Page 28 of The Last Good Man

Granted, they’re not holding those people in their arms before expressing their obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but still.

This man has become my stalker.

A demon with green eyes and tattoos on his neck.

Iflick mygaze to the large, lit mirror and catch myself smiling.

“What’s so funny?” I murmur to myself, guilt flashing through mygaze as I pull it away from the mirror.

I have no business discussing my life with a stranger, yet a grin still lines my lips.

How strange is that?

Sucking in a long breath, I toss my bag on the vanity and try to get a hold of myself.

I turn my phone off like a petulant child, lips pressed together, nostrils flaring, and fingers stiff with tension.

“There,” I murmur, cheap satisfaction flooding me as I shove my cell phone into my bag and spin back to the mirror.

I straighten my back, square my shoulders, and run a critical eye over my face and dress.

Most of my lipstick is gone, so I shift back to my purse, scoop out my favorite lipstick–a deep, rich red––and put on some color before changing my mind, grabbing a tissue, and removing it.

The pallor of my skin strikes me, so I move closer and check my face.

Faint dark circles are visible around my eyes, a dull gaze sliding off the mirror.I pinch my cheeks, the color shifting from ashen to red.

Am I tired? Yeah. Yes, I am. I haven’t slept well in a while, and with no sex, no vacations, and not even a long weekend, it’s tough.

Well…

Sex will happen tonight.

With that thought Ipullaway from the mirror andconsiderwalking into the bedroom wearing only my heels and underwear.

Surprise Thomas.

I ponder for a few more seconds and decide against it.

It would look tacky.

Let’s just make him undress me.

MELODY

The song’s lyrics are about unrequited love,and itshouldn’t really be my business, but for some reason, my brain refuses to connect to the thinggoing onbetween my date and me.

This is a different kind of love––if you can call it that.

Whatever this is, we’re doing it with very much responsibility.

His hands go down my back, unzipping my dress, while his lips draw a path down my neck.

The soft, expensive fabric says farewell to my body before I walk out of my dress, and he gets to see me with bands of lace between my thighs and over my breasts, sexy heels, and nothing else.

His satisfaction matches mine as I feed on his reaction.

It’s a fleeting, meaningless moment, but life is often made of scraps.

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