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Chapter Three
Idris
Istare around at the pub Bessie kept inviting me to until I finally gave in. Maybe it’s because I’m worried I made a mistake, but I’m going to try to make being a civilian work. She said she owed me a drink for saving her. I didn’t think so, but I have to try and fit in. With my frame and scars, I already stand out in the quiet village, and even more so now in the local pub. I have to duck my head to get into the small corner pub. Old green booths line the walls with slot machines and sticky tables between them. There is a dark wood bar curving around the interior with an older lady serving two old men wearing flat caps.
I scan everyone in a second, looking for a weapon or any threats. When I find none, I head to the booth where Bessie is sitting with an older lady, giggling and talking. I tower over the table, and the old lady actually gasps as I stand there. I tuck my hands into my pockets to make me look less intimidating and to be close to my weapon—a habit.
Bessie smiles at me though, even as she averts her eyes so she doesn’t meet my gaze. “Hi! I’m so glad you came!” she gushes, and the old lady looks me up and down.
“Holy cowboy, are you a giant or something? You look like those American football players. Doesn’t he, girl?” she asks, nudging Bessie who giggles.
“I guess,” she murmurs softly.
“I’m big,” is all I say before I grab the wooden seat, grimacing as I try to sit without breaking it. It looks old and fragile, not something that should be around my lumbering frame.
I hear a creak, but luckily, it doesn’t break as I sit there looking between them. I chose the only chair with my back to the wall so I can see every entrance and exit—another habit. The silence stretches on. Bessie doesn’t talk, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve never dealt with girls like her before. She’s shy, and the ones I’m used to shoot and ask questions later and tend to be very… mouthy.
It puts me on edge as I awkwardly sit here with her not looking at me.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks suddenly, and I turn my head to catch her eyes. For a moment, she holds my gaze, but eventually, she drops her eyes to the table.
“I don’t drink,” I tell her.
“Then why come to a pub, my lad?” The older lady cackles.
“I was invited. Google said it was rude to ignore the invitation,” I grumble, and Bessie giggles again like I’m hilarious. I frown, wondering what I said that was funny.
We sit there awkwardly for an hour before I decide I’ve had enough social time and go to leave. Bessie jumps up. “I’ll walk back with you,” she says hurriedly, and I frown but nod as she grabs a jacket and slips into it, waving at the older lady before following me outside.
We walk side by side along the cobbled streets, the sun setting over the hills as we do. It’s an idyllic town, very picturesque, the perfect place to retire to. But I’m beginning to understand that men like me aren’t made to sit still. Even now, I’m alert, looking, watching, and wondering if that will ever disappear.
The entire walk is silent, and I stop before her quaint little house where she fidgets nervously before leaning up and kissing my cheek, surprising me. “Thank you for coming,” she murmurs with a meek smile and a blush. My cock doesn’t twitch, even as the heat from the kiss soaks into my scarred skin.
Too innocent, too pure… She couldn’t handle the things I do.
Maybe that’s why I’m not attracted to her. She’s beautiful, that’s for sure, but that’s never been enough. I need them to fight, to be strong… to be confident and stand up to me. I’ve never found anyone who could. The few nights I spend with women are enough to make them fear me and enough to sate my lust, if only slightly.
I need that spark that burns into an inferno, and she doesn’t have it.
I nod, and her smile dims as she turns and rushes through her door. I watch from outside in the dark like the monster I am. With a disgusted sneer on my lips, which is aimed at myself, I turn and head home.
No, Bessie is better staying as far away from me as she possibly can.
After all, they don’t call me Boogeyman for nothing.
