When you were broke and didn’t want to be found, it paid to be a bum in other people’s places where you could eat and sleep, all for the price of good sex. Of course, women didn’t give it up that easily; it took effort. But I was already a charmer, and once I’d convinced myself it was best for me to move on, I unleashed my skill upon the women of Phoenix.
It was also a great stress reliever. And on a night like tonight, I wanted nothing more than to find a hot girl that I’d be inside within an hour of meeting her.
But a funny thing happened.
At the first bar, I got brushed off twice. A third time, I got told to watch my mouth before I got slapped. The fourth time, I got called an asshole. After the fifth, I finished my drink and knew it was time to get the hell out, try my luck somewhere else.
I told myself that it was just one of those nights. I couldn’t say I’d ever struck out five times in a row on serious attempts, but I had struck out three times in a row before. A bad night was bound to happen once in a while, and “worst night ever” would have to happen at some point.
But at the second bar, when I approached the first girl, I found a feeling worse than not having the skill or ability to sleep with her.
I had the feeling ofnot wanting to.
What sort of fucking nonsense was this?
This wasn’t who I was. I was good at staying in the shadows, both literally and as a sexual enigma, and arousing the interest of women around me. I was that “mysterious guy at the bar,” the one that couldn’t help but have questions asked about. Even when I didn’t care, I got it for me. Even when I was anxious, perhaps having just seen one of the King’s Men, I still got it done.
But to actively refuse it? To not want it?
This was bad.
This was telling me that there was something I wasn’t wanting to acknowledge, and it didn’t take a goddamn fucking rocket scientist to figure out what that was. Or rather, who it was.
Callie.
I could easily think in terms of dismissive, almost derogatory, words for Callie. She proved the notion that the more you pushed a woman away, the more she came back. She proved that women loved bad boys. She proved…
That marriage wasn’t something you just gave up on so easily.
Fuck.
I supposed they called them vows for a fucking reason and not goals. I supposed there was a reason we said “until death do us part” and not “until possible death do us part.” I supposed…
Fuck, I had no fucking clue. I wasn’t smart enough for this shit. I wasn’t smart enough for much.
But I was smart enough to know that just because I was feeling these things for Callie didn’t mean I could go for them. If keeping my distance from her and sacrificing pussy in the short term was what I needed in order to fulfill my mission to the Devil’s, er, Black Reapers, then so fucking be it. It wasn’t like I wasn’t without ass for a little bit when Spawn had first beaten me for being the messenger boy for the King’s Men.
But what about after?
As I walked the streets of Phoenix at night, somehow both very conscious of my surroundings and very in my head with all of this nonsense, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander. What if I got Callie? What if I got her back safe? What if I got her back safe and helped the Black Reapers defeat the King’s Men?
It makes you wonder what would happen if you had it all.
Too bad that’ll never happen.
Callie
It was exactly like the Ash I remembered.
It was the next morning, but it didn’t feel like a brand-new day. I’d barely slept the night before, tossing and turning as I thought about my encounter with him. I should have known he’d push me away. For goodness’ sakes, he’d written me a letter telling me to write him off as dead! Did I really think he’d hug me, kiss me, and tell me that he loved me now and forever?
Well, I thought I hadn’t, but judging how poorly I slept, apparently, I had on some damn level.
But that wouldn’t have been enough to toss and turn. No, there was something weirdly…promising, almost, about the encounter. I didn’t want to believe it too much for fear of getting hurt, but…
I swore when I looked in his eyes and saw him looking back at me, I saw yearning to try again. To get back together and see what was possible. To give it another shot—just to explore the possibilities, if nothing else. No guarantees, but a willingness.
But just as he had in Las Vegas, there were things he was keeping from me, things that he promised me were for my own good. I was stronger than he thought. I had stared the possibility of crime in the eye when I’d come here.
