But then she turns fully, and the illusion snaps in half.
The eyes are wrong. The color is obviously fake. Not Lorelie’s deep ocean-blue. Even her smile is wrong, it’s fake and rehearsed, nothing like the real thing.
I grimace and turn back to my drink.
“Grumpy, huh?” she says, undeterred.
Of course she doesn’t take the hint. She keeps talking, rambling about liking cops, about being “good company,” about how she “can tell I’ve had a rough night.”
Her voice becomes nothing more than background noise, easier to focus on than the mess inside my own head.
Somewhere in the middle of her story about getting arrested for flashing an officer during a music festival, I push off the stool, nearly knocking it sideways.
“I gotta take a leak,” I mutter.
I toss my credit card onto the bar without looking back and head for the hallway. The buzz in my head makes every light feel like the sun, every footstep a drumbeat.
In the bathroom, I take a piss then wash my hands, and step up to the sink. Cold water hits my face in sharp, stinging bursts that jolt a little clarity through me. Enough to know I’m in no condition to walk home. Especially not in uniform.
And I’m sure as hell not calling Lorelie to pick me up.
I dry my hands on a paper towel and open the bathroom door.
The blonde from the bar is leaning against the wall across from the door.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We just stare, her expression unreadable, mine probably straight misery.
Then she pushes off the wall and starts walking toward me. Slowly.
I’m tempted to step back and slam the door in her face, but for some reason, I don’t. I stay where I am. My pulse ticks hard at my temples, each beat loud enough to drown out the noise from the bar.
She steps closer. Closer. Only stopping when her chest lightly brushes mine.
Then she reaches for my hand. Raising it until it’s between us, her fingers circle my wedding ring. The touch feels taboo, a violation of a sacred promise. “You happily married?” she asks.
I think about it, before answering honestly. “I was.”
Her eyes soften, a flicker of predatory sympathy. Still holding my hand, she guides it toward her chest, an invitation I never asked for. My palm touches her tit and she lets go.
I should remove it, push her off, but I do none of those things. Instead, I open my palm and let it encircle her full tit. Without meaning to, I squeeze her between my fingers, feeling the nipple harden against my skin through the thin fabric of her shirt.
She takes that as an invitation and puts her hand on my stomach. Slowly, she drags it downwards, her fingers tracing a path over the belt of my uniform, a symbol of the life I'm about to torch.
Her hand slips lower, her fingers brushing against the growing hardness in my pants. I let out a low groan, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. I should stop this. I know I should. But the anger, the betrayal, the raw, primal rage that's been simmering inside me all night boils over, and I'm powerless to stop it.
I lean in, my lips crashing against hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that tastes of whiskey and cheap lipstick. She responds with equal fervor, her hand tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. Her other hand palms me over my pants. Her grip is tight. I thrust against her hand.
Still kissing, she pushes me backward and we fall back into the bathroom, our bodies never separating. Turning us around, I push her against the sink, her hands working hard at unbuckling and unzipping my pants. Immediately her hand delves inside my boxers, her warm soft skin touches my bare dick and my knees nearly buckle. She sucks my tongue like she'll suck my dick.
Trailing kisses, she falls to her knees, or tries to. Her hair gets stuck on my shirt. "Oh, shit," I mutter, helping detangle her, but a chunk of hair rips off and gets stuck on the pin on my chest. The pin my wife clipped on me earlier, the one my son played with.
The sight of blonde hair wrapped around the silver pin, meant to symbolize honor and commitment, hits me like a physical blow. The haze of lust and anger evaporates, replaced by a wave of nausea so profound I have to lock my knees to keep from falling.
What the hell am I doing?
I look at the woman checking her hair in the mirror and I want to throw up. I don't even know her name and I was willing to cheat on my wife with her.
The woman turns back to me and shrugs. "Well, this time maybe I do it like this," she says, going to drop to her knees again, but I step back.
