Heartache. She has many faces. When I had my heart broken for the first time it wasn't just a boy who stomped all over my heart, it was me who let him. No free pass for him though, he sucked. But, I can't put all the blame on him. He disrespected me again and again. My time, my body, my family, and I let him. Arguably my fault.

I was a junior in high school. Smart, creative, sarcastic, self assured, and self conscious of my looks. In a small rural school everyone knew everyone. My crush from the 6th grade was still my crush junior year. But after all those years he hadn't shown any interest. I was convinced I wasn't much to look at, wasn't worth anyone's time. But, that spring his number popped up in my phone. It kept popping up for the next two months, I was shocked. Did he like me?

This boy was an athlete, responsible, tall, and on track to be Valedictorian. A parents dream? So it seemed. I thought we had a lot in common, I thought he was quite a catch. I treated him as such, gushing over him to my friends, waiting on his every text. And maybe I should have see the red flags, but I joyfully ignored them. I was a naïve princess skipping through a forest fire, completely oblivious if you can imagine that.

At the beginning I think he truly liked me. But, looking back on it, that time was short lived. After a couple months he began to cancel our dates. "I'll pick you up at 5." I would spend the whole day getting ready, shower, shave, moisturize, stress. Five would roll around and nothing. My stomach in knots. After ten minutes or so another text would come in, "Hey I'm not feeling good, I can't come over." We'd do this little dance at least once or twice a week. Strange though, for all the times he "wasn't feeling well" he never missed a single day of school, or baseball game. But, like a young girl in love I ignored this.

My parents and brother saw right through this charade, trying softly to tell me this wasn't right. But, I ignored their warnings, happily planning date after date. Somewhere in this timeline he told me he loved me. That was the fatal shot. Nothing he did could make me question his words. "But he loves me." It went farther of course. I won't rehash what happened behind closed doors. But, the classic story of popular athlete and insecure girl, where no doesn't seem to mean anything isn't too far off.

So there I was, ten months into the relationship. Miserable, tired, angry underneath it all, and I still wanted to be with him. He was coming over on Thursday night. I was waiting for the text that he couldn't make it. But, I got a different text from a friend, "Hey just so you know, Scott was telling people that he's breaking up with you." Was I shocked? No, he hadn't said he loved me in weeks, but I guess I never took the hint. He picked me up in his grey truck. Opened the door for me without a word. I could feel it building up between us.

He didn't apologize, he didn't sympathize. Just said he was done, he didn't love me any more, and he really didn't want to try to work things out. Was this the part where he broke my heart? No, not exactly, he had broken my heart nearly every day for months. But this was the day I broke my own heart. I sat in that stupid truck with that mean, stupid boy and I begged him to stay, I asked him to love me, to try just one more time. How embarrassing.

It has taken me a long time to forgive myself for that day, for the whole thing really. I had spent my whole life thinking I was independent, smart, a girl with a good head on my shoulders. But, when a tall boy who I thought was a "good guy" broke me down and disrespected me in every way possible I let him right in. So, all of this goes to say, listen to your parents when they tell you someone is a piece of shit.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

First off, let me say to the winning entry for last week: I did a long deep-dive into your profile after the narration and congratulations, then my entire setup crashed, rebooted just fine, but trashed a large chunk of the edited video. We'll make it up to you soon with a feature, stand on us. And: Congrats!!!! You wrote one hell of a story.

Also featured is a poem by one of our veteran writers, and it put the staff in a good and somber mood, in all the best ways. See all of this and the new Challenge of the Week just below this sentence.

https://youtu.be/lVdq_kwxGm4

https://theprose.com/challenge/14067

And.

As Always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Dear God, what have I done?

This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice. She is half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, and her neck is bent at an impossibly strange angle. I can only pray that she dies soon. I thought maybe she was dead already, until I saw a tear fall from her eye, and watch her drag in a strangled and tortured breath.

Sweet Jesus.

I follow her gaze, and realize she is staring at my body. I have no doubt I am dead, since the blood and brains that are leaking around my crushed skull are spreading out into the rain-wet street as the first sirens cry in the distance.

I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted and cruel version of that Christmas story with the ghosts. I can't remember the fucking name now, but I remember every detail of the scene I am being forced to witness.

Worse than knowing what is going to happen at the end of the night, is my utter impotency to prevent any of it.

The office Christmas party was supposed to be a fun evening, to let our proverbial hair down. I see Janice, looking gorgeous in her red gown, and I watch myself pour a third vodka tonic. This was all my fault. I watch as I toss the drink back, without even batting an eye. I was always so proud of my ability to handle my liquor.

I watch as I weave slightly on my trip to the bathroom. Asshole!

In the bathroom, I take a piss, then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I pull out the small vial, and use the little spoon on my key ring to snort just enough coke to straighten my gait and put me back in control. I even winked at myself. I so wish I could stop what happens next, but I am stuck as an observer.

I leave the bathroom, and head back to the open bar. Janice scowls at me. No, I thought so then, but now I can see the look of concern in her eyes. That look is followed by pity, and then reluctant acceptance. At the bar, I was just pissed that she didn't trust me to know my own limit, so I poured a fourth drink, and when I catch her eye, I even take a swig from the bottle, before replacing the stopper.

The events after that are a little blurry, until we are getting ready to leave the party. I take a last trip to the bathroom, and finish off the stash in the vial. My eyes are a little red in my reflection, but I am once more in control, and the edges come back into focus. I grin at myself, never realizing the next time I would see my own face, it would be oddly squished from being run over by a car.

I must have pulled off the sober routine well, because no one tried to make sure she drove us home. How I wish someone had.

In the car, we started arguing. I was trying to convince her I was fine to drive, and she kept messing with her purse, and whining at me that she needed to talk to me. I yelled at her to shut up, that we would talk at home. I didn't notice the tears I am watching course down her cheeks, or see what she had taken out of her purse.

Oh God, no!

She is holding a pregnancy test stick, and I can see two pink lines.

I feel sick to my stomach, but I don't have an actual body, so I can only suffer through more pain and regret than humans were designed to endure.

I watch the bridge come into view, and Janice turns her face away from mine. I see myself looking at her, and I remember I was pissed that she was crying, and ruining my Christmas Eve. We start across the bridge doing 52. The limit is 55, so I am good in the old speed department.

I scream silently at myself not to look away from the road, but instead I see myself look over at Janice one last time. A small hiccup and a muscle spasm at just the wrong time, and the wheel jumps in my hand.

Time slows to a crawl, and I watch in slow motion as we careen headfirst into a semi coming the other way. I see us both fly through the windshield, which shatters into thousands of small fragments. I watch as Janice flips end over end, and hear the snap as she lands on the edge of the sidewalk, and I watch her head assume that strange, almost alien angle, bending in a place that was never meant to bend. I see myself land in the road, just as the car that was following the truck swerves around it, both of its passenger side tires lifting and bouncing as they run over my head. The popping noise sounds like a champagne bottle releasing its cork, and I suddenly find myself back above the scene watching it all.

The emergency vehicles are pulling up and blocking the road as the rain begins to fall in earnest.

Dear God, what have I done?

This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice, again, half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, her neck still bent at that impossibly strange angle. I pray once again that she dies soon, and I once more watch a tear fall from her eye as she takes a strangled and tortured breath.

Sweet Jesus.

As I follow her gaze to where my body lay, broken, bleeding and all together dead, I once more hear the sirens crying in the distance.

No, God! Please, not again!

I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted version of that fucking Christmas story with the ghosts, whatever it is called. I can't remember that, but I do remember I have done this before. Many times.

Maybe this is my punishment. Experiencing every second of the evening, over and over. I hope that mercy is also part of God's plan, even for assholes like me. These thoughts become fainter, as I watch myself weave slightly, on my trip to the bathroom, with the coke vial calling my name from my pocket...

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© 2023 dustygrein

I know exactly what you mean when you say you don’t like dogs. My dog General Sherman doesn’t like dogs either. He especially doesn’t like all the butt sniffing, although he will get carried away on occasion, particularly with that cute little doodle dog down the road, but he’s always ashamed of himself after, you know, when he drops down to the olfactory level. But then we all have moments we are not proud of, don’t we?

But then, The General is not your typical dog. In fact, he is a-typical in that he not only considers himself above other dogs, but above humans as well. No small part of his uppitiness stems from his law degree, which he shamelessly acquired just to prove a point to me, and he managed to gain admittance without even bothering to learn to read. You see, he convinced the registrar at Tulane that she was being discriminatory by not letting him in. To prove it, he asked her to look up the percentage of enrollee’s identifying as trans-canine (he is snipped, you understand), and the bleeding heart blue hair not only admitted him after finding that the actual number was zero, but she offered him a belly rub as well! (He is his father’s dog.)

But he had to finish his studies online, as I would not let him take the truck down. That and he suffers anxiety when separated from Pooky-Bear. The online courses proved easy enough for him, as he is a very smart dog. Most of the exams were multiple choice, and General Sherman quickly picked up that the longest answer on multiple choice questions is always the right one. It’s college y’all, not rocket science. Everything else he needed to know about the Bar he learned by watching Orson Welles in the 1959 classic, “Compulsion,” (which is also where The General gained his penchants for mustaches, cigars and smoking jackets).

But anyways, like most graduates today The General now owns his doctorate, the prerequisite $600k in debt that comes with it, and his unemployment benefits, which should take care of his loans by the time he is 70 (in people years. For those slower at math, that is 490-ish in dog years), so of course Sherman is praying for a Sleepy Joe second term college debt bailout, which places him on the wrong side of my conservative political leanings, but those damned colleges are indoctrinating them all these days.

Sheesh, if it wasn’t for all of that stupid college debt he figures he could have had his own bass boat by now… and a Target swimsuit for his Olympic qualifier! (If you missed that post, General Sherman has decided to swim as a female, as it not only improves his chances of a gold medal, but the women’s suits fit his tail better.)

But anyways, I digress. The fact of the matter is, since transitioning the General no longer has much use for other dogs, and would just as soon they stayed the hell out of his yard and off of his television, as every time they appear it drives him up the freakin’ wall.

And truthfully, it does me too. Stupid dogs.

The image which haunts Lorelei is an unexpected one. It is not a memory of moonlit trysts, or discreet midday rendezvous, though there had been plenty of those. In fact, she could hardly recall those moments anymore, they having faded into the fog of times past as her love for Julien somehow grew stronger in the wake of their lived, though unshared tragedy.

No, the image that remained with Lorelei was the memory of three bronzed young men sweating under a brassy summer sun, the trio working together, building a home for the one of them who was newly wed, with each striving to outdo the others in front of the new bride, and each having reason to want to.

The young men worked together in the same manner in which they had played as boys, missing no opportunity to either whole-heartedly help one another, or to light-heartedly slander one another’s efforts, whichever the situation called for in the moment. And from the sidelines Lorelei watched her home rise from their calloused, but caring hands the same way she’d watched them as a child, wanting to be a part, but knowing she would be in their way. The boys had been the best of friends for as far back as Lorelei could remember, clear back to when she was little more than a babe watching their hi-jinx from the prison-like confines of her shaded porch, longing to be big enough to join them in the yard for their games. Lorelei had loved these three all her life long.

The first of the three boyhood friends was her own brother Michael, four years Lorelei’s senior and forever her idol; the boy who could do no wrong in her eyes, nor in the eyes of any other in their small town. Beautiful, smart, athletic, and the self-proclaimed protector of his younger sister. That was her Michael.

The second of the boys would become her husband. Julien, the dusty and brash one. Even as a boy Julien had seemed larger than life, and had grown into a man even bigger. Julien first swore to marry Lorelei when she was seven years old, and he twelve. She would never forget the jiggly feeling inside her when Julien had first taken her tiny, vulnerable hands in his own. She had committed herself to Julien then and there, before she was old enough to know what love was, as he gazed straight-away through her eyes and into her soul while solemnly vowing to her, "Don't laugh, Lorelei. I am going to marry you, I swear it. So you must promise me now that you will never love another."

Unable to voice a response, Lorelei had given affirmation to his childish promise with the nod of her head, though even back then she had known the nod was a lie. But she never, all through the years, doubted that Julien had meant his vow, as he took pains to remind her over the course of their lives by insisting that he be the first to hold her hand, and the first to kiss her lips. Julien had been her first for nearly everything.

The third boy, though. It was that third boy whom Lorelei’s fascination revolved around. Rainey, the quiet boy. Rainey was Lorelei's true, if secret love. She had never once looked at Rainey Davan (and she had looked at him a million-billion times) without longing. But Poor Rainey never promised Lorelei anything. He was too quiet, too shy. In all those years Rainy rarely even spoke to her that his tawny cheeks did not blush pink. But he was always there, quietly in the background, quick to help, or quick to hug. And their eyes always met, and her heart always flinched, but there was always Julien between them... right up until that night when he wasn't.

Julien was away at college, Rainey was not. Their meeting that night was accident, or fate, who knows which? The dock was her quiet place, so she was startled, if not disappointed, to find Rainey there sitting alone in the dark. She sat down beside him, their bare feet dangling in the cool water, he as quiet as always while crickets, and bullfrogs, and lightning bugs made light of the solemness surrounding them.

”Are you really going to marry him?”

”Yes. I suppose.”

His breath became ragged. “What will I do then?”

The despair clotting his throat was too much for Lorelei to bare. She would never hurt Rainey for anything, so her hand found his lying on the weathered boards of the dock and rested gently atop it. She could not see his face in the darkness, but she could feel his warmth, and the pulsing of his heart as her own sensed it’s anguish.

”You have waited too long, Rainey. He has already asked me, and I have already said yes.” They were the proper words, though in their own longing they lacked the necessary conviction.

”He claimed you when we were ten.”

”He has always loved me.”

”So have I.”

And rhythmic waves slapped the dock, rocking them. And cool winds caressed their skin, chilling them. And a waning moon shone, speckling black the water, illuminating their furtive love in it’s pale light. And so it happened that Julien was not the first for everything.

Of course, Julien returned come spring, a budding lawyer. The wedding was in the fall, with winter whispering the breeze, and secrets shadowing the leaves. And the honeymoon was long for her, and the Keys as quiet as Rainey, and the ocean as restless as she. And man and wife secretly pretended it was the first time as they explored one another, sharing themselves as love requires. For she did love Julien. He was easy to love. He made love easy. So it was with a surprising unsavoriness that Lorelei discovered what she had always conjectured; that one can indeed love two.

But how could she ever be happy with two? And how could she ever be happy now with one?

A daughter came first, with Rainey’s eyes, then a son with Julian’s. And the girl was shy, and the boy clever, and Julien watched them both grow with interest, but if he wondered he never did so aloud.

And Rainey and Michael went into business together, building houses, and Julien‘s practice grew, and the three of them became as successful as the little town would and could allow them to be, and all were happy, but one. And Rainey Davan never married, and everyone knew why, but one. But the secrets never told themselves, nor the whispers, and her guilt consumed her from the inside out, and Lorelei wondered that Julien never wondered.

It was a weeknight, when her brother Michael was murdered. Lorelei could remember exactly which night, it being her last one with Rainey. Being in business together it was easy for the law to assume Rainey a motive, and so it did, and so the town did, particularly when a witness came forward, declaring the height to be right, and the build… though the witness had not seen the face.

Of course Julien defended Rainey. Julien‘s show was compelling, too, but whispers are too much for truth, and secrets, so Rainey hanged as they all knew he would. Lorelei watched from her husband’s side as her other half died. And though her breath caught once, she did not cry, nor he. She could not, could she? But she could have told. And she wondered that he didn’t? Ever the quiet one, Rainey Davan, right up to the last. Always too quiet for his own good.

But love does not end with death, and Lorelei’s did not. And in the dark of night she slipped away to one love, as always. And as always, the other love watched her go. And as always, the one patiently awaited her. And as always, the other roiled behind.

But she was not bitter as her finger blindly traced the name carved in the stone. How could she be, when she was alive, and still able to love? And she wondered at the behaviors love inspires? For it was love that kept Rainey quiet, when an alibi would save him. Just as it was love kept her quiet, when that alibi was she.

And love reveals itself to each of us differently; some cheating for it, others dying for it, and some? Well, some will kill to keep it.

And that kind of love is still love, is it not?

That killing kind of love is still love.

(Inspired by Lefty Frizell/ Johnny Cash’s “Long Black Veil”. I am personally partial to Lefty’s haunting voice on this tune, but either will skin the cat.)

I sit back and stare as the empty bottle rotates around in a circular motion. With every revolution, the sound of glass on wood creating a trance like vibration takes me into a faraway state of mind. Although this doesn't last long, I take in every damn second and try to forget what's occurred over the last 48 hours. Two legs on the ground and two legs suspended in the air, I lean back in this old rickety chair to try and get an eye level glimpse into the now at rest empty vessel. Peering in, I see nothing, I see an empty void that was once full of promise and courage. Hmm, seems all too familiar. My hands gripping the table as I balance this mental act seem to slip, leaving only a dusty outline of what once was. Stability. My back to the floor and face to the ceiling, I was realizing this was it. The screams the violence and lives taken way before their time the money made and the time spent all for what? I knew this wouldn't last, but also couldn't break free of the life of deceit and power. With nowhere to run and only the clothes on my back, I slowly put my ear to the floor, hearing the sounds of footsteps racing up the stairs. I frantically reach for my pistol but quickly give up, this was a new unwelcoming feeling as I've fought my way out of many battles, but this felt different. I've always listened to my inner feelings, and yet this is what my gut told me. I still want to live. Eyes closed and heart steady, I wait for my demise. SMASH!!! The old frail door flew off its hinges and a burst of lights flooded the dark grungy atmosphere. I hear muffles of yelling, but my mind holds quiet. I don't move. With my eyes held tightly shut in darkness, a warm red glow starts to flood my pinched inner sockets like a warm sunny day at the beach. I was absolutely mortified of this day coming and now that it has I feel a sense of clarity and level handedness like a weight being lifted off my crumbling shoulders. As the days turn to nights and my feelings of being alone now sit content in my body. Being in isolation has never been foreign to me. Throughout my criminal career you are taught through harsh reality's that being alone is what keeps you alive and look I'm still alive. Days turn to months, and hatred turns to compassion. Although, no matter how much you try to reconcile the past, it will never leave you. The only thing you can do is hope to change the future. Looking down at the concrete floor in my new dwelling, I hear the cold metal door slowly squeak open. Back facing the door, I feel the all too familiar cold sensation of metal grasping my wrists. The feeling never goes away. I knew the next steps of this process can drag on for what seems to be an eternity. Dressed like my formal self in a lavish three-piece suit felt like going back in time, although who I was then isn't who I'm now. Looking to my left and to my right, my ever so confident advisors give me looks of promise and hope for a second chance. The opportunity to be free rushes in my mind, as this was the goal from the beginning. Lastly, I look around the room at all the broken faces looking back at me, only to find myself in a state of questioning everything. The thought of possibly being free floods my mind, but so does the thought of being in a state of mental prison for the rest of my life. Making those already suffering have to relive the nightmare and torment again hit me like a ton of bricks. Enough fighting the pain of guilt. I know I can't go back in time and right my wrongs, however the outcome of this journey is all in my hands I thought. I slowly stood up with the feeling of the guard's hand on my shoulder, I proceeded to repeat over and over... Guilty your honor. I change my plea from innocent to guilty. It was silent in the room, and so was my struggle for physical freedom.

There's a lot of countries that do not have 911.

What I mean here is in the event of an emergency - you do your best.

I think of this a lot whenever I have anxiety, which might seem counterintuitive, but it actually helps me relax. Because I have a magic number I can dial to summon help, 24/7. Does it matter if they get there in time or I can afford it? Nope.

For a brief period of my life I lived without this magic number. Not only no magic number, but very little safety net whatsoever. We would probably classify it as a third world country; I was in a car accident (van tipped over, jostling everybody inside not wearing seat belts, crawled out the busted windshield after trying not to fall on the people below me) and had to call colleagues to come pick me up from the side of the road at 2 AM. Luckily no injuries; that coulda been harder to handle.

Yet strangely nobody really had anxiety there. Not like here where we stress over paying the rent or making a difference in our career. Those weren't even considerations. You just lived. Like a can getting kicked down the road, life just happened - you didn't have to think about it that hard. It would work out. You asked people for help when you needed it, you did what you had to do, done. There might be a sense of "Gosh, life could be better," whenever you watched the media and saw all those richer countries portraying their cultures and big, shiny homes; but your choices and options were limited so there was no sense of "Man, I'm not making it because I don't have that." You enjoyed what you had and you seized opportunities as they came. So much simpler.

I forget that sometimes as I'm getting older now. I forget that I can actually just sit back and do the bare minimum, and life will keep going. I don't have to think about it or stress about it; I just get up again tomorrow. I can enjoy what I have and seize opportunities as they come. It's not really more complex here it just feels that way sometimes.

I've struggled lately and thought I should try to get some therapy. But, similar to that magic number, I've had trouble getting therapy for most of my life. Would it be nice to have that psych sitting there and helping me out? Sure.

But if it doesn't happen, meh. Life will keep going.

I'll get up again tomorrow.

Eventually, slowly, I'll enjoy what I have.

One day, maybe awhile away, I'll seize an opportunity.

Meanwhile, for now, I just remember my magic number. I remember how nice it feels to have one. And I remind myself that even when I didn't have it, everything worked out okay. Because I can handle life. It doesn't require that much thought.

And maybe somebody else who can't see that needs that psych right now more than me.

You will believe everything is amazing, but to be honest theirs gonna be rough time many rough times but whatever you do you have to get through it. Theirs gonna be people you wanna date but before you do know them longer get to know them become friends first. They will lie to you, they'll tell you they love you in reality, their toxic. Stay away from this guy who's gonna be your stepdad. Tell mom the truth before she marries him. Your gonna begin to like the same gender, don't listen to the comments people say because theirs nothing wrong with loving someone. You will wanna disappear, but remember your loved. Tell Chuck you love him and give him the biggest hug. No matter what remind him you care and love him. You will be bullied for years but instead of letting them hurt at you laugh and walk away. People will act like your a disease but remember to continue to treat them with kindness. Your dad will be in and out of your life don't let it get you down he's selfish he isn't gonna change, just let him go. Your brothers are gonna be annoying and crazy just be annoying back. Warn the boys theirs gonna be a kid named Clay make sure they never hang out, he will get you into a-lot of trouble. Love every person with your whole heart. Your gonna be taken advantage of hurt so many times. You only see the good in people not the bad instead of looking at the bad times the good always jut pops up. Don't give people the time of day if they don't care if they hurt you. You are an amazing person, your beautiful, and perfect don't ever forget that. Always dress Gothic though. Instead of thinking about girls or boys focus on your grades your future is more important. If someone messes up once ditch them. Your smart even if you say some dumb things, we all have our flaws and instead of focusing on them, your flaws are who you are. People will stare and say thing but just smile at them and wave. Don't draw in the tiny red bible that you didn't know was one. Never listen to country music it's boring. Remember you don't have to not eat to be beautiful you already are. Don't say no i'm not when people compliment on you, it will help your self-esteem. Don't let some 40 year old destroy you, your not worthless, your not a monster or sociopath. Your past does not define who you are. Like I said things are gonna be rough their will be days you can't shower or get out of bed do it anyways hang out with people instead of being in your room. You got this, their might be bumps but theirs always some light in the darkness. Love yourself

Love,

future you

Slender Legs in black silk stockings splayed as I rode the wooden chair, every man anticipating my next move, when I saw him- the only man in the room looking into my eyes. I tried to avoid looking directly back at him as I continued my chair gymnastics. Instead, I glanced in the mirror behind the stage and found that he was doing the same thing. Again, with those eyes on mine reflecting back at me.

As the song ‘Fever’, by Peggy Lee poured out of the speakers, drowning the audience in sizzling heat, I began the stocking routine, wearing only my heels, stockings, and a sequined G-String that barely covered the important parts. From a perfect Chinese split on the chair, I leaned back, pulled my legs together delicately, then extended them over my head, dropping my high heels casually on the stage floor.

Slipping my right toe into the top of my left stocking I smoothly glided it off my leg and dropped it into a puff of black silk next to my heels. I did the same with the other leg, and you could have heard a pin drop in that place. There is something of a little boy in every man that is fascinated by a woman removing her stockings. It was a very popular show.

Despite the crowd’s attention, I kept my eyes on the man who was keeping his eyes on me. Every time I surreptitiously tried to peek over at ‘him’, his eyes bored into me, leaving me breathless and blushing. What the heck was wrong with me? I was supposed to be making them breathless and blushing. It was a train wreck, and I was about to become a casualty, but I could not look away.

After my show, I scooped up the discarded gown, and undergarments then slipped my shoes and robe on before descending into the crowd from the stage. I examined the room for another exit to the hotel that did not take me past ‘his’ table. I wasn’t certain I could walk past ‘him’ without tripping over my own feet.

He could have been an axe murderer, and with my past experiences with men, he probably was.

I tried to look anywhere but at ‘him’ on my way to the hotel door. As I neared ‘his’ table I heard a low rumble aimed my way, “Excuse me, Miss?”

Good Lord, I could have gotten very used to that growl whispering into my ear in the dark. It brought goosebumps out all over me and I shivered in my heels and robe, not from the cold. All of those fleshly demons had crawled out of my curly hair to play, egging me on. ‘You know you want him. Go for it!’

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” I remarked casually…Liar, liar, liar, pants on fire. He was all I could focus on for the past ten minutes and now I had no idea what to say to him.

Even worse than his beautiful, brown, mesmerizing eyes, which I’d already had the pleasure of meeting, and his deadly charming voice, he had shoulders to die for, hard, muscled arms I could almost feel around me, and lips that made me want to suck them off his face. But I digress.

“Any chance I could talk you into coming back down and having a drink with me?” He asked in his incredibly sexy, baritone voice.

I could tell trouble when I saw it. He would be trouble. I’d had just about enough trouble for one lifetime. I stuttered, “Oh, I’d better not. It was a long day. I should get some sleep, you know, go to bed,” hoping like hell he couldn’t read the rest of that sentence in my mind. Like the where, and with whom.

“Aw, please?” He begged, “I’ve been working in town for six months now and it’s getting pretty lonely. Just a couple of minutes. I promise.”

I could not, in my wildest imagination, believe this guy had ever been lonely. He must have had a good reason to lie to me. I checked his ring finger for indentations left from a hastily pulled-off wedding ring. Nope. Nothing. Dear Lord, here I go again. My only problems in life were the inability to say ‘no’, and my lack of self-control. Other than those, I was almost perfect.

“Okay, I’ll have to change before I sit in the audience though,” I told him, trying to slip away before my shaking knees went out on me.

I changed into the knee-length, peach halter top dress that my agent had chosen for me in Toronto after she found out I wore blue jeans when I sat in the clubs between shows. She had complained, “If you must dress like a farmer in the field, don’t do it while you’re working for me.” Then she took me shopping for proper club attire. Tonight, I was happy she had because I felt very good in my new wardrobe. I had even added a few delicate gold chain necklaces that dripped into my cleavage tauntingly.

When I got back to his table he ordered a 7&7 for me and after the waiter delivered it to our table he said, “So, I’m going to guess you’re American, eh?” He joked, looking away from my cleavage. That was good. He knew I was American. He was a genius. Our children were going to be very smart.

“Yeah, um, and, uh, where are you from? I mean, I know you’re Canadian, but where in Canada are you from?” I stuttered awkwardly. Well, some of our children were going to be smart, anyway.

“I’m from London. I’m working in Guelph on a construction job. Been here way too long.” He complained as he resumed his staring competition with me, “Mike, by the way. And you are?”

“Um, what? I’m sorry.” The roaring in my ears was drowning out the conversation, and my darned nipples were misbehaving. Down, girls, down. What the heck? Stop. Stop. Just stop it. Good grief. How embarrassing. I crossed my arms in front of me to hide their enthusiasm.

“Your name? What’s your real name?” He wanted to know.

“Oh, Tina. That’s my real name.” I kept trying to not look into his eyes. They were going to be the death of me.

I was feeling very deja-vu-like. My ex, Jake, who had ripped my life up from stem to stern had been working on a construction site out of town when we met. I had to assume Mike was married because why not?

The bartenders yelled, “Last call”, and Mike complained, “We hardly got a chance to talk. Just keep me company for breakfast, that’s all. I promise to bring you right back.”

Boom. That’s what happened with Jake. Just a drink. Then just breakfast. Then a year and a half later, poof, it was over, except for the scars. I had only recently gotten back on my emotional feet. I should have walked away. Except there would be no tragic story to write and what’s the fun in that?

“Well, Okay. I’ll go get my jacket and meet you in the hotel lobby.” I squeaked out, trying to stand up on wobbly legs and make it upstairs before I passed out from excitement- or maybe it was from fright.

Things went from bad to worse. Mike also had a blue truck, similar to Jake’s truck, which I had smashed to hell with a crowbar after one of our messy break-ups. Well, at least I had prior revenge experience in case Mike decided to break my heart. I even knew how to unscrew all the lug nuts on the tires. So, there was that.

As we drove to the restaurant I couldn’t stop staring at his big, rough hands on the steering wheel and his perfect profile. Just looking at his hands made me shiver and my demons were laughing at me. They knew they had won already. Even before I knew. I was dumb like that.

After we ordered breakfast Mike told me about his recent past. Or what he said was his recent past. At that point, I had a hard time believing anything a man told me. I expected the worst from them and was seldom disappointed.

“I hope it doesn’t turn you off, but I just got divorced before I went on the road to work. I didn’t want to pretend I don’t have a past, you know, eh?” He said apologetically.

“Turn me off? No. I’m glad you were honest about it. That rarely happens to me. No. That never happens to me. Thank you.” I was sort of in shock and still not convinced he was telling me the whole truth.

“Well, I’d like to get to know you a little, and it’s not good to start with lies, eh? How about you?”

“Um, I just broke up with my ex-boyfriend about six months ago too. He ended up being married. It was pretty ugly.” I admitted.

“Man, I’m sorry. That sucks. Are you over him, or is he kind of holding you back from moving on?” He wanted to know.

“I thought he was. I’m not sure anymore though.” I answered truthfully, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He said between bites of waffles dripping with way too much butter and syrup.

If he was going to live long enough to help me raise our children he'd better change his eating habits, I thought.

“Why weren’t you watching my chair routine like everyone else? No one ever looks at ‘me’ when I’m dancing. Why were you?” I quizzed, staring into his eyes, just like he did with me.

“I don’t know, honestly. I just liked your smile and your eyes. What? Is that weird or something?” He said awkwardly.

“Well, not weird. Just unusual. Most guys are trying to see past my G-String, that’s all.”

“I’m pretty sure that may have been on my mind too. Mostly, though, I just liked you from the first time I saw you onstage, even before you started to strip.”

Good answer. Good answer. All right. I give up. There was no downside to this guy- yet. I’m sure to find it eventually. Tonight was not the night to do investigative work though. If there was bad news it could wait.

We got back into his truck for the ride back to my hotel and when he leaned over to kiss me, I found myself moaning and leaning into his arms, wanting more. My hiatus from men was officially over.

He pulled out onto the highway, keeping one hand on my thigh, driving me out of my mind. I struggled to light a cigarette with shaking fingers, immediately dropping the lit cigarette onto the driver’s side floorboard as we were going 80 miles an hour.

The cigarette landed on the rug and flared up, setting Mike’s pant leg on fire. We both panicked and I undid my seat belt and tried to reach down to pat the flames out with my hands. He tried to carefully pull over but had to over-correct when a semi passed us on the right.

I remembered burning my fingers, then hitting my head on the bottom of the steering wheel before I was thrown sideways into the console like a rag doll, headfirst.

When I woke up there were red and blue lights flashing everywhere and I wasn’t able to sit up. I laid my head back down and heard the metallic clank of a door shutting. The siren was the last thing I heard before I woke up in a hospital room, with someone shining a bright light into my eyes.