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“I’m pulling out,” he says.
I lean in, trying to kiss him and nipping him instead. He falls into me, taking me by the nape of the neck and deepening the kiss. Bumps rise up and down my arms. My heart pumps hard on my tongue, mingled with his taste, but not as hard as he’s pumping between my thighs. We’ve kissed and fucked hard for the last few days, but not like this.
This tastes like desperation.
“Goddamn it,” he breathes, tearing his mouth from mine.
Lightning fast, he pulls out and shudders with his face pushed into my neck. Warmth hits my thigh. It occurs to me, this is the first time he’s ever come on me. I’m elated for a second before I remember, it’s also the last time. My body stiffens, and he draws back, grabbing a paper towel from behind me. I’m cleaned up in seconds, and he’s putting my shorts and panties into place.
Our eyes lock as he wipes his hands.
“Are you—”
“Take me to the airport,” I say. “Please.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JAMIE
The house is so empty it makes me sick.
The minute I get back from dropping her at the airport, I start doing laundry and packing my bags for Texas. One thing I know how to do well is use work to block out my problems.
I can’t focus on anything but what it felt like to have her with me and how it feels in contrast, having her gone. Her things are on my sink still, not much, just a hairband and an empty vial of perfume. I keep those, putting them in the cabinet. Maybe she’ll come back and get them, but I’m kind of having my doubts. She was pretty closed off when she climbed out of the car.
For a second, when I fucked her in the kitchen, I pretended this wasn’t coming to a screeching halt. Now, I stand in the rubble. In the dust. And I wonder why, at the end of everything good, there’s always me in an empty room and someone else jetting off without me. Whether it’s clients, friends, lovers, they all go on without me while I clean up the debris left behind. That’s alright; I am a professional fixer. It’s just part of what I do.
Something about her leaving hurts more than usual. It cuts deep, a knife in a puncture wound.
I pack my shit up, get in the car, and go to the airport. I don’t know how to do anything else, and at least I’m not alone. Instead, I’m walking in a crowd of blurred people; I’m smiling like a robot as I flash my ticket and settle into the last seat on the plane. When it rises, I lean my head on the wall and watch the patchwork quilt of land fall away beneath my feet. My fingers rest on my phone. I might be hoping it buzzes, but it doesn’t. Not when we land in Dallas Fort Worth and I’m waiting for the plane to deboard.
I take it out and log into my burner account on Instagram, typing in her name. Unbeknownst to everyone, I look at her page pretty often. She has a lot of followers for someone who posts only selfies and bikini pictures, but that might be part of it. She’s gorgeous and knows all her angles.
She last posted twenty-five minutes ago. A matcha latte in her hand with the plane window in the background.
It’s sweet. Nobody would know I had her bent over the counter just a few hours ago. My dick twitches, and I snap the phone shut and reach for my bag. It’s time to pull it together and get into work mode because I have a meeting with Madi in four hours, and that means I’ll have to go up against her father, Noah. He’s the world’s biggest asshole, so I’ll need to give this my attention.
I leave the airport, calling a car.
The dust is bad today. I have to admit, for all my growing up on a ranch, I’m not really a Texas man. I prefer the high green hills of the east or the far-off mountains of Wyoming. The desert makes me nervous, with all its dry exposure and pale sunsets. I can handle myself down here, even have a good time, but it’s not my first choice. However, I have a lot of clients, given the main industry I represent, so I’ve learned to love parts of it.
Anywhere on Earth, there’s something to appreciate. Traveling forever taught me that.
A car pulls up, the driver lifting his hand. I slide into the back seat.
“Heading to the Westbend Hotel?” he drawls.
“Yep, that’s right.” I push my bag to the other side and shut the door.
“In town for vacation?”
“Work.”
We pull out onto the road, and I listen, responding absently as he chats about the city and what’s happening. I always appreciate when the drivers are kind, but I’ve had these conversations so many times, it’s a disjointed experience sometimes. Like running through a script. Sometimes they ask the same questions word for word, and I wonder if I’m living in a simulation.
The conversation goes on until we pull up to the hotel. It doesn’t take long to navigate the busy street and get inside, checking in without a hitch. Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe this visit will be smoother than last time.
I flinch slightly as I head down the hall. Last time I spoke with Noah, I bit the side of my tongue so hard I went in the bathroom and spat blood in the sink. I don’t have an anger problem; I have a problem with assholes. It’s hard, standing back and watching people get taken advantage of, especially at the start of their careers. And especially women.
