“I could. But I won’t.” I dry my hands on paper towels, each movement deliberate. “You got what I said you’d get. Twice, as promised. I got mine. Transaction complete.”
“Transaction?” Her voice pitches higher. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
“That’s what it was.” I check my watch. Eleven minutes total. Efficient. “We both knew the terms going in.”
“But the way you just … You knew exactly …” She reaches for my arm. “Nobody’s ever made me?—”
“Stop.” I step back, creating a clear boundary. “You’re looking for something I don’t have. Can’t give. Won’t pretend to.”
She stares at me, frustration and desire warring on her face. “You’re seriously just going to walk away? After that?”
“Yes.”
“Most guys would at least want to fuck me properly.”
“I’m not most guys.” I move toward the door. “Got what I needed from your mouth. Don’t need anything else.”
“That’s it? Just going to use my throat and walk away?”
“Yes.” I meet her gaze directly.
Fucking requires more than I have left. Eye contact. Vulnerability. The pretense of connection. A mouth is simple friction and heat—better than my hand, simpler than dealing with the rest. Clean. Controlled. No one has to pretend it means anything.
And I won’t make Mitchell’s mistake. I won’t let intimacy become a weapon aimed at my back.
“She’s perfect for you, Jackson. Local asset. Been feeding us intel for months.”Mitchell’s grin in that Damascus safe house.“Why don’t you get to know her better? Build some trust.”
Amara.
Dark eyes, dangerous curves.
Three nights of her wrapped around me, whispering intel between orgasms. My body buried deep while she fed me lies Mitchell scripted. The warmth of her skin just another trap, another betrayal. She’d radioed our position while I was still inside her, my guard down, vulnerable in the most primitive way.
Seven teammates dead because I trusted the person I let close.
Never again. Transactional sex can’t betray you the same way. It can’t make you vulnerable while you’re lost in it. Can’t whisper lies that you want to believe. It’s just friction. Nothing more.
I unlock the door. “Find someone else if you want more.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Accurate.” I open the door. “But at least I’m an honest asshole.”
She finishes zipping her dress, movements sharp with anger. “You know what? You’re right. I did get what you promised. But you’re going to die alone with that attitude.”
Probably. But alone means no one else dies because I trusted the wrong person.
She leaves without another word. Smart woman.
The sex helped, but the hollow sensation remains. Always does. Some men drink to forget. Some find God. Some put bullets in their heads.
I considered it once. Six months after Syria, after my discharge papers came through stamped “medical” instead of “honorable” because I couldn’t speak for three weeks after theextraction. Sitting in a VA hospital room that smelled like disinfectant and despair.
I had a loaded Glock heavy in my lap. The weight felt right. The solution felt clean. No more calculations. No more flashbacks. No more waking up with Brennan’s blood on my hands that no amount of washing removes.
Ghost found me there. Don’t know how. Don’t know why.
“That’s sloppy,” he said, looking at the gun. “Permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
