There comes a time in every woman’s life where she must decide whether or not she wants to take the next step with a man; to add him to the list of other men who have gone the distance with her sexually. Very few women, if any, stay with their first love for their entire life. Especially with girls my age, the lists of men steadily grew as we’re drunk and make stupid decisions, are lied to by some smooth talking player, or fall into another trap of some married prick who gives us a false sense of security and really wants nothing more than a quick piece of ass.

A few months prior, I may have eagerly fucked a man who seemed at the time to be a challenge, an impossible task, or someone worthy of my advances. The difficult chase had always made the success taste sweeter. The more impossible the man was to obtain, the more justified the sex was in the end. Now, sitting in Axton’s living room, I had one goal and one goal only.

To end the chase forever.

I would have been a fool to believe I was falling in love with Axton. To do so would have been juvenile, and completely inaccurate. I wasn’t a foolish woman, and I didn’t fall into the typical patterns of wishful girls who fall in love with every man they meet. I did know one thing about Axton if I knew nothing else; being in his presence allowed me to exhale. When we were together, I relaxed. Nothing else around me mattered when he was by my side. After spending time with Axton, for the first time in my life I felt comfortable in my own skin. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, because he was a man of few words. It was more of what he didn’t say, and his ways of speaking which weren’t necessarily vocal.

Maybe what I was feeling was the onset of love. I didn’t know for sure, and would have no way of knowing; as I had no experience with being in love. Quite possibly it was Axton’s alpha male presence combined with his don’t fuck with me walk and handsome looks. It could very well be the fact that I knew in his presence I would never be harmed by another man. This certainly wouldn’t prevent him from harming me, but I had a gut feeling as tough as he was, he would never be violent toward me.

Nervously sitting on the couch, I waited for him to get out of the bathroom. I looked around the house, surprised by the cleanliness. Everything was perfectly placed and the entire home appeared spotless. As I surveyed the contents of the living room, I realized everything in the home was symmetrical. The pictures hanging on the walls were all placed in a pattern. The lampshades were all perfectly positioned, none were out of place or titled. Two couches, a loveseat, and two chairs were in the living room. A coffee table in the center was decorated with two stone bookends and a dozen or so hardbound books that appeared to be no less than a century old. I stood from the couch and quietly walked toward the bedrooms. One room had a bed, nightstand, dresser, and weight lifting equipment. Again, everything was perfectly placed. I glanced in the other bedroom. One entire wall was a bookcase. After counting the spines of a few books and performing some simple math, it appeared there were over a thousand books in the case. A bed, nightstand, a sewing machine, and digital clock were the only other objects in the room. The bed, although made with a simple comforter and two pillows, was crease and wrinkle free. As I turned to walk from the room, I noticed a small cardboard box on the floor neatly placed by the door. I looked inside.

My cap, gown, diploma, and the gift box sat inside.

You sneaky fucker.

I tiptoed back into the living room and walked toward the coffee table and bent down. I carefully traced my index finger along the spine of the books, A Bridge Too Far, Making of the President, The Blue and Gray, The Caine Mutiny, Midnight, Robin Hood, Closing the Ring, Cast the First Stone, Mark Twain’s Works, The Days of McKinley, The Birth of Britain.

As I heard Axton turn the faucet in the bathroom off, I fell backward onto the couch and rested my cheek in the palm of my hand. A few seconds later, he emerged from the bathroom.

“Your hands steady?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Your hands, do you shake?”

“No, I mean not really. Why”

“Here,” he said as he reached toward me.

I took a small plastic tube from his hand. As I looked at it curiously, he explained.

“Superglue. I need you to glue this back together,” he said as he sat down beside me.

He pulled a dry washcloth from his front pocket and dabbed at the large cut across the knuckle of his middle finger.

He raised the washcloth slightly and fixed his eyes on mine. “I’ll dry it up with this, and you squirt a little glue inside and pinch it together. Don’t smash it together, or it’ll look like shit when it heals. You only get one fucking chance with that shit, you know.”

I scrunched my brow. “Superglue?”

“Best shit ever,” he nodded.

I glanced down at his hand. A cut which would probably require at least four or five stitches was across his middle knuckle and onto the back of his hand. As he dabbed the blood from it, I could see into the wound until it quickly filled with blood again. It appeared to be open clear to the bone of his knuckle.

“Uhhm. That looks like it may need…” I began.

“It needs Superglued. Give me that shit,” he snapped as he reached for the glue.

I pulled my hand back sharply. “I’ll do it. Jesus, Mr. stubborn. Press down on it for a minute.”

“Does this stuff hurt?” I asked.

He raised both eyebrows and stared as he pressed the corner of the cloth onto the top of the wound. “Look at me. Do I really look like the type of guy that would complain if it did? And no, it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. It’s only uncomfortable for a second. Ready?”

I pulled the cap from the glue and squeezed the tube until a small drop began to rise on the tip. “Go!”

As soon as he pulled the cloth from his skin, I lowered the tip of the tube to the wound and attempted to make a perfect line of glue along the cut. As I was finishing my masterpiece, the blood began to boil from the cut. I opened my mouth and lightly bit the tube, holding it in my teeth. Half frantic, I pulled the washcloth from his hand as I pinched the cut together. Almost magically, the wound closed and stopped bleeding. After a few seconds of blowing on it, I wiped the excess blood.

I sat back, placed the lid onto the tube of glue, and admired my handiwork.

He chuckled as he looked down at his knuckles. “A regular Florence fucking Nightingale.”

“Yep. Now all I need is for you to get the syndrome or whatever,” I said as I handed him the tube.

He shifted his gaze from his hand to me. “What syndrome?”

“The Florence Nightingale syndrome,” I said as I stood.

“Sit down,” he said.

“What do you know about that?” he asked as if he were in shock I even knew who Florence Nightingale was.

I sat lightly on the edge of the couch. “It’s where the caretaker develops a romantic interest for the…”

“I know what it is,” he snapped.

Well, if you’ve read all of those books in the back room, I’m sure you do.

He studied his hand for a long moment and then glanced up and broke the silence. “I don’t like sleeping in my bed if I’m dirty.”

I gazed his direction and attempted to keep my face free of expression, “Okay.”

He continued to stare at his hand. “So we’re both going to need to shower. You’ll be staying here tonight.”

Sweet Jesus.

Thank you Lord.

I looked down and began to pick at my cuticles. I had no intention of allowing him to see my face.

“Okay.” The word barely escaped my dry lips.

“So we can shower together or separate, but I’m exhausted,” he said as he stood.

I glanced up and spoke almost apologetically. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

“Look, don’t think for one minute you’re the first woman I’ve seen naked. People don’t make me uncomfortable. If you’re fine seeing my scars, come on,” he said as he turned away.

I attempted to hide my excitement as I followed him to the bathroom. On this night I watched Axton beat a man half to death for attempting to claim me, learned he trusted me enough to allow me to tend to his wounds, came to his home for the first time, and now prepared to shower with him and stay all night.

Progress.

Axton and I were making progress.