Page 11 of Property of the Woodsman

“How was this drama? You stood up to an asshole who pushes you around.”

“No,” her arms cross over her chest, and she steps back into the house as the car turns left out onto the paved road, “you stood up to him. I don’t need you to do that. I can take care of myself.”

We’re talking through the screen door now, and I’m not fully sure how I went from leaning into her lips for a kiss to this. “This is what you wanted. You wanted to make him jealous.”

“I know,” she huffs, “and that was childish of me. I’m someone’s mother. I can’t be acting like this.”

“Why did you divorce him?”

“No.” She shakes her head quickly and grabs hold of the heavy wooden door. “I’m not doing this anymore. This whole fake date thing was dumb. I need you to go.”

I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching her catch tears before I say, “I’ll go if you tell me what happened between the two of you.”

Lungs filling with air, she stares down at the beam of light casting onto the hard pine floor. “Why does anyone get divorced? It just didn’t work anymore.”

“Okay. Why?”

“He’s an asshole!” She pushes another tear away. “I don’t know. He was inconsistent. One second, he’d be this nice guy who got me treats and seemed to care. The next he was making me feel like my entire existence was a burden. If I had a need, it was an insult to everything else he’d ever done for me. If I fell apart, he fell apart too, never addressing my problem. Nothing was simple. I had to fight and argue for the standard relationship package.” A tear rolls over her cheek, but she catches it quickly. “It makes me sick how easily he does the things he does for that girl. Like, I love live music. I asked him so many times to go see a concert with me over the years.”

“He wouldn’t take you?”

“Oh, he’d have taken me, but he’d have dropped hints about how little money we have, how tired we’d be all week afterwards, put conditions on every aspect of it. My therapist said it was a form of covert control. He’d never say no outright, but he’d lay just enough rocks in the path that I’d feel guilty and change my mind.” She drags in a deep breath, and the sky goes dark as thunder rolls in the distance. “I didn’t want Jackson to come from a broken family, so I tried to keep it together as long as I could.”

“I’m so sorry.” I want to say more, do more, find the guy and punch him for fun, but right now I settle for opening the screen door and stepping inside to hold his ex-wife. The woman fighting back tears. The woman who needs a fresh start, and a man who’ll remind her that she’s worth far more than the bare minimum.

“I really think you should go.” The second the words leave her lips, her body melts into mine. “This was a mistake.”

“Not at all.” I shake my head and cup her soft face in my hand. “This is exactly what you need. Now come sit on my lap. We’re gonna play a game and get you feeling better.”

Chapter Four

Jen

Apparently, I’m weak.

Weak and Simple.

Weak, simple, and horny.

It’s sad, really. I always pictured myself as this independent woman with class who’d cautiously date a man for at least three months before I got into bed with him, maybe longer depending on the circumstances of how we met. I told myself I’d be careful with who I interacted with because it directly affects what Jackson thinks of me.

I don’t want to be one of those moms with a revolving door of men. I don’t want him to look back on his childhood and remember a different man next to me with every memory.

Halloween with the mailman.

Thanksgiving with the gym teacher.

Christmas with the random guy who used to own this property.

Yet, here I am, stripping down for an ex-con I barely know under the guise of ‘it feels good.’

What am I doing? I’m sure this guy doesn’t want to touch me. He probably wants to earn some extra credit. Maybe he figures if he touches me right, he’ll get himself an extra acre of land.

This thought alone should stop me in my tracks, but desperation overtakes me, and all I’m thinking about is how his sandpaper-like touch feels so damn good against my skin. You wouldn’t think sandpaper would feel good, but there’s something about it. The roughness of his hands against my soft skin. Apparently, I’m a simp for the dichotomy of it.

My clit throbs as his hands wander, and my panties soak at the mere thought of how big this giant’s dick must be. I mean, it must be huge. Most things in life are proportionate to their size, and this man is colossal.

My heart rate jumps as he digs his fingers into the back of my hair and leans into my ear. “Do you like to be told what to do?”