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With a wave, she’s off to her class.
I watch her go.
Decide to stay put for a bit because I like it here.
Rain streams down hard past the glass. I’ve got a cold cup of coffee, a college girl’s number in ballpoint on the back of my hand, and ten empty weeks in front of me.
For the first time since Yolanda’s diagnosis, I can breathe.
Somewhere in the last hour I forgot I’m a man running out the clock on the back half of his life.
Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
three
One Week Later
It’s funny how much a harmless crush can put a spring in your step.
I want to push the envelope a bit today, so I took charge.
The Piedmont has a cool sitting area by the fireplace with two high-back chairs. I got here twenty minutes early to claim them, because it’s a cozy semiprivate place in a public coffee shop and my job is to get a famous rockstar to forget he’s being interviewed.
Beau shows up five minutes early in a flannel soft enough to be a hundred washes old and a permanently devilish grin. He spots me and drops into the chair beside mine. Little does he know I pushed them together so the arms almost touch.
The fire throws heat across both our knees.
Somehow, my tactical decision is already backfiring on me personally.
I’m prepared. I have the twenty questions Halvorsen emailed to everyone color coded with notes from my research.
Confession.
Relevant to nothing and everything.
My Beau Bixby deep-dive took a hard turn this past week. I started responsibly. Discography, old interviews, Behind the Music, a few YouTube videos. By all accounts, the man is a sex God turned family man.
Intriguing.
Down the rabbit hole I went, ending last night on a Reddit fan forum where I read thread after thread, complete with old nineties groupie photos, about the legendary size and prowess of Beau’s cock.
His reputation doesn’t precede him so much as show up a week early with its own tour bus. Those lucky enough to experience his early fuck-boy days were not subtle about his talent in the bedroom, either. His wife seems to have tamed the snake, so to speak, God rest her soul.
Objectively, I get it. The man is hot as fuck. Learning more about his bedroom skills amped up my interest to eleven.
I realize he’s a widower who’s thirty years older than me, but slap me twice and call me Daisy, a girl can fantasize. Maybe flirt a little. It’s harmless because, again, I’m not remotely in his league.
“Where were you born?” I shift in my seat. “Where’d you grow up?”
“Tacoma.” He settles deeper into the chair. “A rental in the Hilltop neighborhood, back when it was rough and not expensive-rough. You?”
He stretches his long legs toward the fire and the worn denim pulls tight in a way that reframes the forum thread from fan fiction into investigative journalism. I manage to haul my eyes up to his face with the focus of a woman defusing a bomb.
Shit. Now I’m thinking about the dream I woke up from this morning. Vivid enough to hold up in court. I was on my knees in front of Beau with my mouth full of his cock. His blue eyes boring into mine as I blew him.
When I woke up, more hot and bothered than I’d ever experienced, I should have been offended at my own subconscious for its total lack of chill. I figured, today was the day. My pussy was wet and ready so I rubbed my clit until I was raw.
Nothing. No relief whatsoever.
