It surprised me too.
Women came and went around the clubhouse the way they always did. Club girls. Bar girls. A tattooed brunette with a mouth like sin and a laugh that would have once had mefollowing her into the back hallway before she finished her drink. A blonde from a run up north who kept leaving her number on napkins and my bike seat. Women who knew the rules. Women who wanted a night, not a future.
Easy.
Clean.
Forgettable.
I didn’t touch any of them.
Not because I had become holy.
Because every time one of them leaned close, all I could think was wrong.
Wrong hair.
Wrong voice.
Wrong eyes.
Wrong ghost.
Nate noticed first.
Of course he did.
“You dying?” he asked one morning, dropping into the chair across from me in the clubhouse kitchen with a plate of eggs he had no intention of sharing.
I looked up from my coffee. “No.”
“Disease?”
“No.”
“Secret wound?”
“No.”
“Did your dick fall off?”
I stared at him.
He shoveled eggs into his mouth. “I’m just asking questions.”
“Ask quieter ones.”
“You’ve been walking around like somebody shot your dog and stole your favorite porn.”
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. Worried about you.”
“You’re never worried.”
“I am deeply compassionate.” He pointed his fork at me. “Also, you turned down Marissa last night.”
“So?”
