time I ever went into a bar I felt as if I'd gone home again. I'd never felt so comfortable in my life. All the stress and anxiety and problems in the world disappeared within those dark walls. And that was a straight bar. When I started going to gay bars and I realized the power I had over other men there, it felt as if I'd won the lottery and nothing was beyond my reach. Combine that feeling of elation with vodka and you get the most fantastic concoction the universe has ever known. But it gets tired after a while, and soon you begin to block out reality and nothing else matters but getting drunk and pleasing other men. It reaches the point where you can't stop thinking about your next drink. And I just can't do it anymore. I want to know what it's like to walk past a bar and not feel as if I'm going to shatter into a million little pieces. I'm turning thirty years old soon and I know deep down that if I don't get it right this time I might not get another chance."
"Does turning thirty bother you?" Evan shrugged and said, "It's an interesting feeling. It's like saying good-bye to a youth I'm not sure I ever really had. I'll be completely honest with you. What I'd love to do is celebrate turning thirty by taking on thirty rough football players in a locker room with thirty bottles of vodka. But I'm not going to do that anymore. I've been lucky in one respect, and I know it. I didn't always have safe sex and I could be in a very different position right now. How I managed to dodge the HIV bullet I don't know. How I managed to avoid herpes I don't know. But I'm not taking any more chances, and turning thirty is just another fucking number. I'll be spending this birthday with my son and friends."
"Do you feel apprehensive about going back out into the world after what happened?" the doctor asked.
Evan had been through enough therapy sessions to know that Lorne was trying to see if he had post-traumatic stress syndrome because of what he'd experienced right before he'd been admitted to Havilland this last time. "Not at all," he said. "I was so drunk that night I don't even remember what happened to me. I only know what I was told. And you can't be afraid of something you don't remember."
At the end of that final session, Evan thanked Dr. Lorne for everything he'd done and he went back to his room to pack his bags. The Havilland treatment center wasn't really a cabin. It was a large brick mansion on a luxurious estate that had been built in the late 1920s by an industrial tycoon who'd spent fifty years of his life there. When he died, the family donated the five-hundred-acre estate to a group of philanthropists who wanted to start a rehab center for people who suffered from all forms of addiction. Evan had become so familiar with Havilland by then he often felt as if he'd gone on a vacation.
When he finished packing his bags, he climbed into bed and switched off the lights. Though it was only eight o'clock and he'd missed dinner, he wanted to savor this one last night of peace and quiet before he had to return to the real world. This wasn't the first time he'd left Havilland and he always felt apprehensive on the last night. It was the one place other than a bar where he'd always felt safe. The only difference was that nothing at Havilland could harm him or tempt him. If it had been possible, he might have considered spending the rest of his life at Havilland, in his stark white room, with crisp white sheets and simple white Venetian blinds. But he had to return to the real world and pull what was left of his life together, for himself and for his son. But more than that, he wanted to feel as safe in the real world as he did in a bar or at Havilland.
In the morning, Evan climbed out of bed and took a hot shower. It took him longer than usual because he hadn't manscaped in weeks. He hadn't had hair on his legs in so long he'd forgotten what it looked like. He smiled when he saw how bushy his pubic hair had become. Even though he'd never been obsessed with his looks, being smooth all over made him feel cleaner in a way he couldn't explain. He didn't mind body hair on other men. For the most part, he preferred other men to have a little natural body hair.
He'd grown a goatee while he'd been there this time, and he spent a long time in front of the bathroom mirror that morning shaving to get it just right. Though his light brown hair was a little longer than he normally kept it, he styled it forward. Then he added product and messed it up a little so the top would stick up in a way that looked as if he'd been riding with the top down.
This was the first time since he'd entered Havilland that he'd actually looked into the mirror for any length of time. He'd spent the last twenty-eight days there wearing baseball caps and sweatpants. There had been days when he hadn't bothered to shave at all, which is how he wound up with the goatee. Before he left the bathroom, he glanced into the mirror one last time and shrugged. Though he'd been through more in the last ten years than most people he knew, his skin was still clear, he didn't have any wrinkles, and there were no bags beneath his eyes. He didn't look a day over twenty-five. Unfortunately, he felt like ninety.
When he returned to the room, he put on a pair of jeans he'd left on the bed and made a face. He turned toward the mirror and cinched them at the waist to keep them from falling down below the waistband of his underwear. He figured he must have lost at least ten pounds and hadn't even realized it. It was a good thing he'd brought a belt, because he'd lost so much weight he would have had to borrow a safety pin from someone to hold his jeans up. A month earlier, these sagging jeans had been his tight skinny jeans, the low-rise jeans that had hugged his hips and made his butt look bigger than it really was.
The last time he'd worn jeans similar to these he'd met three young guys at a bar in Chelsea. He'd been so drunk that night the most he remembered about them in detail was that they all had dark hair and deep voices. While they kept buying him drinks and talking dirty to him, he flirted and squeezed their muscles. When they told him they wanted to take him someplace and fuck his brains out, he kissed them all and agreed to go after one more drink. When he woke up in a hospital the next day, he had no idea someone had found him unconscious in an alley with his jeans down around his ankles. Evidently, the three young guys had raped him, robbed him, beaten him, and left him between two overflowing trash cans and a broken statue of St. Francis that someone had discarded. The police said he was lucky they hadn't beaten him to death. The doctors said he was lucky he'd only suffered broken ribs and he wouldn't need plastic surgery. His best friend, Michele, said it was time to go back to Havilland.
While he was standing in front of the mirror rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down oxford, one of the aides walked into his room and stared at him for a second. "I wanted to see if you're okay. I know you're leaving today." She was an older woman with salt and pepper hair and a full figure, who always wore those unstructured nurses' uniforms in pastel colors that had themes with little teddy bears or smiley faces. She reminded Evan of a favorite aunt he'd had as a child.
Evan laughed and said, "Get me a pizza so I can fit into these jeans, Mary." He turned sideways and pressed his palm to his sunken stomach. "I can't believe how much weight I lost."
She laughed and patted her round stomach. "Don't complain about that to me if you know what's good for you." Then she hugged him and said, "I'm going off duty now. I just wanted to say goodbye and check in on you one more time. I'm not supposed to get close to the patients, but you're my favorite. You never complain, you say thank you all the time, and you always make me smile."