AN: Thanks for those who reviewed and sent me messages, and a great thanks for Kim who is doing beta for my stories. :)

Please keep reviewing, it's always nice to hear some criticism.

The numbing effect of the vicodin is what he lacks the most

The numbing effect of the vicodin is what he lacks the most; the absence of pressure, the absence of pain. Sitting in his office, playing with a pen in his hand, he wishes to be miles away, to end the raging throb in his thigh, and the angry race of thoughts in his mind.

Vicodin makes him forget. And tonight he really doesn't want to feel anything.

It's been three weeks since his last session at the rehab center. He stopped going in order to avoid her. He promised himself to never see her again because that's the way he is with women; that's what he forces himself to be.

Still, she is on his mind. Her purple lip gloss, her dark lashes and the way she spoke. She was different, mysterious. He still wants to know her name even though he will gladly shoot his other leg before admitting it to himself.

She claimed to know the taste of addiction, and like him she didn't deny her need for it, didn't resist it. She welcomed her obsession the way she welcomed him between her lovely thighs.

Free, rebellious, beautiful.

Right now the battle in his head is making him aggravated, knowing very well that along with his "magic" pill, he'd be calm, he'd be better. But he is forced to give it up, by those who foolishly believe he has a problem, by those who thought they can fix him. They know nothing of pain, of need.

She probably doesn't know anything at all, but she was free, she was interesting, and even though he avoided her, she is in his head, her memory tickling in his nerves.

"Dammit." He whispers with irritation, unable to break the trail of those disturbing thoughts. Standing up, he reaches for his long winter coat and wooden cane and prepares to leave to the rehab center.

On his way there, speeding up on his motorcycle, he has the image of her in mind, the way he remembers her, what a sweet delight she was; bare, willing, bald. She is a complete stranger to him, and he already hates her.

Every meeting begins at 9:00 and ends at 10:00. It's 11PM. The hall is abandoned, except for the janitor, who mops the floor while listening to music in his headphones. House stands in the end of the hall with a blank face, asking himself over and over again, "what are you doing here?"

He is not there to see her. She won't be there at this time at night. And yet he paces toward that same room where he first saw her

"The meeting is over." A man, who is collecting chairs, speaks to him. House stares at him baffled. The man, a tall man in his late 30's turns his head to look at him and then grins "But then again, you are not a part of the group, Cuddy."

House frowns and uses the cane to open the door. He won't walk farther inside. Instead, he simply gapes into the deserted space. "You remember me?"

"I have that 'thing'. I'm really good with faces." The man answers. "And I knew the first time I saw you, that you are not a part of the group."

"How is that?" House asks, staring at the men holding two chairs under each arm, and carrying them to the corner of the room.

"Fakers come here in order to hit on the ladies. Sex addicts are an easy target, and men are always desperate." The group instructor explains, putting the chairs at the little chairs castles he made.

House smirks, only slightly amused by the tale. "I wasn't desperate for sex." No, it was release he was searching, and it came in the image of a luring young woman. "I'm a part of a different group."

"Alcoholic?" The man asks, now left with no chairs to carry.

"No. Anonymous cushion thieves." He taunts him.

The man laughs and shakes his head, "I'm pretty sure there is a group for that, people will get addicted to about anything, as long as they can abandon their real life for it..."

House rolls his eyes and reaches his hand to his face in order to stroke his stubbles, "Spare me the lecture."

"Well if it's not for the sex, why the hell did you come here back then, and why are you here now, Mr. Cuddy?" The man asks, adjusting his glasses upon his nose while slowly pacing toward House.

House stares at him as he walks, and then turns his eyes to the place where she sat, which is now just an empty dirty rubber floor. "I was curious, never been to a sex addicts support group."

The man nods with agreement, but the smile on his face is anything but trusting. "You were curious about her." he notes, "And she was curious about you."

House widens his eyes with surprise, pretending to not know what the instructor is speaking of. "Her?"

The instructor scoffs and then nods in his head "She called herself Jess. You've been staring at her legs the entire time."

House remembers those legs vividly. They were wrapped around him in a tight grip for an entire night.

"She liked you, at least for that special night. She was the one who wanted you there, while no one else did." The man explains, with some amusement in his voice. House can feel the anger whispering, irritation slowly growing in the pit of his stomach. He lowers his gaze to the floor and frowns silently. "Anyway, she's gone, she haven't been here for 3 weeks." The instructor announces.

House brings his glare up once again, staring with a mixture of surprise and confusion. This entire time he's been avoiding her while she wasn't even there? Had she been avoiding him as well?

Right now he hates her even more.

The man continues speaking. "She wasn't here for long; she only joined the group a month ago. She never spoke."

She spoke a lot after he gave her a ride home, she spoke too much. She had the kind of mouth that demanded to be shut one way or another. In her apartment though, there weren't many words. Her mouth was open, but those weren't words coming out of her hot wet mouth.

House nods silently, realizing the meaning of the night. What he was to her was not a partner in crime, but the crime itself. She was in desperate need for a game. Every night, cruising the support group, she needed someone to be her game.

Not even bothering to part with the group instructor, House turns away from him and begins to pace down the hall. In his mind there is an endless battle, a part of him is endlessly curious about her, and different part hates her with rage.

What he needs is a fix; just one pill. Just to feel no feelings at all. That raging battle is making him restless, and stupid. So stupid that he drives all the way to her apartment, to glare at her window.

It doesn't surprises him to see the light closed. Hearing the story at the support group he believes she probably already left town, and that she will forever remain a mystery, an unsolved puzzle.

Who was she?

Sighing deeply, he turns the motor on, and drives away back to his apartment. His head clouded by many thoughts, while he swears himself to forget her, to never look back again. She was nothing more than a good fuck. He was off the pill and needed some sort of a climax. She was simply there.

How he sees her again is completely by accident.