Page 41 of Chasing Amanda

Mark’s car still smelled faintly of Amanda. He breathed deeply, then rolled down the windows, letting in the chilly November air. He had to get the thought of her out of his head. She represented everything he didn’t want for his life.

He’d been honest with her, after all. He’d never planned to get married or commit himself to any woman.

His emotions had gotten the better of him, and he’d let himself believe he could have something out of his reach.

But a happy marriage wasn’t in the cards for Mark. His father swore Mom had been sweet and lovely back when they’d first married, but she’d turned on him years before.

Dad was ten times the man Mark would ever be, and he was miserable. If Dad couldn’t make marriage work, there was no way Mark could.

He loved his mother because she’d given birth to him—apparently after forty hours of hard labor, though the number changed depending on how angry she was. Thanks to that terrible labor, she hadn’t been able to have other children, though Mark suspected she hadn’t wanted any more.

He loved her in that you’re-my-mother-and-I-have-to way. But if he had half a brain, he’d quit calling her and just communicate with his dad.

But that was Mark’s problem. He was loyal too. He knew, deep down, that if he were married to a woman like Mom, he’d stay with her and live a miserable life. Rather than divorce, he’d just beg for a premature death.

Why would any man agree to that?

Why would he sign up to watch Amanda turn from the sweet, innocent beauty she was today into a hateful, bitter shrew?

He’d rather be alone, thank you very much.

Now that he was away from her and those big, blue eyes, he felt sane again.

The hollow feeling in his gut would go away. He’d forget about Amanda. He had to.

He parked on the street near Justin’s condo. At the door, he knocked, then let himself in.

Justin was sitting at the kitchen table dressed in gray sweatpants and a Black Dog T-shirt, a cup of coffee in his hand. He peered over his newspaper, eyebrows waggling. “Quite a lunch date.”

Mark plopped on the couch. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Really?”

“She’s not that kind of girl.”

Justin laughed, full and hearty, as if he hadn’t heard anything so funny in months. “Where’d you take her, the fifties?”

A chop to his throat would shut him up. A punch to the solar plexus, maybe. Instead, Mark went into the kitchen and grabbed a coffee mug.

Justin followed and stopped at the edge of the small kitchen. “Just a joke, man. What’s your problem?”

Mark poured some coffee, took a sip, and set it down. “I slept in a chair.”

Justin chuckled, but at Mark’s glare, the sound died. “Did something happen?”

Mark skimmed over the events of the day but told him all about the attack the night before. When he finished, he fell onto the couch.

Justin followed and plopped in his chair. “Wow. He’s a serial killer?”

“Yup.”

“So, was it that server with all the metal on her face?”

“The other one. The blonde. Amanda.”

“She’s…” Justin paused.

Mark met his eyes, waiting for him to churn out one of his typical Justin compliments. The degrading kind. Justin swallowed and said, “Pretty.”