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I reach down, push the sheet aside, and take a firm grip. Keeping my eyes closed, I concentrate on the memory of her eyes and her lips. Fuck, her legs, too. Her long legs that went on for days.
When the pain pools in my balls, I grip harder and stroke faster. With my free hand, I reach for the towel next to the mattress and, within minutes, finish myself off.
***
The next morning, I sit up, feeling rested for the first time in a long time. It seems that yesterday’s newfound formula for sleep worked. I hold on to the hope it will continue.
I stand up off the mattress and grab my dark gray sweatpants, a t-shirt, and throw them on. Then I head into the bathroom and run my hand through my still damp hair before tying it up in a knot on top of my head. Brushing my teeth, I look at them in the mirror. Fuckers are perfect, compliments of Michigan State. I no longer have a damn cavity in my head, and the two teeth knocked out the night that my entire life changed have been replaced.
When I’m done with my morning routine, I head toward the stairs as I pull on a pair of socks and stuff my feet in my tennis shoes before heading out for my run.
My pace is slow until I get to the river. Then I pick up speed, stopping at The Bean again. Today, I am about fifth in line.
I hold my finger to my wrist and check my pulse as I rest and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Legs sitting in the corner with a journal, writing something. Her hair is all pulled up in a knot, and she’s wearing glasses. She has on a t-shirt that clings to her more than the short, loose-fitting dress did yesterday, and a pair of what looks like army green cargo pants. On her feet are a pair of chucks. No, I’m not up on fashion, but I remember my sister Maria got a pair for Christmas. Same damn color, too. Red.
She looks up, and I quickly look away. For some reason, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I decide it’s better than my cock and go about trying to ignore the fact that I feel the weight of her eyes on me.
When I get up to the counter, the kid seems a little less affected by my presence.
“Same thing as yesterday?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
When he hands me my order, I try to give him cash, but he nods toward the corner and says, “She took care of it.”
“No, I got it.” I know damn well who he’s talking about, but I’m not having a woman pay for my drink.
He looks at me like he wants to say something, but then he snaps his jaw shut and takes my money.
I don’t look at Legs as I walk out the door.
Rejection. She needs to know I’m not a predictable man. I’m not a man to expect. I’m not a man who will allow her to pay for my drink, because I will be damned if I owe a single soul a fucking dime.
The rest of the day is the same as before. I would be lying if I said the night was any different. I come hard and fast to her eyes, her pink lips, and those legs... again.
***
The next morning, I find myself going to The Bean again.
I shouldn’t.
I told myself I wouldn’t seek her out. This isn’t who I am. Yet, when I walk in, she’s not there.
Confusion fills me in a way I haven’t felt in long time. I know I don’t like the feeling I get in my chest, and I sure as fuck don’t understand it.
Am I pissed? Am I grateful? I decide it doesn’t matter one bit.
I pay for my drink and leave.
A block down the street, my hair once again stands up on the nape of my neck. I look around, trying to figure out what the hell is affecting me, and I see a black hoodie dart into an alley.
Prison.
Years locked away with a routine that was never deviated from, unless there was a shake down, resulting in a lockdown. Not a damn thing changed otherwise. It teaches a man to have eyes in the back of his head.
There isn’t a single person who will have your back in prison. Not a one. If someone does something for you, they are seeking something in return. The moment you owe a debt to anyone, you are their bitch.
I am never a bitch.
I stand there and wait for the person to pop back out. If it’s someone who wants a piece of me, I sure as fuck won’t scurry away like a little bitch.
