What kind of messed-up egotistical shit is that?

But my instinct was obviously spot-on. My unusual and notably impulsive revelation worked. I see the change on her face, in her eyes the instant my words penetrate the wall she was erecting.

Her grin is small, but open and sympathetic. “Really?”

I give her an exaggerated sigh. “Really. See why I go by ‘Jet’?”

Her smile widens, bringing out a dimple at one corner of her mouth. My first thought is that I’d like to lick it. My second is to wonder what she’d do if I did. Slap me? Cuss me out? Kiss me? Take me outside and beg me to get between those long legs? With a walking, talking contradiction like this woman, it’s hard to say, but I’m very anxious to find out.

FIVE: Violet

For a few seconds, my heart feels light. I’m not thinking of serious things or concentrating on being responsible. For a few seconds, I’m not feeling defensive or calculating ways I can avoid being sucked into some destructive habit. No, for just a few seconds, I feel happy and worry-free. Playful. Impulsive. More like the friends and family I’ve been surrounded by all my life, the ones who never consider consequences or stress about tomorrow.

But that’s not me. It never has been. I’m not that girl—one that would hang around a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting for any length of time to talk to anybody. I’ve never found someone that interesting. Or found myself this interested. And yet, here I am, thinking I’d like nothing more than to stand here and talk to this handsome stranger who suddenly seems to be more than meets the eye.

With the DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! alerts going off like crazy in my head, I remind myself that this is the kind of thing that could get a girl into trouble. I’ve seen it far too many times.

It takes great effort to tear my eyes away from his, but I do it. I expect to feel instantly clearheaded and more like myself, but I don’t. I can still see the piercing blue as if I were still staring into it.

Not willing to risk looking up again, I keep my head down, making a big production out of digging through my purse for my keys.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Jet.” I glance up only long enough to move past him. “Enjoy your night.”

The nip of the night air cools my heated cheeks when I plunge myself out into the dark. As much as I want to leave that meeting, and the deception and the humiliation of it behind, it’s hard for me not to look back. I know Jet is standing in the doorway watching me. Not only can I hear the sounds from inside and smell the aroma of the coffee, I can feel his eyes on me, warm against the cool air.

I’m smart enough to know that’s not a good sign.

* * *

“Where were you?” I ask Tia when she finally answers her phone.

“What?”

“Where were you tonight?”

Her reply is quick and unconcerned. “With Dennis, like I was supposed to be. Like I still am. Where were you?”

“Ti-a! Seriously?”

“Seriously, what? What’s your damage?”

“My damage is that I just had to get up in front of a group of people and claim to be a sex addict because I went as moral support for somebody who didn’t even bother to show up!”

“Oh shit! Was that tonight?”

“Yes, Tia. It was tonight. I told you this morning that it was tonight. I told you yesterday at lunch that it was tonight. Did I need to scribble it on a Post-it note and stick it to your forehead?”

“Vi, I’m so sorry! I swear I didn’t space on purpose. You know my memory sucks.”

“I know. That’s why I reminded you. Twice.”

“You know I’m not very organized either.” I can hear the pout in her voice.

I sigh. She’s right. I know all these things about her, and I should’ve expected this. It’s typical of Tia, and I’m sure it’s one of the reasons I’m so drawn to her. She’s kind of a mess, which is my specialty, something I learned early in life. Besides that, she’s been my best friend since we were kids. I can’t not love her. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I’m just . . . frustrated.”

The line goes silent for several seconds before Tia speaks. Her voice is small, like a little girl’s. “Was it awful?”

I have to be careful how I answer her. It would take very little to discourage her from ever going. Even though I know she loves Dennis and I believe he’s good for her, Tia isn’t exactly the type that will make herself miserable to please someone else. But she needs this. Dennis or not, she needs this.

So I fib. Just a little. “No, it wasn’t that bad. I just hated having to be there alone.”

I can almost hear her pushing her lower lip out farther in a bigger pout. “I’m the worst best friend ever.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just . . . free-spirited.”

“I’m a total moron.”

“Don’t say things like that,” I chastise lovingly. Tia has enough self-esteem issues courtesy of her villain of a father. I’m convinced it’s part of the reason that she acts the way she does. She has a wonderful heart. She just has some problems with self-control and with finding comfort and validation in the arms of random men whenever she’s feeling down. “You are smart and beautiful, and you can do this. You can do it for Dennis, and you can do it for yourself. And I’ll be right there beside you the whole way.”

“You will?” I can tell by her tone that she still needs some convincing, still needs some motivation.

“I will. And you just might enjoy the scenery.”

I cringe even as I say the words. I hate to use hot guys as bait to get her to the meetings, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t believe that she needed to be there. But I do believe she needs help. Help that neither Dennis nor I can give her. If these meetings don’t open her eyes, I don’t know what will.

“Ohmigod, I know you didn’t just lure me to a sex addicts meeting using hot guys as bait.”

I grin. “Maybe. Is it working?”

There’s a very short pause. “Hell yeah, it’s working!”

We both laugh.

“So does that mean you’re going next week?” I’m willing to continue the ruse I started if it means helping my friend.

“If you’ll go back with me, I will.”

“I told you I would.”

“Then yes, I’ll go. Far be it for me to miss some interesting eye candy.”

“Yeah, I know. That would be a travesty,” I add sarcastically.

“I try to explain this to Dennis, but he just doesn’t get it.”

I snort and shake my head. “I can’t imagine why.”

I hear the muted bleep of another call coming in and hold out my phone to check the number. Even though it’s not in my list of contacts, I recognize it. I’ve seen it pop up far too many times not to recognize it.

“I’ve got to go. I’ve got another call coming in.”

“At almost ten o’clock on a Thursday night? Who could that be?” I don’t answer. I know once she thinks about it, she’ll know. “Oh,” she finally says. “Damn. Here I thought maybe you’d picked up a hottie from that meeting.”

“Not hardly,” I say derisively. Based on my normal total and complete lack of a social life, Tia and I both know that’s preposterous. What Tia doesn’t know is that tonight I actually considered it. Even though it was just for a heartbeat, I actually ran into someone who made me forget all my million and one reasons to keep to myself.

“You take such good care of him, Vi. He’s lucky to have you. We all are.”

“Thanks, chickie,” I say on a sigh, already dreading the night ahead. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Let me know if you need help with him.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Love you,” Tia says sincerely.

“Love you, too.”

I hit the swap button and answer the unwelcome second call. “Hello?”

“Hey, Vi. It’s Stan. He hit his stride a little early tonight. Passed out on the bar about fifteen minutes ago. Think you can come get him?”

I swallow every comment, every emotion, even the simple sigh that is begging for release, and I answer calmly. “Sure, Stan. Give me ten minutes. I’m on the other side of town.”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

He hangs up, and I finally start my car. I’m still in the parking lot outside the SAA meeting. I refuse to admit that I might—just might—have been watching the door to see if I could catch another glimpse of Jet. I refuse to admit it because that would be pathetic. And immature. And much more emotional than I ever get. I’m too levelheaded to let a guy like Jet get under my skin. Or any guy for that matter. Getting too involved, too dependent on a man for happiness leads to trouble. Trouble I’ve seen and trouble I don’t need. So I avoid them. Unless it’s to help them—professionally. Otherwise, it’s just not worth it.

I keep telling myself that as I drive across the small town of Greenfield, South Carolina, to the Teak Tavern, my father’s watering hole of choice. His other favorite bar-type place in town is called Lucky’s, but Dad was banned from there a long time ago.

I see his truck outside. It’s parked straight inside the lines of the space, which tells me he was okay when he left the house. At least he wasn’t out drinking and driving before he hit the tavern. He’s done that before, and it both infuriates and distresses me. It would be a tragedy in every way if he hit someone and hurt them. Not only for the victim and their family, but for Dad as well. He’s still pretty fragile emotionally and that would do him in for sure.

I pull up along the curb, close to the front door and cut the engine. I’ve learned all the best tricks for getting him out the door and home quickly and safely. Having the car close is step number one.

I see Dad as soon as I walk into the tavern. He’s sitting on a stool, slumped over onto the bar, mouth hanging open, snoring like a freight train. At least this one won’t be a violent, argumentative episode. I hope not, anyway. When he’s already passed out, that’s usually a good sign. It’s when he’s awake and running his mouth that poses a problem most of the time.

I walk in, greeting Stan as I pass. “Thanks for calling me, Stan.”

He smiles as he dries a glass with his white bar towel. He reminds me of Sam from one of my Dad’s favorite old shows, Cheers, anyway, but he looks even more like him when he dries glassware. “Not a problem, Vi,” he replies pleasantly. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

Even though Stan is a good ten years older than my twenty-two, I get the feeling that he’s attracted to me. He always watches me with an extremely . . . appreciative look in his eye. Not that it matters, because I’m so not interested. So. Not. Interested.

I walk to the end of the bar where my father is passed out and lay my hand gently on his arm, doing my best not to startle him. The most I can hope for is that he’ll wake up just enough to get to the car and then pass out again until I can get him home. “Dad, wake up. It’s time to go home.”

He grunts, but makes no move to sit up or even adjust his position. I give him a little shake. “Dad. My car’s parked outside. Time to go home.”

I hear his tearful moan and he slurs, “I don’t wanna go home.”

I fight the guilt that swells in my gut like a sponge in water. “Why not?” I ask. I know the answer already, but my point is not to ask him questions I need answers to. My point is just to get him talking. If I can keep him somewhat involved in the conscious world around him, I’ll have a better chance of getting him up and to the car.

“All alone. Everyone left me,” he mutters, rolling his head to the side to glare at me with one unfocused green eye.

“I didn’t leave you, Dad. I just moved out. There’s a difference.”

“No, there’s not.”

“Yes, there is. I’m only a couple of miles away and I still see you almost every day.”

“But you left.”

“I didn’t leave. I grew up, Dad. I would never leave you.”

He lifts his head and stares up at me, tears filling his remorseful eyes. “I know you wouldn’t, Vi. I’m just lonely.”

My heart aches for him. He drives me crazy sometimes, but I love him and I wish there was something I could do to help fill the space that my mother left when she bailed for good four years ago.

“I know you are. That’s why I come over so often. I see you more now than when I lived there.”

And that’s true. There were many days when I’d leave before he got up and he’d be gone by the time I got home, but now I go by almost every day to take him lunch wherever he’s cutting grass or pulling weeds for his landscaping business. I make the effort because I worry about him. And, evidently, it’s a valid worry.

“It’s just not the same. The house is so big. And empty.”

“I’ll come by more at night, Dad. I promise. But right now, let’s get you to bed. You need your rest. It won’t do for you to be tired tomorrow.”

When he gets like this, a soft, motherly approach works wonders.

“No, I don’t want to be tired,” he says brokenly.

“I know. What do you say we get out of here?”

My father nods his rusty orange head and slides off the barstool, grabbing onto the brass bar rail for balance until he gets his equilibrium. I wait patiently, just like I always do. Dad moves at his own pace, just like he always does. It only makes him mad if I try to rush him. I learned that the hard way.