Page 16 of Deacon

I planned this room out, but I only got as far as painting the walls. In a haze, my boots carry me across the floor to the far wall. I lift the ribbon and place it against the paint.

It’s the same shade. The color of ferns, deep in the woods.

A dark, peaceful shade for a beautiful woman.

I shake my head hard. Either I’m getting some kind of sign from the universe, or I’m so horny, I’m making connections that aren’t there.

I stand in the attic by the window and watch the snow fall for a while. The house is quiet. I’m alone again, and I’m sick of it. I think, whether it’s a sign or not, I’m going to make it one.

She could be mine. All I have to do is play my cards right, and I can make it happen. I have a place for her already built. She’s the missing piece, I’m sure of it.

I go downstairs to my bathroom to get undressed and wash up for bed. When I was younger, I picked up a lot of tattoos, some when I was sober, most when I was drunk or high. I went through a phase where I did a lot of coke and spent too much money on ink. They’re stuck on me now. I don’t hate them, but I do wish I’d been more careful.

Over the last ten years, I’ve fixed my arms with cover ups, but I still need to figure out what to do with my chest and stomach.

My mind dips into my baser thoughts.

If I meet her and she’s willing to see me, like a date, the way regular people do, it could lead to more. To sex, where she sees all ofme. The scars, the smashed knuckles, the scars on my thigh and shoulder—a reminder of the worst moment of my life.

A moment I came back from.

I should have died, but I didn’t.

Maybe that means I can do this and do it right.

I splash my face with cold water to bring myself back. The ribbon sits on the sink, staring at me while I dry my neck and chest. I pick it up and bring it to my face again, inhaling.

This time, a surge of arousal follows the warm scent. In my boxer briefs, my cock lengthens and goes rock hard. I push my free hand in them and grip it, groaning softly at the pressure.

It’s been a while since I got laid, and I have a feeling it’ll be a while until I do again.

I’m going to wait for her.

My eyes shut, and the image of her burned onto my eyelids swims into focus. Beautiful curves on display as she leans across the counter. Tapered waist. Full hips and thighs. Full breasts. An elegant neck with curls falling around it.

Goddamn it.

I come all over the sink, three and a half strokes in.

That’s when I realize I’m fucked. It hammers it home when I get up the next day and do that again before getting dressed. I put the ribbon beneath my pillow because I don’t want her scent to wear off in my pocket.

When chores are done, I find myself in my truck on the way to town. This time, I tell myself, I’ve got a good excuse, but I can’t remember what it was when I park and sit down at the diner across from the café. From my seat by the window, I can see her standing on the doorstep with Tracy.

She’s in the same fern-green sweater and skirt with a mug in her hand. Her hair is loose, out in the sun there’s a little red in it. She wears these brown boots with laces and tights that show off her legs.

Tracy says something. Freya laughs, flashing a row of white teeth. Then she shifts, like she’s nervous showing emotion.

I like those little plaid skirts on her. Maybe I like the thought of pushing her up against something, sliding my hand underneath, and tugging those tights down. Bending her over and getting on my knees behind her—

I need to stop.

They’re talking about the shop window. I can see Tracy gesturing at the lettering. I want to go over and introduce myself, but I can’t, and not just because Tracy will run me off with a broom. No, there’s a real possibility that if I play my cards right, I can get everything I’ve ever wanted.

I didn’t realize up until now that that was Freya.

The next day, I have coffee in town again. She wears jeans this time and a cream sweatshirt. The next day, it’s a skirt and tights again.

I have a lot of coffee that week. By the end of it, I’m wired and horny.

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