by Max Henry
Because if I’ve learnt one thing, it’s that life never lets me have the easy option out.
• • • • •
WHEN I wake some time later, it’s still light out—muted, but daylight nonetheless. Although, I’m not really awake at all. I’m still stuck in a dream state, suffering the same shit I’ve been putting up with for the better part of ten years now.
My eyes flick open, as robotic as a wind-up toy, and the visions start. That same cloaked figure, always there, so close to me, so ready to get me. My mind wars with itself, part knowing that what I see is a hallucination, and the other panicking that this thing is going to take me, touch me and send me to hell. It looms over me, always watching . . . never moving.
My heart races.
My skin slicks with sweat.
My head pounds.
I want to run, I want to speak, I want to do something, but I’m as useless as I was the day Alice walked out—I just lie there, frozen in my state of shock.
The panic only lasts a couple of minutes tops before my head clears. The vision goes, and I’m back where I went to sleep—in a bed in a shitty motel, in a whole mess of trouble.
Sleep paralysis, or as it’s sometimes referred to, the devil on your back. A doctor told me it’s perfectly normal when people suffer stress, or traumatic events in their life. I listened to that doc give her verdict eight years ago and walked out, determined that there was a way to shut it off, to stop it from happening.
Eight years later and I still see that fuckin’ cloaked figure coming for me when I wake.
Surely I’m a little bit loopy? That would be the most plausible explanation for me seeing things after Julia’s death. I mean, really? A doctor? A professional in the medical field tells me I’m not insane when I explain that I’m more-or-less waking up to the Grim Reaper every morning? It just doesn’t sit right with me. I’m not normal when I see that. Then again, is anybody normal?
I roll out of bed as soon as my limbs allow and stand to stretch. The old boy stands to attention and I frown down at him, jutting out from me like a fucking beacon to my biggest problem. I haven’t been laid in more than three months.
I spouted that shit to Sonya back at the club, simply because I wanted to see her reaction when I said I’d go sort my problems with a whore. It was perfect, just as I’d hoped: confused, and heartbroken. It told me all I needed to know about how she really feels toward me.
I snatch up my boxers and yank them on, tucking that traitorous fucker into the waistband to keep him out of the way. Retrieving my phone from my jacket, I check the time—almost dinner. Surely there’ll be at least half a dozen takeaway joints in an area like this. Deciding against wearing my cut to stay inconspicuous, I yank my T-shirt on and my jeans, then toe on my boots before heading out the door.
Ten minutes later, I’m seated at a booth in a small diner, waiting on my plate of heart-attack material to arrive. With nothing better to do with my time, I open the Facebook app and start searching out the first of two people I’m curious about—Alice.
As usual, his account is private. I get profile pictures and nothing else. Still, I sit at the table until the food comes out, staring at each photo in turn, watching him transform over the past few years. There are still glimpses of Julia in him, and if I can be honest, a little of me. But the kid is an adult, the boy a man, and nobody I truly recognize.
What happened to him in the years after he left? Where did he go?
I tried to search him out, but those first few years he fell off the grid. None of his friends knew a thing about him; they all said he’d disappeared off their radars, too. Every lead I found turned up a cold dead-end. After four years of searching I ran out of money, and I ran out of patience. The kid didn’t want to be found. I respected that, and in all honest truth, I settled for believing he was alive.
The funny thing about relationships is no matter how close you are to a person initially—blood, marriage, duty—after a certain amount of time, anybody can become a stranger. Ties are severed, contact lost, and when none of what you do day-to-day matters to them anymore, or vice versa, that person who was once a son, a wife, or a friend becomes yet another face in the crowd.
I know no more about my own son than I do the woman who just placed my all-day breakfast before me. And the disgusting part? I came to terms with that. I’m okay with it.
Nothing is okay about that.
I swipe my finger over the screen and send my phone into black again as I eat.
What I’d do to have a person who understood what this is like, a person who knew the answer. I’ve often thought about searching out groups, support lines, whatever I needed to find people who’d lived through what I had and come out the other side, somebody who had reconnected, just so they could tell me how to do it. Although, the better part of me knows it isn’t that simple. There’s no easy fix to this, no magic switch or golden words. Mending my broken relationship with Alice will take time, and lots of it.
Only I don’t have time anymore, do I?
If anything happens to him, I know I’ll blame myself. After all, if I’d tried harder, if I’d put more effort into finding Alice, working this out, then I wouldn’t be wasting time just trying to get him to talk to me. I wouldn’t be here wondering if he will ever listen, or if this trip is a complete waste of resources.
Scooping the runny part of the egg up with my remaining toast, I open the app again and search out Sonya. I’m hoping that because she’s going to be friends with a few of the same people, I won’t be hunting for too long.
Sure enough, several loose threads later and I’ve found her account—thanks to Bruiser having an open friends list. The profile picture is unmistakably her, and the thing that has me awakening in my jeans again? She’s sitting on a bike . . . in a bikini top. Sweet, baby Jesus.
I shift in my seat, adjust my belt, and take a large gulp of water. Her profile is semi-private—a few photos, shared posts, nothing else. With the thin hope her relationship status is public, I go to tap the about tab, but the problem with small smart-phones and fat fingers? I hit the friend request button.
Fuck.
I didn’t mean to do that. I may as well take an advert out, declaring I’m curious about her. Instant heat sears the back of my neck. What a way to be busted stalking. Furiously, I try to retract the request, but before I can . . . ping . . . notification to say she’s accepted it.
Double fuck.
Well, no point in being a pussy now. I tap back into her profile page, immediately checking the relationship status. Single. Still, I’m not convinced. A woman as gorgeous as her can’t come without competition. Maybe there’s something in one of her photos that gives it away? Part way through reading the comments on an image of her holding a baby—turns out it’s her cousin’s kid—I get yet another ping.
Messenger.
Hey stranger. How’s the trip?
I stare at those five words for an eternity, in which time my plate is cleared, I order a coffee, and it’s delivered.
Uneventful.
Amusement brings a quirk to my lips when I see ‘seen’ and then ‘Sonya is typing’.
That has to be good, right? It’s the same here. Normal mid-week boredom. When you back?
Miss me?
Perhaps . . .
I’m poised to type when she sends another.
Or maybe I’m trying to work out the clubhouse grocery list . . .
Money on the former.
How much.
Fifty.
That confident?
See if I’m right when I get back, huh?
Which is . . .
When I do and not before.
She sends me a funny little picture of a dog poking its tongue out, and I close the message. See what she does with that, huh?
The idea that she misses me has me tickled. How long has it been since somebody missed me? Maybe I need to stop trying to sabotage the opportunity presented to me and accept that the woman is u
nattached, and interested. Shit, I’ve watched her for four years, dreaming about all the things I could do to make her writhe with pleasure, and here I am, close to getting that chance and all I can do is hunt for reasons why it wouldn’t work.
I’m my own worst enemy. I like the woman, and she’s clearly interested in me. Suck it up, Vince, and stop playing. What harm could exploring things with her do? If it didn’t work out, it didn’t work out. No harm, no foul. Besides, who even says she wants a relationship? Maybe she’s just after a bit of fun?
I could do fun.
I down the last of my coffee and then stand, tossing my tip on the table. Before any of the other patrons notice, I adjust that asshole in my jeans again.
Seems he thinks it’s nice to be missed, too.
TIME PASSES and he doesn’t respond. Chastising myself for being such a weak, desperate female, I shut the app and pocket my phone. Besides, I have hungry men who are probably ready for seconds out there in the cafeteria. Men.
I don’t need a man. I don’t need to be chased, desired or wanted.
Oh, God. I do.
I love Mike, I always will, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find happiness with another man—does it? Still . . . why him? Why, after five years of self-inflicted abstinence, would I choose the loner of the club? I’m sure there are a few of the other guys that are interested—guys with more transparent intentions, guys with clear motivation.
But obvious isn’t sexy.
What’s hot about a man who gives you lame pick-up lines and tells you he wants to ‘rock your world’? Puke. Puh-lease. Men that are straight up are usually only after some physical gratification. Sure, that’s good to have, but call me fickle, at this point in my life I want someone who can arouse me in other ways . . . like with words in a message.
Holy shit, I’m tender down there.
Doing what I can to ignore the ache between my thighs, I wander out to the tables and check over the dozen or so men who are in tonight. Raucous laughter fills the air, punctuated with clinks of glass and cutlery. Most are finished, and the few that are still eating are slow in their work. Perhaps tonight I managed to fill them up with the casserole? Maybe, just maybe I can sneak away early.
The ache intensifies as I wander past the last table on my way back to the kitchen. Walking amongst these men knowing I’m on fire thinking about another leaves me feeling kind of . . . dirty. I have a secret, a filthy secret. None of these guys know I’m as horny as a jackrabbit in spring, and none of them know that in T-minus two minutes I plan to be in my room sorting that problem out with a special friend of mine.
Oh, damn. I’m about to lose it.
I make it past the last diner without delay, flicking the sign on the kitchen door to ‘back in five’. After numerous times hearing my name called throughout the clubhouse when I was trying to pee, I implemented the sign system so the boys know when I’m on a bathroom break.
My heart hammers as I take the stairs two at a time. Secured in my room, I head over to my set of drawers, and dive in behind my panties and bras to get Soldier Sam. Yep, I named him: my little trooper, always ready to follow orders. I twist the end to check the batteries—don’t want them running out halfway—and let out a groan when he comes to life with vigor.
God, I need this.
Flats, off.
Jeans, off.
Panties, down.
I’m lying on my back, Soldier Sam poised at my entrance, when my phone rings.
What the fuck!
Not now, seriously, not now. I leave Sam buzzing his discord on top of my comforter, and reach over to where my phone sits on charge. ‘Call from messenger.’ Now I’m intrigued . . .
“Hello?”
“I need to hear it from you—are you involved with anyone?”
Hell’s bells, the man’s voice is so deep. I squeeze my thighs together and scramble for Sam to switch him off.
“Excuse me?”
“You sound out of breath. Did I interrupt something?” Vince asks.
My hand poises before I reach Sam. Only the beginnings of a fantasy involving you. “No, not really.”
“Liar. So?”
“So, what?”
“Jesus, woman. Where’s your head? Are you involved with anyone?”
“Why are you asking?” Honestly, what does it matter right now?
“Because your profile said you’re single, but I know how people forget to update those things, and—”
“You checked out my profile?”
“Did you not do the same?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
“Well, no . . . I . . .” am thinking I should have.
“Your answer then?”
“No, I’m not ‘involved’ with anyone.” I leave my answer to hang for a beat before asking, “Are you?”
“Not sure yet.”
My heart nose-dives to the bottom of my chest cavity and tries its best to smash through into my gut. He has another woman. He has to. There’s no way he’d be talking about me . . . is there?
“Oh. I’m sure she’s lucky you think that way about her.”
“She is. Is she okay? It seems like something’s wrong.”
Seriously? Does this jackass want me to track down his sidepiece and ask her if she’s having a good day? I stare at Sam, scowling at the idiotic thought that I was ready to use him to relieve thoughts about this guy.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” I snap in response. “I’m not your—”
“I am.”
“You mean . . .” My heart does a jig to rival Riverdance.
He chuckles, and my folds swell so quickly I’m forced to move my legs to accommodate the discomfort. What the hell is this man capable of?
“Yeah, dufus. I’m talkin’ about you.”
My hand wanders over the comforter to Sam.
“You’re the lucky girl,” he affirms.
Next speed . . .
“She’s feeling pretty good right about now.”
“What you up to? Are you in the kitchen?”
“On a break,” I purr.
“Thought I heard the mixer or something.”
Kill me now . . . “No. No mixer here.”
“Soooo . . . where are you?” His voice drips with sexual innuendo.
I cringe, knowing he’s going to be pleasantly satisfied. “In my room.”
“Doing?”
“Stuff.”
“And?”
“Things.”
The sound of Sam buzzing is all that can be heard between us. He leaves the break in conversation hanging, and it’s as effective as if he were right in front of me, staring me down. Still, I wait for him to say something, direct the conversation.
Come on. Some of us have things to do.
I explode with pent up frustration. “I’m fucking horny, okay? I’m wound up, ready to blow, Vince.”
“Jesus,” he grumbles. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Holy shit. I’m going to come just thinking about it. “Would you like that?” I manage to squeak before my voice gives out.
His answer is broken up as the phone shifts around on my shoulder. I hastily position myself on the bed.
“Put me on speaker, baby.”
My fingers fumble, pumping with the blood that rushes through me in a torrent of anticipation. His breathing echoes from the phone’s position beside me.
“Do you want me to tell you what I’m doing?” I ask.
He mumbles something incoherent, before clearing his throat and answering. “No, just let me listen.”
I’m so fucking aroused I swear to God just a picture of a man’s dick could send me over the edge about now. Slipping my fingers between my soaked folds, I skim the edge of my pussy, teasing myself a little. Only when Vince groans do I realize how heavy and needy my breathing has become.
Sweet heaven . . .
Sam slides in with well-practiced precision, and without delay, I begin pumping that dutiful soldier in and out, angling to hit
that sweet spot. I’m lost to the feeling, but at the same time acutely aware I have a lurker listening to everything I do.
I’m drenching the sheets.
“Fuck, girl. Listen to that.”
I force an eye open to look at the phone, remind me who it is I’m doing this for. My nerves are tingling, my inside throbbing. I’m ready to free-fall over that edge.
“That’s one happy-sounding pussy,” Vince grumbles, his deep voice resonating in every inch of me.
“Fuck . . . because . . . it is happy.” I let a whimper fall; it’s becoming so hard to hold on.
Vince hums his pleasure, and my ears pick up on another sound when he stops. Is he?
“Are you . . .?”
“I am.”
The slapping becomes more distinct, and fuck me, if that isn’t all it takes.
I tumble over the edge, calling out with the intensity of my orgasm, crying at how good it feels and weeping at how wrong I am to like it.
How did I think I could just switch that side of me off?
I hear him finish, his own grunts of relief, and my sobs intensify. I’m going to hell for this. I freely sullied my dead husband’s memory, forgetting him for the sake of a thrill with another man, who isn’t even here.
Vince chuckles. “Tell me now—do you miss me?”
I let out a pained wail as I smack the ‘end call’ button.
This is so wrong . . . so wrong.
• • • • •
SHE HUNG up on me.
I’m lying here, cum over my gut, and she fuckin’ hung up on me.
Yet another reason for me to wonder what exactly it is that goes on in bitches’ heads some days.
Did she think that was easy for me to do? That I fuckin’ ring women up whenever the fuck I want and get them to do that?
My mind wanders . . . that would be a pretty sweet life . . .
All the same, what the hell does she expect from me now? Women. Fuckin’ women. This is why I miss Julia the most; she wouldn’t do something weird like that. With her, I knew what I was getting—I knew where I stood.
Julia.
My fist strikes out and connects with the shitty bedside lamp. It careens across the room, and amazingly, doesn’t break. Fucked off, and more frustrated than I was when I decided to make a harebrained decision like call Sonya, I march into the bathroom to shower. The sheer sensation of my own cum running down my legs as I crank the taps on infuriates me further.
