“Oh, ok. Didn't realize you two had already met... Well don’t get too mad at him for staring. He does that to everyone. It’s not just because you’re a big, famous rockstar now.”
Wylie is joking and trying to lighten the mood, but I’m definitely staring because she’s special…Specialto me.
“Dallas just got out of the marines so he’s probably admiring the first beautiful thing he’s seen since war,” Wylie continues, just making things worse.
Her caramel eyes swirl like the stormy skies I’d once braved as she continues to scrutinize me.
“Do I… know you?”
After a few seconds of intense examination, something finally shifts within her, Wylie’s words taking hold. She takes a step backward, scanning me from head to toe once more, before gasping loudly.
“Dallas... as in Dallas Golden?”
Chapter 19 – Paloma
Dallas Golden had been one of my closest confidants growing up.
Even though it might have been silly, I'd nursed a secret, invisible crush on him for years, despite never having met him in person. And most of the time, I wondered if he was even real.
When I turned eighteen years old and finally tracked down where he was stationed, writing to him while he was deployed felt like the first real proof that he existed beyond the four corners of my bedroom and the white papered letter responses I had saved. Sure, he could've used a penname in our communications, but the fact that someone with his exact name was assigned to Squadron 505 made that seem pretty unlikely.
It wasn’t until eight years later, just six months ago, after my bandmates and I wrapped up our European tour in Croatia, that I unexpectedly found myself in a bar, face-to-face with a former Marine who was just passing through the country. His shaggy blonde hair made him look exactly how I’d always imagined Dallas did and I threw caution to the wind, living out my wildest dreams in his arms.
I went home with the marine for a fun night and asked him if I could call him by the name Dallas in bed. He didn’t give a shit about what I called him as long as he took control, so I let him.
He fucked me so hard I saw stars and then deposited me back at the hotel where I was staying. Coming down from the high of role playing what it'd be like to be with my long-lost pen pal shattered me into pieces. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I’d expected and cracked open a wound that had just scabbed over.
I finally decided that it was time to write another letter to Dallas. A final one that would let him know I was saying goodbye to the idea of us being friends as adults and ever meeting. Goodbye to the man that I’d loved.
But before doing that, I’d searched his name online, the first time I’d allowed myself to do that in twelve years, and found exactly zero photos confirming his existence save an article written about the app that he’d sold to become rich at just twenty years old.
The guy had stated he was a protégé, making history, and damn good at everything he did, yet other than that small, hardly interesting article, there was no trace of him online. His digital footprint was non-existent, and I started questioning once again whether he was even real.
The whole situation was bizarre. He was either as incredibly mysterious as I’d made him out to be in my head or he was a master at avoiding the social media craze that permeated our generation. Either way, I was half impressed, half annoyed. Which is why I’d gotten rip roaring drunk by the firepit my bandmates built and penned an angry email where I told him toF-off.
But the guy who is standing in front of me now, in the middle of Rex’s Rodeo House Bar, a classic in our small town, claiming to be Dallas Golden,my Dallas, isnothinglike what I’d imagined in even my wildest fantasies.
Because this guy is even better.
Dallas’ hair is buzzcut-short, but I can tell it’s a deep brown, certainly not the bleach blonde that I’d always imagined. His muscles stretch the black T-shirt he’s wearing tightly across his chest, and he’s so tall I feel a kink forming in my neck from tilting my head upward. His arms are covered in tattoos, and though his eyes softened when he first saw me, there’s a darkness lurking behind them that tells of the pain he’s seen.
His lips are full, teeth straight, and despite his strikingly attractive face—almost too attractive for a man who’s fought in wars and surely witnessed tragedy—there’s no denying he’s a Marine. His stance radiates a clear warning: he’s not a man to mess with, and his expression is completely unreadable.
He stands out because he’s nothing like the other men in the bar tonight. Nothing like the men in Texas.
And I love that.
My mind races, struggling to make sense of the words I’m hearing.
How can this man—the same one that I’d been trapped in an elevator with earlier today, the one whose meaty cock I’d grabbed on accident while talking about my pen pal—also bemy Dallas?
How did I not realize this earlier today?
Did he tell me his name when we were trapped together and I’d missed it? Too self-absorbed in my own problems as I read another misguided article written about me.
Why is he here tonight?
Why is he in Lonestar Junction?
