Page 31 of By the Pint

So what if I used these things to get what I wanted? Where I wanted? To play the game that I loved? To be the best? To dominate?

They would have used me if given half a chance.

When a reporter came up with the nickname The Temper, I leant into it. Lost my cool more often because it got me in the papers. I had t-shirts made up with The Temper and a cartoon tornado screen-printed on the front. Sold hundreds of thousands. Made millions of silvers just off t-shirt sales.

People became so afraid I would lose my shit, they gave me whatever I wanted with fewer and fewer obstacles each time. The adrenaline I got from it was intoxicating. Addictive.

My agent started making me carry around NDAs because, after a big win, the only way for me to come down was to fuck my way out of the high. Didn’t matter who they were,what species or gender or how many of them there were, so long as they were hot, and they let me fuck them the way I liked to fuck. From behind, and hard enough their screaming would drown out everyone’s thoughts.

But it hadn’t been like that with Dima. Was the opposite, in fact. And I didn’t mean the shift in control or mental noise levels. Everything was different. He was different.

And I was so fucking angry with him. I was angry at him for running, and for giving me the most fulfilling sex of my life and snatching it away. But mostly, I was angry at him for not telling me he was a telepath. Or letting me in just enough to find out for myself. He made me doubt myself, which I hated. More than that, though, he made me believe we could’ve had something. A friendship?

Was I angry with him for denying me a friendship?

I felt like an idiot for even thinking it.

He understood what it was like to live this life. Just as Killian did. We had that one thing in common. A bond, perhaps. But he’d ruined it all by not telling me.

Had his intention all along been to fuck me and run? A one-night-stand?

Urgh, why was it bothering me so much?

Dima knew my real name. What I wanted out of the interaction. A shudder travelled down my spine at the thought. He knew what Killian had asked me to do, what Killian’s get-rich-quick plans were. Or get-richer-quicker, I should say. Dima obviously wanted no part in that. Maybe that was why he said nothing.

Something roiled in my gut, and it had nothing to do with Killian’s master plan. It was all about Dima, and a niggling doubt that I was throwing something away.

I needed to meet with him again. At least this time we could hash it out like grown-ups, without dancing around oursecrets. I didn’t have friends, not really. Didn’t think I even knew what a proper friendship felt like.

Could Dima and I be friends? Friends with benefits? Of course, after I give him a bollocking for not telling me about his telepathy straightaway.

I flicked through the pages of the book, and a piece of paper fell loose. I tugged it free.

It was a note. The Dreadmourne Castle logo printed at the top, and in handwriting so scratchy and messy it resembled hatch markings on a gaol cell wall, it said:

To … Sean. LOL!

Have you figured it out yet?

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I only wanted one perfect morning in your company.

Can you forgive me that much?

It was so incredibly perfect. I know you would agree, though hindsight may have altered your perception. Or maybe it’s what I’m about to do.

Again, I am sorry.

I am willing to give you the information you seek, all of it. But it cannot be immediately, and I will explain why in person.

If you would like to see me again, I am organising a quilting retreat in the Constellations Manor Hotel and Spa, just north of Remy, on Jan 13th. It’s a month-long retreat so be sure to pack a lot of underpants. Though the on-site laundry facilities are excellent.

I am not near a computer to print out your ticket, so I’ve drawn you one on the back of this letter.

I really hope to see you again.

Yours,

Dima

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