Crazy Girl

by B. N. Toler

  “Hmm,” I continued to mumble to myself as I rolled that thought over. Every interaction I’d had with him he’d seemed as if he was straddling the line between confidence and being egotistical. He had an air of mystery about him, and I hadn’t quite decided if it was an admirable one or not. In some ways, I envied his confidence. He seemed so sure of himself, which was completely unlike me.

  With this new revelation about him, I wasn’t sure what to think, or how to feel, but I did realize there was a depth to Wren. On our first date I’d gazed upon a shallow pool of a man wishing it was deeper. I’d pigeonholed him as a puddle. Now it seemed he was a lake, maybe even an ocean. I felt something rush through me and I flinched. I so desperately wanted to be let in. He was hooking me. Damn. Damn. Damn. And there it was…that draw—that part of me that honed in on the complicated man. Someone might as well have tied a tourniquet around my arm and tapped a vein; I was itching for a fix.

  Glancing over at my cell phone, I scrunched my nose. I didn’t want to do what I was thinking about doing. My pride was shaking its fist at me, scolding me. He should text first. He said he’d call, and he didn’t. Wait it out. Be strong.

  Taking a pen from the cup on my desk, I wrote on my hand: Where are your lady-balls? It wasn’t my most eloquent inspirational reminder, but it was to the point. Picking up my phone, I began texting Wren while my pride shouted at me how weak I was.

  My pride could be such an asshole.

  Me: Hope you’re having a good day.

  After I sent it, I dropped my phone on the desk and flopped back in my chair with a groan. That was probably the dumbest text I could have sent. My pride had been right—that was a terrible idea. It was a text that didn’t warrant a response. And any response it might have inspired would be basic at best. A, yeah, you too, or thanks. Exiting out of the web browser, I decided it was time to get back to work. All I really wanted was something—anything—to make me think of anything other than the mysterious man that was Wren. I was in big trouble.

  Complicated

  Today we were doing tactical training—one of my favorite courses. Mostly because it involved guns, and like any respectable man…I loved guns. We’d just finished running a scenario and were cleaning up when I got Hannah’s text.

  Hannah: Hope you’re having a good day.

  “What are you smiling about?” Kegs asked as he tossed a bag in the back of the field truck. Jerking my head, I shoved my phone back in my pocket.

  “Nothing.”

  “Was that a text from crazy girl?” he jested, humor and teasing laced in his tone. I knew women all around the world would sneer at us calling Hannah that, but it had become a bit of joke between she and I. And I wished her no harm. The truth was, she was crazy. But in an odd twist of fate, I was equally terrified and intrigued by it. “She’s got you smiling at your phone. Man, you’re whipped already.”

  After slamming the tailgate shut, I flipped him off. “You should talk.” I snorted. Kegs had been married for seven years and was three kids deep. His wife Tracey lived states away, which sucked majorly. But he made damn good money working here, so it was a sacrifice they were willing to make. Hopefully he’d be able to move them all here soon. For now, Kegs went home at the end of every course for a week or more, depending on when our next group of students would arrive. The distance might test the limits of some marriages, but it only seemed to strengthen Kegs and Tracey’s. But if he was going to start talking about a man being whipped…he was the definition of it. So I wasn’t taking any of his crap.

  Once we were in the truck, Kegs drove us back to the facility. Taking my phone out, I debated texting Hannah back. I’d felt bad about not calling her last night like I’d told her I would, but I was honest when I’d told her it had been a long day. One of our students had broken an ankle and anytime someone got injured it involved a shit-ton of paperwork. By the time I’d made it home I was dog-shit tired and just wanted to go to bed. I wished I could say that kind of long day was rare, but it tended to be more common than not. Which was the main culprit for why I was still single.

  “You going to text her, or just sit there and stare at your phone?” Kegs asked as he pulled into the facility parking lot.

  I needed to text her back. There was no question about that. The real question was…with what? Grimacing at the thought, I decided to take a few minutes to think about it. I knew what she wanted. She wanted what most women wanted. Attention. Interest. I was interested, though a tad terrified of her, and she had my attention, no doubt, but my work schedule, coupled with the distance between us, was going to make things complicated. Still, I kept coming back. I had no idea what kind of baggage she was carrying emotionally, but it wasn’t hard to see she’d been burned by someone. Women like that tended to need a bit more…of everything. And I barely had enough to give a woman who only needed enough. The last thing I wanted to do was be yet another man to disappoint her. It was one of those moments, as a man, when what you want is fighting what you think is right. I wanted her, but the right thing to do would be to let her go. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted, fisting my cell in my lap. “I was just thinking our schedule is nuts, and she’s the kind of woman that’s going to need attention and time. Time I don’t have. I should have never gotten anything started with her.”

  Putting the truck in park, he cut the ignition. “You gonna cut her loose?”

  I winced a little with his words. I didn’t like the sound of that. But that had been what I was thinking, wasn’t it? That I should just let her go; end it now, so I don’t hurt her or waste anyone’s time.

  Sighing, I scrubbed my face with one hand. “I should.”

  “Wren, this schedule is always going to be nuts. It’s kind of like the military. When someone dates, or marries someone in the military, they marry the life and sacrifices that come with it. If you like the woman, you should at least give her a chance to decide if she can deal with it or not. Don’t decided for her. Women hate that shit.”

  “Well thanks, Dr. Phil,” I chuckled. “I had no idea you were so well versed in women. Does Tracey know about this?”

  He snorted a laugh. “It’s not Dr. Phil—it’s Dr. Love. And she’s very well aware, thank you very much.”

  I was grinning as we climbed out of the truck. Kegs was probably one of the funniest people I knew. I think that’s one of the reasons our friendship worked so well; we were both sarcastic as hell and could have a conversation with depth without making it sound like we were a bunch of women discussing our feelings and shit.

  Grabbing the bags out of the back of the truck, we trudged inside. “We’re running that security scenario on Saturday. Why don’t you see if she wants to play a part?”

  Twisting my mouth, I tilted my head in thought. That wasn’t a bad idea. Plus, it would allow me to work and hang out with her. I just hoped she’d be willing to make the trek down here. Kegs was right. The right thing to do was to give her a fair shot.

  Once we’d put everything away, Kegs left for the cafeteria while I hung behind in one of the empty classrooms so I could call Hannah. I wasn’t a huge fan of talking on the phone. But for her, I’d make an exception.

  “Hello,” she answered, her voice soft but sounding surprised. I guessed she hadn’t expected me to call. Or maybe she was surprised at the timing—it was in the middle of a work day.

  “Hey, chica, how ya doing today?” I cringed. What the fuck was that? That had sounded weird. This was exactly why I hated phone calls.

  “I’m good. How are you?”

  “Sweaty,” I admitted, swiping my hand across my forehead, which was still damp with perspiration. “We just got back in from field training. It’s damn hot outside today.”

  “Yeah. I feel lucky I have an indoor job.” She was joking around. Always a good sign.

  There was a brief pause and I decided to cut to the chase. “So I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come to work with me on Saturday.” I hoped it didn’t sound as lame
as it had come out.

  “Yeah?” she questioned, yet again surprised.

  “Well, this might be too much too soon, and if it is…and you feel uncomfortable with it, it’s fine. I was thinking if you were free, and didn’t mind making the drive out here, you could come down tomorrow and we could have dinner. You know, get to know my world a bit. You could stay at my house…crash in the guest room,” I quickly added. I didn’t want her to think I thought we’d be hooking up that night, “And you could go to work with me Saturday.”

  “Umm…” she mumbled. “You’re sure me joining you at work will be okay?”

  I rolled my eyes. Always the worrywart. “Yes, Hannah,” I answered plainly. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think it was okay.” Ouch. I grimaced at my words. I’d sounded abrasive, harsh even. Reason number eight million I was single. I knew my patience threshold was short. I struggled with understanding people who approached things with reservation. I knew she was only trying to make sure, but again, why would I ask if I hadn’t known it was okay?

  “Okay,” she grumbled. Clearly, judging by her tone, she hadn’t liked my answer either.

  “I didn’t mean to sound rude,” I clarified. “Sorry.”

  There was a long pause and I just knew the next words out of her mouth would either be no, I can’t or let me think about it.

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “Well, actually, I have a property I need to go look at. Would you want to go? Then we could go to dinner?” This entire thing sounded awful. I was basically asking her to drive to BFE and run errands with me and then go to work. I realized while I’d been aiming to just try and figure out a way to see her—spend time with her—it probably sounded more like I was squeezing her in. I was doing a stellar job at shitting all over this invite.

  “Okay,” she murmured. “What time?”

  Widening my eyes in shock, I answered, “Could you be here by five? I know that’s kind of early on a work day—”

  “Fridays are writing days for me, so I can make it work.”

  Writing day…yes, she’s a writer. I hadn’t really asked her much about that. I clenched my eyes closed. Damn, I’m an asshole. Where the hell had my head been? She probably thought I didn’t give a shit. I made a mental note to ask her more about it when I saw her tomorrow.

  “Okay, good,” I stammered. I really needed this call to end before I said something else terrible. “I’ll text you my address.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Well…” I fumbled for what to say next, or how to get the hell off the phone without sounding like a dick. “Have a good afternoon.”

  She chuckled. Why, I wasn’t sure. “You too, Wren. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  After hitting end on the call, I let out a deep breath. All and all, the call had gone well. She was coming to my place. I blinked a few times at that thought. Shit. Was this a good idea?

  “A writer should write what he has to say and not speak it.”

  -Ernest Hemingway

  Yanking my shirt a few times, I attempted to fan air to my body, specifically my armpits that were sweating profusely. God, I was nervous. Glancing at my phone where I had it clipped on my dashboard, I noted the GPS app said I had ten minutes until I arrived at my destination. Was I crazy for doing this?

  Yes.

  Yes, I was.

  I’d agreed to spend the night at Wren’s house.

  Why in the hell had I done that?

  We barely knew each other, and one out of the two times we had spent time together was awful. If tonight went poorly, then that would be two out of three leaning toward this whole thing being a huge waste of time. Not to mention, really stupid when it came to my safety. I didn’t know why I trusted him, but I did, was my only conclusion.

  I’d been shocked, in a good way, when he called and asked me to come down. But even with the excitement of having an opportunity to find out more about this enigma of a man, there was reservation. Not only was he talking about another date, but also seeing a property with him, staying at his house, and going to work with him. Our budding relationship—if that’s even what I could call it—was fragile. Would this much time together be too much too soon? I worried it might be. However, my curiosity outweighed my concerns. Seeing Wren in his own element, in his home and on the job, would no doubt offer me a lot of insight about him, something I desired greatly.

  Then there was the big elephant in the room…the stay overnight and the possibilities that came with it. I wasn’t a mutant. Wren was the kind of man no woman could resist, and I was a flesh and bone woman with needs like any other, but I wasn’t easy either. Just “hooking up” wasn’t me. In my younger days, there had been a casual encounter or two, not one-night stands, but short relationships that fizzled when the chemistry ebbed. But that felt like eons ago, and I was a different woman now. I knew something like that would only be a temporary balm and afterward I’d regret it. My body wasn’t some precious, innocent vessel and I wasn’t a saint, but sex was different for me now. I needed it to feel all-consuming, like a mind and body experience. I was a changed kind of lover now—a better one. The insecurities about my body I’d once possessed were gone, I was comfortable in my own skin, and it was liberating. When a woman sheds that kind of negative thinking, it gives her a freedom that makes sex go from good to incredible. I also knew how to ask for what I wanted—what felt good and to never fake my pleasure. Okay, sometimes a woman has to fake…sometimes. But I wasn’t a fan. And I also knew pleasing my lover was just as important as him pleasing me. Openness was key.

  I released my lower lip from between my teeth and yanked at my shirt, fanning myself again. Ugh. I was nervous. Why was I thinking about this? It felt like an eternity since the last time I was intimate with a man, and I couldn’t deny that there was an ache there—that itch that had been left unscratched for quite some time. Having such deep ideals about sex while in my early thirties didn’t do me any favors. The world today moved fast, a blur of options. It seemed if a woman wasn’t up for a hookup right out of the gate, there was always another woman, or ten, behind her that would be. I had no judgement for women like this; I was all about female power. If a woman wants it, she should have it. But again, it made it hard for a woman like myself. I wasn’t as free. And these promiscuous women weren’t at all to blame. It was men—a lot of them seemed so one-minded. They weren’t interested in the chase. It was heartbreaking to see sometimes. It seemed the novelty of dating in the past had changed. It used to be two people dated, invested time, and built toward intimacy, now it seemed intimacy came first and then time invested if you were lucky.

  My stomach knotted with those thoughts. I wanted a relationship. I wanted someone to give all the good I had in me to, but God, I was terrified. After being burned so badly, now I was in a constant state of feeling like I needed to flee the thing I wanted most. Then I hated myself for even wanting it. I didn’t need a man, obviously. I wanted one. I wanted the comfort of love; companionship. Feminists would probably scoff at me, but it was true. I missed being part of something with someone I cared for and loved. Because who didn’t want to be loved?

  As I pulled in Wren’s driveway, I inhaled deeply and tried to release all my worries with my exhale. His house was nice, a little bigger than mine. He had several vehicles in his driveway; his huge truck, which I’d seen, a BMW, and a tricked-out SUV with roof lights. When I parked my car—or should I say my brother’s ancient beater car that he was letting me drive because my financial life was shit—I gripped my steering wheel. Seeing Wren’s house and the automobiles didn’t scream wealth, but it said he was doing well for himself. Leaps and bounds ahead of me. A feeling of inferiority set in. I wasn’t jealous of him, or what it appeared he had; obviously he worked hard and had earned it, I just hated the knowledge I was not on somewhat equal footing. I used to be. But no longer. Life could be funny that way. Moments before I had been thinking about how I was more secure sexually because I was older and
wiser. It was in all other aspects of my life I was a fucking wreck.

  After giving myself a little pep talk, I climbed out of the beater and made my way up Wren’s walk. I was only a few feet from reaching his stoop when my shoe caught on something, causing me to trip. I stumbled, but caught myself before completely face planting.

  “You should wear a helmet, woman. You’re a walking disaster,” Wren greeted, and he chuckled causing me to jerk my head up. He was standing on his porch, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his shirt tight, revealing the defined curves of his muscular biceps. He had a hat on, tugged down low, accentuating the sharpness of his face, even with his beard. My cheeks heated as I looked away from him. Could I just not be the most ridiculous person in the world every time I was in his vicinity? I mean, really. And to top it off, he had to be standing there watching me trip like a doofus while he looked hot. Perfect. Controlled. On two feet.

  I let out a small, quiet groan. Maybe it was because I didn’t respond, or maybe because he saw how flustered I felt, but the humored expression on his face faded and he took a step down extending his hand out to me, offering assistance. “You okay?” He was going to keep saving me, wasn’t he? I wanted to groan again. One time. Just once I’d like to not appear like a hot mess.

  “I’m fine. Thanks,” I managed before taking his hand. I didn’t need his help, but I felt it would be rude to reject his offer when he was actually trying to be nice.

  Opening the front door for me, he let me in first and followed closely behind me, shutting it. I stood frozen, one hand gripping the strap of my purse, waiting for him to instruct me on where to go. “Welcome to my home,” he announced as he waved an arm out as if presenting me with a prize I’d just won on a gameshow. He already knew my house was crap.

  We were standing in his living room next to a large leather sectional couch stationed in front of a huge flat screen television. His furniture was dark and modern, exactly what I’d imagine in a bachelor pad. Walking past me, he went to the kitchen that was divided from the living room by a breakfast counter with gray granite countertop. Judging by the papers scattered over it and his open laptop, I wagered he used it more as a desk than a place to eat. Still, it was more than I had. Following him, I gazed around, noting things as I moved—the tiny fiber-optic Christmas tree in the corner that he’d apparently never bothered to take down after Christmas, the Xbox remotes and holstered knife on the coffee table, and the endless amounts of bullets scattered all over the counters. Those would take some getting used to. Opening the fridge, he twisted his neck and looked at me over his shoulder.