Chapter Six
Rayne
The next week, Rayne sat in the back of the HRT bus, reading his fundamentals of yoga book on his way to a meeting in Virginia Beach. He was trying and failing not to inhale the raunchy smell of exhaust and body odor. Ever since he’d had those few minutes alone with Mike when he’d come to repair the bathroom, he’d been in a constant state of ache. But it was more than just below his belt, though that was a major one; it was also higher up in his chest. Rayne chewed on his bottom lip, his reading on mountain poses long forgotten as he remembered how Mike had spoken to Wood, how he’d glared at him in warning with those dark eyes. It was the way the man carried himself, no-nonsense and so damn serious. Rayne discovered it was the biggest turn-on that he never knew he liked. He thought he preferred his men weak and gullible, ones he could manipulate, but he was wrong. Even if Rayne wanted to pull one of his cons on Mike, he wouldn’t be able to because he was too street-smart, too worldly. He knew about hustling and doing what was necessary to survive, just like him. That’s what Rayne liked. Not the bourgeois, highfalutin, seven-figure-income-making chumps that he’d suckered in his past.
His recovery would be ongoing until he found himself. Until he found truthfulness and commitment with another person, he’d forever be repairing the wreck he’d made of his life. Rayne believed he was closer to figuring out who he was and what he wanted. He just hoped when he did, those wants wouldn’t be off-limits or out of reach.
Rayne was almost to his stop on Lynnhaven Parkway, and the dark rain clouds covering the sky and dimming the brilliant morning sun were beginning to make him nervous. When he’d walked out of the trailer in Norfolk, the sky had fooled him into thinking it would be a gorgeous day. Now, not only did he not have an umbrella, but he didn’t have his Moncler raincoat either. Rayne released a quiet sigh. He longed to get the rest of his possessions from his uncle’s house, but they were being held hostage until he paid the rent he owed before he was kicked out. Another issue for him to have to figure out soon.
Rayne watched the city go by in a blur, wondering where certain people were walking to, what they were thinking about, if they were happy or upset. It was a strange comfort to hope there was at least one person out there with just as much heartache as him. No one liked to suffer by themself. While he wouldn’t wish his disease on his worst enemy, Rayne didn’t want to be alone in this anymore.
He walked the short distance to St. Paul’s Presbyterian, already loving its grandiose architecture and the colorful, stained-glass windows. This church had to be even older than the one on the oceanfront. He ignored the few leers he got from the stragglers loitering outside the front door, getting in their last-minute drags off their cigarettes and vape sticks before it was time for the meeting to start.
Once inside, the familiar scents of wood oil coating the pews and musty carpet hit him as he followed the signs that pointed to the room where the meeting would be held. It was similar to most meeting spaces he’d been to, an open room with at least thirty chairs arranged in a wide circle. Dang, this must be a big group. It was pretty full as people sat around with hors d’oeuvres plates in their laps while talking quietly with the person closest to them. Rayne went to the buffet table in the corner that was laden with trays of finger foods, coffee with flavored creamers, and sodas. They had two kinds of pinwheel wraps, pastries, a variety of cookies, and a large assortment of cheeses and veggies that sat in the center. Man, this place is fancy. Rayne didn’t hesitate to make himself a nice plate and hurried to find an empty chair.
He didn’t like to socialize much at the meetings, but he still got what he needed out of them. He typically went to St. Mary’s Methodist, but after the tough week he’d had, his sponsor had recommended he try this group also. Supposedly, it was more popular with younger people, and the attendance was about eighty-five percent female, which would serve Rayne well. There was nothing harder than sitting beside a hot guy while he talked about his obsession with jerking off his nine-inch cock. Almost as hard as sitting across from a sixty-year-old gay man who was still practicing abstinence after ten years because no one wanted to commit to him without sampling the goods first. Rayne preferred to leave the meetings feeling hopeful, not more discouraged.
Just as the nicotine gang made it inside, the meeting organizer stood and introduced herself and briefly went into her own five-year recovering journey thus far. It was brief and encouraging, and Rayne found himself getting immersed as soon as the first person raised their hand to share. She was a gorgeous woman with long shock-red hair and bright green eyes that popped from the kohl-black liner framing them.
“Hi, I’m Chelsea—Chels—and I’m a sex addict.”
“Welcome, Chelsea,” the group answered.
She appeared to be in her late twenties, maybe mid-thirties. Her tight, low-cut shirt revealed a lot of cleavage, maybe too much, but it was the three unicorns mounted in a compromising position on the front of her baby tee that held his attention. She had a sassy smirk on her scarlet lips as she glanced around the circle.
“Well, damn. I’m glad I finally made it to a meeting, although I didn’t expect it to be such a vag-fest, but I’m gonna give it a try anyway.” Her joke earned a nice round of chuckles from the group that instantly put Rayne at ease as she launched into her colorful, although disturbing, world. He’d become captivated as Chelsea—Chels—confessed to cheating on her last girlfriend despite how much she loved her. By the end of her story, she was begging the group to convince her that there was hope, that there was a better way to live than in this hellish cycle of torment.
Before Rayne knew it, the hour-long meeting was over, but the company was friendly enough that Rayne decided to linger like everyone else. He made his way back to the buffet to get a couple more of those turkey-and-cheese pinwheels and some fruit. He was just about to drop a few dollops of ranch dressing on his cucumber slices when Chelsea came and stood too close to his side, jabbing him once in the ribs with her long, sharp nail.
“Hey,” she almost barked. “Why were you so quiet? I thought for sure you’d have something to share.”
Rayne blinked, wondering what that was supposed to mean. “Why?”
She shrugged. “Just because your eyes are gorgeous doesn’t mean they aren’t full of pain.”
“Wow.” Rayne lifted a brow at her forwardness.
“Sorry,” she said, plucking a cherry tomato off his plate without asking and popping it into her mouth. “I know I’m a little bold sometimes. Well, all the time.”
“No. I don’t get that vibe from you at all.” Rayne feigned surprise as she helped herself to a cucumber slice next.
“My counselor says I should try making contacts and friends with like-minded goals. So my homework was to put myself out there and make a social contact. This is me doing that.”
Rayne smiled when he remembered his sponsor giving him the same spiel. It was good advice but difficult to execute. He’d been lucky to find a real friendship in Wood; maybe he should try to make another. “My name is Rayne.”
“Chels.” She beamed, then took one of his pinwheels.
Rayne pointed at the table. “Y’know, there’s more plates and food if you’re hungry.”
“Tastes better off your plate.” She winked.
Rayne shook his head. God, he hoped she wasn’t flirting.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m all the way vajayjay. That’s why I thought me and you might make good friends.”
“Oh yeah.” Rayne was intrigued. “And why is that?”
“Because you have a dick where I’d prefer there was a clit.”