AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I didn’t have money for video games, but I know how they all end. You have to beat the final boss. And in my world, that final boss, me, is undefeated.
I’m careful. I plan everything. And I never go off script. It’s why I’ve never been caught.
But the second I step foot into that bar and see the insanely attractive young woman damn near pinned by some horny, desperate guy over in the corner I wonder if I’m the devil or if Mitch Ryder and The Detroit Wheels knew something I don’t because the devil most certainly has a blue dress on tonight.
Damn she’s gorgeous, with a magnetic pull that tries to guide me right to her.
I want to fuck her, possess her, lie in bed with her on top of me so as much of her skin as humanly possible is touching mine.
And then wear that skin of hers like a fucking jacket, having complete control over her existence. But as much of a sick fuck as I am, something inside me pumps the breaks.
I would never hurt her. Never. She is an angel sent from heaven, a gift from God himself.
And she will be mine.
Beelining it to the bar I lean my forearm onto the well-worn wood and call out, “Don Julio 70.”
Without nodding the bartender reaches for the transparent bottle and with the bottle at eye level and the shot glass on the table a solid two feet below it, he smoothly pours the clear fluid into the tiny glass.
Without looking at him or it, my eyes still glued to that princess, I pinch the drink between my thumb and crooked first two fingers, bringing it to my lips and tipping it back in one go.
Bringing the glass back down on the oak top, hard but not quite hard enough to raise anyone’s guard, I calmly state, “Thank you. Another, please, sir.”
“Finally, somebody in this place with some fucking manners. This one’s on the house,” the guy says quickly, giving me the refill I need, which I pound just as quickly as the first.
Turning to him, making direct eye contact, letting him know he does count, that bartenders are people too…living, breathing human beings that deserve to be respected and not just some glamorized order taker for loose-lipped lubricated people who allow alcohol to be the excuse to show their true colors. “How much do I owe you, sir?”
“One shot. Thirty bucks, please.”
I nod, stabbing my hand into my wallet and removing a fifty dollar bill, handing it to him versus placing it on the counter.
The guy nods curiously and extends his arm with a twenty.
“That’s yours,” I say, believing that tipping service industry professionals in the mortal realm puts you at the front of the line when it comes to entering the promised land in the afterlife. And I’m going to need a whole lot of help at even having a shot at getting in that line when the Grim Reaper comes to take me, especially when he recognizes me as one of his own.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply, already feeling better about this rare human interaction than the one before it.
But the only one that matters, is the next one.
My eyes pull away from the bartender, landing on the young woman for the second time tonight. I’m fixated on her, unable to move, my feet feel like they’re set in concrete the same way I’ve done exactly that to some of the men who’ve visited my home over the years. Visits that never seem to end, like the voices in my head, which are speaking to me loud and clear.
Slowly my eyes move from her swan like neck, across her upper back and over her delicate shoulders to the sorry sack of shit in the two sizes too big long-sleeved vertically striped shirt next to her.
My hands turn to fists, the tips digging into my palm as he leans in, speaking into her ear. His lips brush against her hair as he smiles, continuing to run his mouth over and over and over again, never once stopping to let her talk. The fucker’s probably mansplaining, telling her how incredible he is instead of showing her…by being a good listener, buying her a drink, and having the damn common courtesy to put on clothes that fit when approaching a woman who took the time to get ready for a night out on the town, something he clearly didn’t.
Does this guy own a full-length mirror or an accurately prescribed pair of glasses, because his eyes clearly don’t work.
But mine sure do, narrowing, the irides becoming smaller, like slits as I continue taking this in, reminding myself that this is all happening in real time.
You’ve never got caught, Sam. There’s a reason for that. You plot, you plan, you stick to the script, and you get what you want.
You never deviate.
Ever.
But tonight. Her. She’s not part of any ‘script’. They broke the mold when they made her and dammit if I can’t help but throw caution to the wind, my body and my mind in complete agreement that I need to freestyle here, ad-lib, and use every last skill I’ve used in my life when it comes to understanding the extreme nuances of human interaction.
