September 5

I’m not going to think about her.

That’s probably one of the dumbest fucking thoughts I’ve ever had, and ironic, too, because trying not to think about someone is, in fact, thinking about them. I’m sprawled out on my couch at home watching the Sox kick some Yankee ass, and about ten minutes in, I start feeling antsy and restless and like I need to be around people. So I end up down at Louie’s to watch the rest of the game, sitting on a wobbly bar stool next to a chatty oil delivery guy who’d just been dumped by his girlfriend. I don’t want to be rude and find another seat, because the poor chump obviously needs someone to vent to, but Jesus, he’s talking my ear off, and listening to someone pining over a girl is probably the opposite of what I should be doing.

I’m just about ready to excuse myself to the men’s room when this smoking hot girl with shiny black hair and shiny red lips appears out of nowhere and kind of squeezes in beside me to ask the bartender for a Manhattan. She’s wearing a black V-neck with a really deep V, tight jeans, high black boots, and perfume that makes more than just my nose perk up. It’s been three weeks since the python has seen any action other than my hand, and I’m pretty sure that’s a record for me.

So this girl smells great—fresh, flowery—and she’s sending me some pretty strong messages that she’s into me, with the way she’s standing so close, and how she puts her tongue out a little bit before taking a sip of her drink...man, that glimpse of pink is getting to me. I’m checking her out as best I can with my side view. Chatty Oil Guy seems to sense there might be something going on here because he’s stopped talking to me. And as I’m checking her out, I realize that the most important thing is, she doesn’t look anything like Madeline Callaway.

Whom I’m not supposed to be thinking about.

I suck at this.

Earlier today, I thought about deleting Callaway’s contact info from my phone, but then I thought I’d better leave her number in there, because there might be some issue with the bathroom (you can never predict those sorts of things), and it would be stupid if this number came up on my screen and I didn’t know whose it was. Plus, I have most of my former clients still in my contacts, so it’s no big deal if I keep her.

Back to the not thinking about her.

So this girl might be just what I need. I’ve found truth in the expression, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone. It helped me get over Brianne.

Key point #1: Brianne is not Madeline. Not even close. Comparing my ex-fiancée to Callaway is like comparing nickel-plated to platinum. Cubic zirconia to diamonds. A golf cart to a Cadillac.

You get the idea.

Key point #2: I still need to get over Callaway.

I turn to Black-haired Girl, my eyes doing a quick zigzag from her red lips to her black boots, and offer her up my best panty-dropping grin.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in my truck following her white Nissan Altima to her apartment. Always better to go to the woman’s place; that way, you don’t have that awkward issue with the woman not knowing when I need her to leave...which, being the dick I am, is usually about five minutes after I’m pulling up my pants. I’m in control of how long we hang out post-coitus, so there’s no danger of spending the night.

Didn’t work out so well the last time Callaway and I were together.

Way to go, Big Deck—you just let yourself think about her again.

F...M...L.

Thankfully, I’ve got other stuff to focus on now, because Black-haired Girl just pulled into her apartment complex. I learned that her name is Emily, she’s twenty-four, currently works as a paralegal in Ellsworth but just took a job in South Carolina to escape the Maine winters. So really, it couldn’t be more ideal, since she’s not sticking around or looking for anything other than a good time.

The complex is your typical multi-unit, tri-color, fake brick-and-mortar establishment, with unimaginative shrubs along the foundation. I park in the space beside hers. Climbing out of her Altima, Emily throws me a lipsticked smile over her shoulder as she walks toward apartment 11B and unlocks the door.

I’ve only just unzipped my jacket when I feel her hands slide up my chest, her fingertips making little indents in my pecs. She’s bold. I like it. She lifts her chin and gives a little head toss so that her hair slips off her shoulders and falls down her back like black water. Neither one of us have said a word since we stepped inside, but there’s a silent expectation that’s ramping up between us. I like that, too.

“So...Jack.” Her fingers have moved to my upper arms, squeezing gently.

“So...Emily.”

“Would you like to see the rest of my apartment?” The words are husky, seductive, curling around me like smoke and reeling me in.

The heat-seeking missile in my pants awakens. It’s been a long time. Too long. “I would most definitely like to see the rest of your apartment, Emily.”

She shrugs off her coat and hangs it on a hallway hook. I do the same. Smiling, she slips her hand in mine and leads me through the dim living room, pulling away from me to flick on a table lamp. I watch her ass as she leans over. It’s nice—firm and small, but not even close to Calla—

Fuck you, I tell myself. Focus, for Christ’s sake. Don’t fuck this up.

There are packing boxes stacked up along one wall in the living room. As stupid as it sounds, this is comforting, because it underscores the fact that she’s moving. Outta here, just like I’m going to be in about an hour or so, if all goes as planned.

Down the narrow hallway, walking into her bedroom. Emily’s still holding my hand, which is starting to sweat. Kind of weird, since the bedroom has always been my arena.

She gives my fingers a little squeeze, like she can tell I’m keyed up. Nice of her, but I really don’t want her to think I’m some amateur who needs reassurance.

Now we’re in her room. She takes a lighter out of the nightstand drawer and flicks it over a group of three fat white candles on top of her bureau. It’s almost like she knew I’d be coming. No pun intended.

There’s a mirror on her bureau that’s conveniently located at the end of her bed. I’m already imagining watching our reflection while we fuck. Okay, I’m feeling better about this because I’m getting hornier now.

I scope out her bed. White bedspread with little holes around the fringe, about ten thousand bright-colored pillows piled against the headboard. Man, that’s a lot of pillows. And the bed—looks like a full-size, which is really too small for me. Kind of awkward when my feet hang off the edge...

“You seem like you’re a million miles away.” She’s smiling, but there’s a puzzled look in her eyes.

Jesus. I should be thinking about the sex, like how she’ll feel on top of me when she says my name.

“Sorry.” I flash her a grin and go to stand toe-to-toe with her, resting my hands lightly on her slender hips. “I’m right here.” My tongue feels wooden, like I wish another body part would feel.

“Much better.” She does that hair-toss thing again and moves her hands up to grip my shoulders. “I’m right here, too.”

“So I see.”

Her lips are parting in what can only be described as an open invitation to my tongue.

I accept.

I lean down, lifting one hand off her hip to gently cup her chin as I kiss her.

I taste lipstick...the bittersweet of her Manhattan...a hint of breath mint...and I wait for the sparks to ignite in my mouth and fire up the anaconda.

There are no sparks.

She’s eager, bordering on aggressive. Maybe it’s been a while for her, too. We’re basically tongue-wrestling. Her fingers scoot up into my hair. Calla— other women do that, too.

My hands are now back on her hips, stiff and frozen, like mannequin-hands. I don’t know what to do with them. Fucking hell you don’t know what to do with them, I remind myself savagely. You’ve always known what to do—ever since you were a teenager. You know how to read women—what they like, what they want, how to give it to them.

I refocus—tactfully pull away a little, trying to get Emily to scale back the way she’s thrashing me with her tongue. That’s probably it; the kissing’s a little off, and unlike some guys, I need a good lip lock to get the engine revved up.

She takes my hint, softens her oral assault, and we’re finding a rhythm here. After a few minutes, I decide it’s time to head for second base. I thread one hand up under her hair—it’s thin and slippery—and work my other hand up under her shirt, my fingers probing for her nipple. Little false advertising going on here with all the padding in her bra, but it happens, and I remind myself I’ve always been into a variety of women. They all turn me on.

Only right now, this one doesn’t.

W...T...F.

This should be like falling off a log. Actually, it should be like taking out a log, only he’s not ready. I’m stroking the very erect nipple of a very excited stranger, and there’s nothing going on below the belt.

This has never fucking happened before. Never in the sexual history of Big Deck has there been any situation when my soldier wouldn’t stand at attention.

Okay, bud. Chill. You’re not going to get anywhere if you’re thinking too much with your big head. Uh, hello...now Emily’s hands are grabbing at my ass, squeezing, and she makes this little mmm sound against my mouth. She’s pulling me into her, ready for more, and I cringe a little bit inside, knowing she’s probably expecting to feel my rigid member pressing against her instead of a squishy giant mushroom.

Second base didn’t do anything for me, so I’ll go to third. But lying down this time, which is how I should have started the foreplay. I break the kiss, look into Emily’s eyes which are glazed with desire, drop my voice low and raspy. “Do you want me to fuck you?” There. That sounds like the Big Deck I know. The guy who makes women wet with just his voice. The guy who makes women come with the flick of a finger. The guy who’s able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Fucking superhero.

“Yes. God, Jack—you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”

I flinch a little, hearing her say my name, because it’s making this seem more personal. I don’t want personal. I’ve just got to get this done—not for pleasure, but to prove something.

We lock lips again, work our way closer to the bed. My hands wander down to her waistband and I begin unbuttoning, waiting for the python to stir and awaken. There’s a scrabbling, rustle-y sound on the hardwood floor of the bedroom. Emily pulls back, her Manhattan-minty breath in warm puffs against my mouth, and cranes her neck to look around the side of me. “Oh, shit...I’m sorry. I should have put him in another room.”

Him??

I turn to look at what she’s talking about. It’s a cat. Batting what looks like a balled-up piece of paper across the floor, completely oblivious to the fact that two humans are about to get it on—if one of the humans can get it up.

She has a cat. Which makes me think of someone else who has a cat, and I know now (even though I probably knew the second I walked in here), that there is no fucking way I can do this.

It feels wrong.

It’s not about the cat, or Emily’s over-zealous kissing, or her too-small bed. It’s about me. It’s about me and how I’m not ready, even though I feel like I should be, by now.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on my couch with a Dos Equis, feeling guilty that I just left Emily that way—mumbling something about not feeling well, which wasn’t far from the truth. It was the right choice—if I had stayed, I’d have felt even worse.

I flick on the TV, scroll through the channels and land on the Angels-Orioles game. Baseball usually puts me in a better mood, and if not, there are more Dos Equis in the fridge.

The coffee table’s dusty, and there’s some crumbs on it from my meatball sub last night. I swipe my hand across it, sweeping the remnants onto the floor in a classic display of man-cleaning, and my eyes fall on the drawer in the table. I get a little zig-zag feeling in my chest because of what’s in there.

Sliding the drawer open, I take out the picture. It’s a 5 x 7 copy of the photo I took of this girl in an orange bikini. A girl I used to know.

Got to put that away. The picture, the memories. My feelings.

I tuck it back in the drawer and stand up, all of a sudden restless again. This house needs something. It’s too quiet, too plain with its white walls and black leather furniture—typical bach pad, typical carpenter’s house where he’s renovating everyone else’s house except his own.

I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s out with someone...fuck, don’t want to go there or I’ll drive myself bat-shit. Maybe she’s hanging with her girlfriends, or at home listening to some jazz, or shooing Murphy off the counter. Safe bet with that last one.

This house is too fucking quiet.

Maybe I’ll get a cat.