Like the gremlin you are, you can't help but savor their second thoughts about this whole mess, and you let them squirm about it. “Oh come on, you said it was your turn to pick,” you tease with no real malice. “It was my vote to drown him in the pool.”

“Yeah right,” answers your friend with a playful glare. “You were salivating for that man right along with us!”

“You’re the one who said he was fuckable!” you cackle, pointing. And boy howdy, was your friend right about that.

This admission makes Johnny frown a little. Jack is inscrutable as stone, and you do wonder if there's something to what Tex said about these men actually being in law enforcement.

“Just…be careful, ok?”

“Of course. Not my first rodeo, babes.”

“We know…”

“We just love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll be back later. Bye boys!”

Is Tex rubbing off on you, that you feel you have to taunt the [alleged] cops? You definitely don’t grasp the true gravity of your situation, fluttering along in vacation mode, convinced nothing truly bad can happen to you. You've committed to the bit, and you're determined to play it out now, even if you suspect it’s going to hurt your heart later. 

You slip out the door with a finger wave, skipping off to meet Tex downstairs. 

You just kind of assumed you were going to take a taxi to whatever destination Tex had in mind. But he is leaning against a black vintage muscle car with his arms crossed, the outlaw of your dreams dressed all in black. He lets out a wolf whistle as you approach, appraising the cut of your flowy tropical dress over the top of his dark shades. 

“Oh my god,” you say under your breath, and he smirks like he heard you. “Tex, where did you get this?” 

“I borrowed it.” 

You steady yourself with palms on his solid chest as you lean in for a kiss, and his hands sneak around your waist with an approving rumble. “You didn’t steal this car, did you?” you whisper, voice low so no one can hear. 

The idea of it makes him chuckle darkly, hands following the curve of your spine, perilously close to your ass as he pulls you full against him. Uff, this man is built solid as a tree. You’re almost too distracted to register his simple denial of, “No.” 

Not sure you really believe him, you search his face. You can hear the doormen behind you talking and whistling low amongst themselves, you’re pretty sure about the car.  He lets you stew in your uncertainty, clearly amused as he looks down at you. Finally you say, “I believe you, only because if you did steal it you’re so vain you’d brag about it.” 

This wins you a bark of laughter and a smack on the derriere. “Get in your ass in this car, pretty mama. I’m taking you for a ride.”

You have no idea how prophetic this seemingly innocuous declaration will prove. 

Maybe it’s stupid, how quickly you unwind, all your knee-jerk fears of earlier forgotten, while roaring down the seaside highway in this beast of a car with the windows down, holding Tex’s hand between shifting the gears. 

In a change of pace the two of you don’t talk [fight] much, blissfully content to watch the palm trees race by with the warm breeze on your faces, the glittering waters beyond gilded in rose gold by the setting sun. 

This place truly is a paradise.   

“Having fun?” he asks while kissing your hand with a smoldering look, his rough twang underscored with the barest note of earnestness that squeezes your heart. You haven’t known this man long at all, but you’re beginning to learn the subtle cues he keeps hidden beneath the boisterous good ol’ boy facade he wears for the world. 

He’s got a soft spot under all that armor; maybe it’s how he so adroitly recognized the same tender underbelly on you. The thought makes you squeeze his fingers in yours; every minute that goes by in this man’s company makes you dread more and more the moment when you’ll have to let go.

You do know it won’t last. Even if you stay, it never lasts, and the ache of this only intensifies the thrill, like scratching an itch with a razor-sharp blade. 

 “Yes.” 

This wins you a roguish smile that quickens your heart like the ridiculous creature you are. 

“Hard to keep my eyes on the road,” he admits, shifting to rest his hand in the soft crevice of your inner thigh. 

“Tex!” you giggle, and he chuckles in kind, pinching you lightly to make you squirm in your seat. 

“You are the worst,” you sigh wistfully, squeezing his hand between your legs. 

You think you’ll remember the sound of his happy laughter for the rest of your life, and you know that no matter what happens…you will be forever changed by this man, and the wild bliss he’s called up from the razed earth of your heart these past few days 

His shapely mouth curls in a half-smile for this, and he at least pretends to pay attention to the road while his thumb draws maddening circles upon your thigh.

Your trip ends outside the touristy parts of town, where the buildings are smaller and older and a little rundown. You like it immediately, and when he parks in front of a brightly painted little place on the beach constructed out of cinder blocks and old wood, the patio seemingly held together by twining bougainvillea, baling wire, and palm fronds, you believe that you are indeed in for a genuine taste of this beautiful country.

The patio wraps around the back with a breathtaking view of the beach, and the waitress gives you a little table with a front row view by the railing. “You like?” asks Tex with a half smile, clearly enjoying your wide-eyed wonder. 

“Very much,” you tell him, taking his hand. He tangles you up in his long legs under the table, and the two of you stay that way for the duration of the meal. Over margaritas, tequila shots, cochinita pibil and moharra frita you feel something shift in Tex as you’re talking. Some small barrier has fallen between you, and you feel like he’s not completely bullshitting you with every word he says. Maybe you’re not as guarded as you usually are either, when he asks you about your family and your life and the places you’ve been. It’s...nice, and it makes the sting of certain impermanence hurt all the more. 

A varied crowd of people fills the seaside restaurant. There are some tourists, but mostly it’s locals filling the chairs and the stools along the long bar that wraps around the back of the building. “How did you hear about this place?” you ask Tex, chasing the last bit of fruity goodness in the bottom of your margarita glass with a straw. 

“Got a rec from one of my…business associates,” he tells you. This makes some sense to you, as the night goes on and you don’t think you’re imagining that some of the clientele seem to have a certain edge to them. And a few at the bar seem to be paying a particular attention to you, or Tex, or at least the general direction of your table. Despite the uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, you tell yourself you’re just being paranoid, and when the waitress swings by you don’t object to Tex ordering another round of margaritas. 

“Gotta hit the head,” he tells you, leaning over to kiss your cheek before ambling around the building towards [you assume] the location of the facilities. You pass the alone time by looking out over the ocean. The sun has set by now, but the moon has risen, and you can see the glitter of the ever-moving water along with the distant sound of the surf. The patio is lit up by strings of festive fairy lights, you’ve got a great buzz from the tequila and a belly full of good food, and for a fleeting moment you are perfectly content. 

Then a shadow falls over your table, and you look up to see two of those tough looking men from the bar have come to loom over you.      

“Where’s your novio?” one with a scar over his eye demands, his voice like tires driving over broken glass. 

“He…went to the bathroom,” you stammer, your Spanish evaporating in the face of this tense situation. 

The two heavies look at each other knowingly, one hissing with disbelief through his teeth, the other reaching out to grasp you by the back of the neck. “Hey!” you protest, but quickly shut your mouth as the other flashes a chrome-plated handgun stuck in his waistband under his shirt. 

“You wanna see him again? Shut up, puta.”

Deep down, you know you should resist. You should make a big fucking scene, scream and shout and tip over tables. Make yourself memorable, at least, in case someone with a connection to your embassy might be watching. You should not go quietly, sandwiched between these scary men with eyes as sharp as the volcanic stone their ancestors once used to carve out the hearts of their enemies. 

But something freezes inside of you. Something gets stuck between fight or flight, and you just watch, hoping deep down that Tex will come to your rescue at the last minute. 

You walk out the restaurant, and across the car park, and you don’t see or hear a peep out of him as Big Tough #1 shoves you into the back seat of a Mercedes G-Wagon, and sits beside you with the gun pressed into your ribs. 

Tex, you son of a bitch.  

 🌴🌴🌴

Deafening gunfire echoes through the cavernous warehouse, and you struggle in your chair, desperate to get free. One of the henchmen takes a bullet to the chest, collapsing at your feet. Something wet and hot splashes the side of your face, and you can’t bring yourself to admit what you know: it’s totally blood.

Puke or cry, puke or cry? The dilemmas facing a modern woman these days… 

Drawing a gold-plated Desert Eagle from his waistband while reciting a string of rapid-fire expletives, the leader of the trio takes cover behind you, pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple. 

“Your stupid boyfriend has become a real pain in my ass,” hisses the Jefe in your ear, poking you viciously with the gun for good measure. 

“Welcome to the fucking club,” you snarl back, as pissed at him as you are at Tex. Fucking men. 

“Don Juan!” bellows a voice from behind a crate. 

Why does your stupid heart still sing at the sound of that shifty motherfucker’s voice? You should hate Tex’s guts, but there is still a small part of you that hopes against hope he didn’t abandon you at the restaurant, and there is still some sliver of hope that he actually cares about you…enough to get you out of this mess, at least.

“You lousy cheating hijo de puta! Did you really think you could sell me fakes and get away with it?” your captor answers, poking you with the barrel of the gun with each word. Goddamn, dude, ease up. 

“Well…” 

“Wrong answer, cabrón!”

“Ow!!” you scream as Juan wrenches your head back with a grip in your hair. 

“Hey now, easy on the goods, partner!” 

“You want her back alive? You better get me my money back with interest, for a start.” 

“Uhhh…”

“TEX!” you snarl, so fucking fed-up with his shit. You can’t help but think back on that amazing night you spent together, interrupted by his midnight sojourn, and him returning in that sharp suit. You don’t know what kind of grift he pulled on this guy, but you are so fucking pissed that you’re in the middle of it now. “GIVE HIM his FUCKING MONEY BACK!” 

Juan laughs softly behind you. “Your lady is smarter than you, señor. I’d take her advice.” 

“Yeah. About that…I–” 

The roar of an engine and the explosion of a car crashing through the side of the warehouse interrupts Tex mid-sentence. Chaos rains down and gunfire fills the air as more of Juan’s goons fire at the vintage muscle car drifting through the stacks of crates and shipping containers. Somehow–while steering and shifting–the driver picks them all off one by one. The shock of the spectacle might be what saves you all–Don Juan does not run from his cover of using your paltry form as a human shield. He watches in disbelief as the Mustang circles your chair in a burnout that positions the driver at the perfect angle to put a bullet between your captor’s eyes. 

Suddenly the warehouse is quiet as a cemetery at midnight–because everyone is dead. 

More blood has spattered onto your face–you do not care, unable to tear your eyes from the dark and terrible form that emerges from the driver’s side of the car. He is tall, clad in a beautifully tailored black suit, his crisp white shirt specked with blood, a matte 9mm clasped in his large hand at his side. You lose time as he turns to look at you with eyes like dark pits that hold all the sorrow of the world, falling into those fathomless orbs. 

You cannot look away. 

He looks like Tex…but not.

“You alright?” he grumbles, almost begrudgingly, as though speaking is something he’d rather not do and words are in limited supply for him. 

“I think so?” you squeak, though deep down your limbs have begun to shake and you don’t think you can stop. 

You gasp as he produces a knife from seemingly thin air, but relax as you realize he’s using it to cut your bonds. He crouches beside you, looking you over as though he didn’t believe you when you said you were fine. You’re not sure he likes what he sees, from the tired way he sighs. “You poor thing. Didn’t have a clue, did you?” 

You try not to cry as he pulls a white linen handkerchief from inside his smart jacket and wipes the blood off of your face. 

“Thanks.” 

“Whew!” Tex finally emerges from behind his cover of haphazard crates, his boot heels clicking on the concrete. “That was some driving, budd–” In the blink of an eye this newcomer has Tex up against the side of the Mustang in a choke hold, cutting off his air supply with his forearm on his neck. 

“You,” snarls your savior, none too happy to see his doppelganger.

“Hegh—John–C’mon–” Tex taps at the iron bar of an arm against his windpipe, but John only presses harder for a few seconds more. 

“You. Stole Viggo’s blue diamonds. And sold them to Juan fucking Aragón–while pretending to be me? You. Fucking. Asshole!”

“They were fake diamonds!” Tex protests.

“I don’t fucking care!”

“Aww, c’mon. What are brothers for?”

“You're not my brother.”

“I’m your twin!”

“You can’t talk your way out of this one. I have to bring you back.”

“I can’t go back.”

“You don’t get a choice.”

“John…c’mon.”

“Dead or alive. Your choice.”

You involuntarily make a pitiful little sound behind them. As though he forgot you were even there, this terrible killer turns his attention to you again. “Who's she?”

“Just some girl. Don't hurt her.”

Gee, thanks.

“I’m not going to hurt her.” He fixes narrowed eyes on Tex. “But you're not getting out of this.”

Tex looks past his brother to you with forlorn puppy eyes, and fuck if you don’t melt a little, like the fucking idiot you are. “Can I at least say goodbye?”

“Fine,” John growls. “But make it quick.” He releases his brother, and Tex makes a show of brushing himself off, looking at John with a raised eyebrow.

All it earns him is a snarl before the assassin turns his back on both of you.

Tex sidles your way with that come-hither smirk curling his oh-so-kissable lips. This manchild thinks all this was funny. 

He doesn’t even see it coming when you wind up and slap him across the face. “Ouch! Easy darlin’!”

You can’t stop yourself from shoving your finger in his face, even if you have to stand on tiptoe to do it. “You asshole! You left me–”

With the speed of a pouncing leopard this man snatches you up in his arms–and slants his mouth over yours. You struggle for about 2.5 seconds before you hate to admit–you give in to it, all your good sense going up in smoke with those clever lips and that devilish tongue lighting up your world one more time. He kisses you like he means to devour you from the mouth down, like he would like to permanently imprint the taste of you on his tongue. He is definitely holding you up by the time he’s done with you, and you forget how to speak when he draws back to look down into your eyes. 

“I didn’t leave you, honey. I just…had to time it right, or I knew I wasn’t going to get you back.”

You can't help but think it was his brother who saved all your bacon. Yet when this menace of a man sweeps your hair behind your ear, you can’t stop yourself from leaning into him.

“Sorry I got you mixed up in all this.” 

You whimper out of frustration, knowing you shouldn’t believe him, but wanting to. Your attempt to pound on his chest with your fist is thwarted by his arms locked tight around you. 

“Tex…is he going to hurt you?” you can’t help but ask, looking at his lethal twin who is clearly losing his patience, leaning against his baddass car. 

“Nah. We’ll work it out. Always do.” Tex winks at you with that trickster’s sparkle in his eye, and you strangely sympathize with the mafia assassin having to deal with this wild man who somehow worms his way into your heart, despite all the trouble he causes. 

Tex chucks you under the chin when he sees it quivering with the urge to cry. “Here’s–” 

“If you say ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ I will knee you in the junk, Humpy Bogart.” 

He laughs at that, a full-on head-back guffaw. “Baby…I’m going to miss you.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Sorry we’re wrapping early. I had some elaborate plans for your juicy little pu–”

“Tex!” you giggle, squirming as he nuzzles your neck with a wicked chuckle, his big hand grabbing your ass low, his long fingers brushing your center. He captures your lips again in a long wet kiss that curls your toes in your shoes and your fingers in his shirt. 

“Time’s up, Romeo,” growls the other brother in black, and Tex sighs. There are sirens in the distance, but getting closer. Lots of them. 

“Gotta go, darlin’.” 

“Wait…how am I getting back?” 

“Eh. They’ll give you a ride.” 

“Who are they? Hey, wait!” 

But Tex veritably lopes on those long legs, hopping in the passenger side of the Mustang in three strides. The assassin named John doesn’t even look at you before getting behind the wheel and starting the car with a roar. As the warehouse is filled with the wails of the police sirens the outlaws are burning rubber in the opposite direction, making a new hole in the other side of the building. 

One of the official cars tries to follow them, but you doubt it will get far. That man can drive. 

You are practically blinded by the flashing lights all around you, huddling in your little dress with your arms crossed, praying they don’t mistake you for a bandida and shoot you. There’s a lot of yelling of “¡Manos arriba!” and pointed guns. 

Shit, it’s all old hat to you now. 

You do as you’re told, lifting your hands above your head. 

A team of Federales fan out into the warehouse, looking for targets. All they find are bodies. 

One of them cuffs you, and you stand there feeling sorry for yourself while they tear the warehouse apart looking for clues or evidence or the Easter Bunny. They bring out some drug-sniffing dogs who are very interested in the crates Tex was hiding behind. 

Great.

The thing that shocks you out of your heartbroken stupor is Jack and Johnny striding up in commando gear, looking ridiculously fine in their bullet proof vests, big guns holstered on their hips. “Where did Tex go?” they ask. 

“Fuck if I know. Are you DEA?” you ask back, more relieved than you would like to admit that they’re here and maybe sorta on your side. But then again…maybe not. 

“I’m Special Agent Utah, FBI,” Johnny answers, flashing a badge. 

“Detective Traven, LAPD,” Jack echoes, unclipping the badge on his belt for you to see. “We’re gonna have to ask you some questions.” 

“Yeah. I figured.” 

“Did you know he’s a hitman?” Jack asks in a deep, no-nonsense LEO voice, very different from the easy going guy who was canoodling with your friend just this afternoon.

“What?” John was obvious, but Tex? Ok, maybe you sensed something dangerous about him, but…?

“He’s a contract killer. We’ve been tracking him for years.” 

Bewildered, you shake your head, the last bit of wind blown out of your sails this night. 

“No. He just…sold some bogus diamonds to this cartel guy, apparently.” 

“Any idea where he stashed the money?” 

You snort. “Nope.” 

“You’re not lying to us, I hope.” 

You just sigh, suddenly so very tired. “No.” 

“You’re in a tricky situation here, ma’am,” says Johnny, like he wasn’t joking with you by your first name with your friends in the pool just this morning. “Juan Aragón was the head of the serpent, but some of his underlings might still want revenge. You’ll be wanting to fly home tonight–but we can only make that happen if you're telling us everything you know.”

“I am!” Oh god. “What about my friends?” 

“We’ve already got them at the airport with a detail,” Traven answers, and you sigh with relief. 

So much for a carefree vacation…

Boy, do you know how to pick them. 

Or maybe, you think, this time…he picked you. 

And deep down…in the deepest dungeon of your heart…in a place you’ll never reveal to anyone else…it’s possible…you’re glad he did.  

🌺🌺🌺

A year goes by in a fog for you. You swing between hating yourself for being such a fucking idiot to missing that dark-eyed bandit with every cell of your stupid little being. 

The FBI and LAPD question you a few more times, but eventually they’re satisfied that you really were just a random vacation hookup, and had no true connections to Tex Johnson’s criminal activities.

This truce might have been helped along by the fact that your friends are still dating Agent Utah and Officer Traven. Who honey-potted who?

You’re so happy for them. Jack will surely be popping the question any time now, and Johnny is just as smitten. Not all vacation flings have to end in total disaster…

But sometimes, late at night when you’re alone in bed and consumed by the fever of a nebulous wet dream–you wish you'd jumped in that Mustang while waving your middle finger goodbye to your stable, boring life.

You try dating. 

It’s a joke.

No one gives you that bone-deep thrill like one wink from that outlaw cowboy could. No one else can match your wit or your temper; they just run for the hills like the cowards they are.

No one else calls up that red-hot desire that threatens to burn you alive from the inside out. 

Maybe you are a hot fucking mess, but as time goes on you start to fear more and more that Tex really was your perfect pairing, like gasoline and a careless match.

It doesn’t matter.

You know you’ll never see him again. 

The knowledge of this sinks into your bones, heavy as lead. You accept it, even if you don't know how to get past the dark cloud that constantly hovers over you. 

After a very long day you sit down on your couch with a glass of wine to go through your mail. It’s mostly bills, offers for credit cards you don’t want, and some magazines. You almost miss a bright little postcard of the Golden Buddha of Wat Khao Rang, a temple in Phuket, Thailand, tucked into an ad circular by the postman. 

Your heart leaps into your throat while racing a mile a minute. Your hand starts shaking as you get up the courage to flip that piece of cardstock in your fingers. 

Somehow…you just know, and you're not sure if it's a good thing or not. 

Finally you turn it over, finding a short message in a barely legible left-handed scrawl:

Do you still think about me?

◻️Yes  ◻️No

A ridiculous smile spreads over your cheeks, and you collapse back into your pillows, holding the card over your heart that’s suddenly turned into a butterfly house. 

Later that evening, you find yourself browsing flights to Bangkok on your laptop.

If insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly while hoping for different results…

Fuck it. 

☁✈

The END…

…or is it?👀🤭

You apply yourself to your lessons, not just because Donaka has paid a lot of money for this man to basically commute to Hong Kong four days of the week from Beijing, but because you know there's nothing more maddening than a student who doesn't pay attention when you're teaching something you're passionate about.

You like Tiger too. 

He is kind, and patient, and he shyly admits to you that one day he hopes to go to America to be in movies. So after your sessions over tea, you make a point to help him improve his English. You feel like it’s the only thing you can really offer him. 

Slowly, it all starts to click, and you find yourself carrying the forms even into your everyday movements, the way you move around the room, the way you reach for things on a shelf…

The philosophy is harder.

You’ve barely seen Donaka since you started your lessons with Tiger, and you have no idea where he’s been. He leaves early in the morning and doesn’t come home until late, if at all. You cannot shake the thought that maybe Donaka sought to manipulate you somehow with instilling this go with the flow mindset. 

Did he think it would make you more complacent? Did he think it would make you forget that you haven’t been allowed off the grounds since he took you out in the Bugatti? It’s begun to feel like a lifetime ago, and no matter how much you meditate in your new little space in the library with your books and your orchids…the captivity mixed with loneliness grinds in you. 

It occurs to you that perhaps you’re his dirty little secret and he doesn’t want to be seen in public with you. You’re not his wife by any means. Are you even his girlfriend? Eventually the horrifying thought occurs to you that maybe you’re not even the only woman in his life. 

On a rare occasion when he’s actually home in the evening you invite yourself into his viewing room, sitting beside him on the black leather couch. “Hi.” 

He sort of growls in answer, his eyes still glued to the screen, but he lifts an arm for you to snuggle into him. You take that as some sort of sign. 

But the silence between you stretches on, and in the end you’re the first to break. 

“Can we yum cha again soon? I’ve really missed you.” 

“Sweetheart, you realize I work during the week?” he says to you in what you think is the most patronizing tone he can muster. 

So much for delegation.

“What about this weekend then? Can we go somewhere?” You admit you’ve thought more than once about that motorcycle in the garage with all the supercars. “Oooo, what about the Big Buddha? Or the Dragon’s Back? Or Wong Tai Sin Temple? Or…” You find yourself excitedly rattling off things from your bucket list, only for it to shrivel upon your tongue from the withering look he pays you. 

“Do I look like a tour guide to you?”    

This is when you realize you gravely misjudged his mood this evening. 

Or maybe, this whole situation as a whole? You’d thought things were getting better, and you realize you’d begun to feel safe around him, thanks to his little presents and his gestures that seemed meant to cater to your happiness. But the truth, you stupid girl, is you’re still just a prisoner, and you may as well be like one of the antique vases or Elder statues he likes so much to collect–pretty to look at, but with much less value. 

Did you actually think you mean something to him? 

You hate how much this hurts, even if you should have been preparing yourself for it all along. You feel the sting of tears forming in your eyes and the aching roots of your teeth. 

Fine. You guess you’ve finally got your answer.   

You shift on the couch to get up, needing to be anywhere but in the same room as him to nurse your heartbreak. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” He reaches for you, and you do something very stupid. In your defense, it was also just reflex, something very basic Tiger taught you, which is actually on Donaka, right? And you're sure it never would have worked, had he been even slightly expecting it. You deflect the force of his reaching hand with a turn of your wrist, moving just out of reach of his long arms with one smooth step. 

Yet you freeze when you realize what you’ve done, and to whom. 

The sharp flash of challenge in his eyes could cut you to ribbons, and you brace yourself. Your every instinct urges you to run, but this time you know this is serious, and if you do…there’s no telling what he might do. 

“Look who’s been paying attention to her lessons,” he snarls, standing to tower over you. “My money well spent.” 

He’s been watching you train with Tiger, of course, on his laptop at work when he needed to be doing other things. You’re a good student, and the two of you get along, and deep down Donaka knows he’s a little jealous for the easy way you smile for your teacher. 

And he certainly never fathomed you might dare use your new knowledge of tai chi on him. 

Even if you tremble, you close your eyes and stand your ground, waiting. You feel his long fingers close around your throat, not squeezing, but just resting there with all the promise of what those huge hands could do to you. 

Once upon a time you might have begged him to let you go. 

Now you realize it’s worse than that. You want him to pay attention to you any way you can get now, and if not on something resembling your own terms, you'll settle for the battlefield. When did you turn so suicidal?

His next question is deceptively soft, his thumb sliding over your fluttering pulse. “Have I been neglecting you, bunny?” 

A question loaded with fifteen in the clip and one in the chamber. But what the hell? If he tries to kill you at least it will be something to do. 

“Yes.” 

You do not expect his delighted laughter; as ever, this man keeps you off balance, and you don’t think any amount of lessons in tai chi or anything else will ever truly prepare you. 

“Alright. I’ll try to make it up to you.” There’s mockery in his tone, but you dare to open your eyes anyway. You’re surprised to see he’s watching you like you’ve done something interesting; something he didn’t expect either. Maybe it gives you just enough courage to open your mouth again. 

“Am I so demanding?” 

He snorts in answer to this, bending down to slant his mouth over yours. His fingers slide from your throat to the base of your hair, pulling just this side of too hard as he bends you over with his ardor, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. 

You have no idea, of course, but he’s been in a mood because he’s been auditioning fighters for his next big offshore expo, and no one has truly caught his interest. No one has felt right, and he’s afraid that something that once brought him such fierce joy has become boring to him. 

It alarmed him, looking back, how quickly he'd confessed his favorite thing to do as of late is you. You’re changing him, and he sees it now. He thought it would be best to return to his nobler pursuit: the search for the perfect warrior. It has yet to truly recapture his passion the way it once did.

He wants something new, something exciting. 

Maybe it was right in front of him all along. 

🐉🐉🐉       

A few days later, Donaka let you know in no uncertain terms what he expected that evening. When I come home I want you waiting naked on our bed. Understood?

He would choose that night to come home an hour late, and you are chilled to the bone by the time he walks through the door with an alarmingly smug smirk curling his lips, heartbreakingly handsome in one of his tailored dark suits. Charcoal sharkskin over jet black silk, and a silvery tie…it’s too flashy just for the office. Where did he go today?  

You’re not sure if you invent it, that you think his eyes seem to soften as he sweeps his gaze over you. 

“Aw. She can follow direction when it suits her.” 

“I’m freezing,” you grouse, still annoyed. A trill of excitement makes its way down your spine as you watch him loosen his tie as he approaches, standing at the foot of the bed before you. 

“Is this going on your eyes, or in your mouth, bunny?” 

You glare, but say no more. “That’s my good girl,” he purrs. “I’ve brought you a surprise.” 

You bite your lip, looking him up and down, thinking that maybe this tall dark dream of a man in this wicked mood is surprise enough. It’s been over a week since he last touched you, you’re pretty sure you’re ovulating, and you’re about ready to climb the walls. 

He chuckles darkly as he affixes his tie as a blindfold over your eyes, the silk sliding over your skin. His fingers are deceptively gentle as he affixes the knot behind your head, careful not to hurt you.  

“What? No smart remarks?” His fingertips trace the lines of your body possessively, the curve of your neck to the sweep of your collarbone, down to circle your taut nipple. You squirm and press your thighs, but keep your hands planted on the bedspread, the way you suspect he wants you to. 

Finally you answer with the truth: “I missed you.” His touch hitches upon you, even if only for a moment, before he strokes down your arm with the backs of his fingers. 

“I missed you too. Lie back.” 

You do as you’re told, and it’s interesting how you can sense his movement above you, even while deprived of sight. He rifles in his jacket pocket, and you hear something click clack clack. When something startlingly cool and smooth brushes over the skin of your belly you about levitate out of your skin. 

“What–” 

“Shhh.” 

The things pool and slide over your skin, heavy and cool, though quickly warming to your body. There are a lot of them, seemingly on a string. Multiple strings? Your back arches as they graze over your nipples, your loins clenching and pulsing with this exquisite torture. 

“Oh my god, Donaka…” you sigh. “Are those…pearls?” 

“Would you like that, y/n?” 

You whine in answer as he affixes a clasp behind your neck. 

“Hmm?” he teases, and you hear the smile in his words. 

“Maybe?” You try to sit up, but he prevents you with a finger on your breastbone. 

“Be still. This is a sight I want to remember.”

You’re too keyed up to catch the ominous undertones of that statement, practically vibrating in your state of arousal. If it’s real…you cannot fathom what that many strands must have cost. 

Who knew that your recent lessons in breath control would aid you in this situation? You lay there like a pearl-draped pin-up with your pulse thundering in your ears, and only once you’re certain he’s going to leave you there like that all night does he touch you, your skin quivering under his fingertips as he skims down the lengths of your thighs, then back up again, seemingly determined to drive you mad.

“Donaka…” you sigh. “Can I take this off?” 

Your hands lift towards your blindfold until you receive an unequivocal, “No.” 

Your growl of frustration wins you a villainous chuckle. “So impatient.” Suddenly his thumb dips between your legs, testing the readiness of your weeping hole. “And so wet.” You move your hips, desperate for friction on your needy clit, but he holds you at bay with his large hand over your mound. “Ah ah,” he scolds. 

“Donaka…” He’s reduced you to pitiful whining, and you’re sure he’s just eating it up. 

“So, my darling isn’t impressed with rare handbags, but she does like expensive jewels…” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“No?” He strums at your slit again with his thumb, and you tilt your hips desperately, needing his touch. “I’d say the proof is in the–” 

“If you say pussy I will scream.” 

This wins you hearty laughter that warms your soul, even if he sounds like a Bond villain. “C’mon, bunny. Let me have my fun.”

“I think you’re having all the fun,” you grouse, winning you a pinch on the inside of your thigh that makes you squeal.    

“So you don’t like them then?” he taunts you, referring to the bounty of the sea strung round your neck. 

You hate to say it but…you love them. They’re heavy and luxurious and you’ve never owned anything so fine. 

“Can I see?” you ask with a shyness that betrays your approval. 

“It’s not enough that I think you look beautiful?” he taunts you. 

“Are you…taking me somewhere I can wear them?” you dare ask. 

“There it is, my clever girl.” 

You're sure your relief is written plain as day for him to see, your body relaxing on top of the counterpane. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

“When?”

“You’ll see.” He nips at your thigh, and even though it hurts you giggle with delight, the promise of some modicum of freedom in the future.

“Oh, now someone's happy.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that was worth an hour of my time at Harry Winston today.”

You know what that means, if only because your step mother used to lament that your father couldn’t afford to shop there for her.

“Oh my god. Donaka…you didn't have to do that.”

“This again. Just admit that you like them.” 

“They’re not the point.” 

“Yes they are,” he insists hotly. “Or at least, part of it.”  Suddenly he is manhandling you off the bed. You yip with surprise, though he doesn’t let you fall, holding you steady with a strong arm about your bare waist. His long body is firm and unyielding behind yours, his obvious hard-on pressing into your back; the smooth fabric of the suit against your bare skin is an interesting contrast. 

His voice rumbles low in your ear with warning as he tells you, “No more pretending you don’t enjoy luxury. You and I both know you’re no saint.” He tears off the blindfold, catching some of your hair with it, making you wince. The pain is forgotten, however, when you see he’s positioned you in front of the full length mirror. 

You almost don't recognize yourself like this, draped in lustrous black Tahitian pearls like a  goddess of the sea, the ominous shadow of your dark consort towering behind you. You stare for a long time in silence, not just at yourself, but the whole picture. Enough time goes by that eventually he gives a sardonic chuckle; you feel the mockery of it in your bones. “I knew there was a streak of vanity in you,” he says low in your ear, kissing your cheek.

Is he right? Are you just as pathetic and crass as your gold-digging mother or your social-climbing step mother?

You don't think so, because you are as fascinated by him as the pearls or yourself or this opulent house you live in with him. It’s everything that bewitches you–but he is the grand epicenter of it all. 

“Say thank you, bunny,” he prompts you, nipping at your jawline. “I’m feeling unappreciated.” 

After he left you alone for so long with no explanation, your annoyance flares in you like a flash in a pan. “Then maybe you should come home more often,” you fire back, winning a snarl of a smile. 

“As if you haven’t had plenty to keep you occupied, with your books and Mei and your new friend Tiger.” It’s so subtle that at first you think you imagined it; but no. That was jealousy in his tone. “And furthermore…” Your treacherous cunt throbs for the possessive hand upon your waist, trailing higher to caress a peaked nipple. “I think I want to hear you admit how much you enjoy living here in my beautiful house, my staff catering to your every whim.”

The truth is you still help the staff keep up with this massive house. You even cooked dinner with Mrs. Wong the other night. Or rather, she yelled at you, while teaching you how to make Donaka’s favourite wonton soup. You going to take care that man? You better learn. I not be around forever. 

He hadn’t even come home to eat it, the ingrate. 

“I enjoy it a lot more when you’re actually here.” 

“Oh? I thought you wanted to leave so badly?”

“With you!”

He only growls in answer to this, sucking sharply at your neck, both hands trailing up to cup your breasts. He pinches your nipples in punishment, making you squirm. He will not let you slip away though, his arm squeezing you like a band of iron. You can never best him like this, with force against force. You have to re-direct, and maybe your new lessons are useful after all. 

“Fine,” you surrender, reaching back to encircle his neck in your arms, leaning back against his solid form. 

“Fine?” 

“You want me to admit it? I am greedy. I do like the house and the cars and the things. But only when you're in the picture, Donaka. When you leave I hate it all.” He meets your eyes in the mirror then with the black eyes of a shark cruising the reef for a kill, and you don’t know where you get the courage to demand further, “Where were you?” 

“That’s my business.” 

“Do you have another mistress?” 

He snorts at you like you’ve said something incredibly stupid, and you practically sag with relief in his arms, believing his tell before he even says a word. 

“No.” 

“Then where did you go?”

He pays you a long, considering look in the mirror, weighing you with that unnerving stare that you know misses so little. “If you're good tomorrow night, and don't embarrass me, maybe I’ll show you.”

You practically quiver with excitement at hearing this, and you know you're damned. You think you would follow this man anywhere, just to unlock one more small part of his mystery. 

“Did I embarrass you at lunch?”

“No, but you look at everything with such wide-eyed fucking wonder. It’s adorable between us, but my crowd will eat you alive.” 

Really, all they’ll do is talk behind your back. 

You know this game from listening to your half-sisters gnash their teeth over their perceived victories and slights at school, who was the best dressed, who said what about whom, and you suppose it only amplifies later in life with the uber rich who have nothing better to do than spend money and gossip about each other. 

The elation you were feeling starts to evaporate as you mull over this, and he sees it written across your face. “Re-thinking leaving the house, bunny?” 

Maybe. 

Resting Bitch Face definitely isn’t your forte, and hobnobbing isn’t your idea of a good time either. 

“Are these people your friends?” 

Again, he huffs like you’ve said something cute, squeezing you in his arms. “They’re either clients, prospective clients, or rivals, sweetheart. That’s the truth of my world.”

“What about enemies?” 

“Mmm, those are the most fun.” He starts kissing your neck again, and as you go weak in the knees you wonder where the hell he’s taking you.  

“Donaka?” you sigh, melting under his mouth and his insistent hands. 

“What, bunny?” 

“Are we friends?” 

He seems amused by this, a new wicked sparkle entering his jet black eyes. “Depends, y/n. What is a friend?” 

Well, that is the million dollar question, isn’t it? So simple, yet complex. And you have to admit that thinking about it isn’t exactly coming easily, while his hand is on your breast and his other seeks your molten center. You can’t stop yourself from arching back against him, practically hanging from his neck while you pant, “Someone…you like to spend time with? Someone you like to talk to?” 

“Hmm…” He seems to think about this while orchestrating your undoing, circling your clit with his middle finger, and you’re heartened that he doesn’t immediately fob you off with the answer he thinks you want. “Then I suppose you’re my best friend, y/n. Who I very much like to fuck.” 

He slants his mouth over yours then, allowing no more opportunity for talking as he devours you whole, but your silly little heart soars.  

You’re nearly at the apex of your pleasure when suddenly his fingers between your legs go still– the jarring disappointment tears a whine from your lips that only seems to delight him. You sense that he is looking at you in the mirror again, and it takes effort to force your eyes open to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide and black as polished onyx; your darling really does like to watch.

“Do you promise to be a good girl for me tomorrow?” he asks low in your ear.

Perhaps there is some petulance in your tone when you answer, “Believe it or not, I can behave in public.”

“Hmm. Remains to be seen, bunny. You know I have a certain image to uphold?”

“I don't think…I can pull off aloof and scary the way you do.”

He gives no correction to this, only a dark chuckle. “I don't need you to be scary, bunny. Just poised. Can you do that for me?”

You look upon the waterfall of jewels cascading from your neck, and you don't know why you were so slow to grasp what’s really going on, but it finally dawns on you. He wants you to be a silent mannequin, an object from which to display the coveted display of his wealth. You really are following in your step- mother’s footsteps. “You mean you want me to be pretty, and quiet.”

He hears the acute disappointment in your tone, your earlier elation deflating like a balloon. Why does that affect him like it never has with any other mistress? You are maddening, and he has half a mind to sink his teeth in your shoulder to punish you for it. His eyes bore into yours, twin black holes that threaten to swallow you whole.

“You don't have to be quiet. But if you embarrass me with one of your cheeky quips to the wrong person you can be damn sure you'll regret it later. Understood?”

“Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Mmm.” He strums at your clit again in reward, and once more your body is tensed in anticipation, your eyes sliding closed. “Ah ah, look at me, bunny. I want you to watch. I want you to look at yourself.”

 “I can't…” you protest, arching back against him as he finds that perfect spot once more, your knees trembling beneath you. 

 “Then you're not going to cum tonight.”

 You believe him too, and it feels like some Herculean feat to force open your pleasure-heavy lids. Trapped in a lustful daze, you are annoyed by his seemingly impossible demands. And yet the electricity in meeting his gaze while he pleasures you is something unexpectedly heady; the hunger in his eyes could swallow the world, and it’s all for you. There's something powerfully intoxicating in that; he reads the exact moment this shifts in you, a slow tear of a smile pulling at his lips.

 “That’s right, bunny. You're beautiful, and these expensive trappings become you. I’m enjoying it. You should too.” 

“You don’t have…to buy me expensive things…to please me…you know.”

 Even while he has you literally on the edge between paradise and sanity, you can’t help but argue with him. Maybe he does have cause to be alarmed to bring you into public.

 “This is my world. If you want to be a part of it with me, then get used to it. No more protests. You already admitted you like them. Are you afraid it makes you a bad person?” You hear the amusement in his voice, and you hate yourself a little more. Yet underneath it all, there's an edge of something else. Nothing is ever as it seems with this man. 

“Yes,” you pant, so strung out yet knowing that if you want your ends, you have to play his game. 

You can tell he’s enjoying himself, even as he’s exasperated with you. His eyes shine, dark and lustrous as the pearls around your neck. But no precious stone could ever hold such depth of knowledge and forbidden temptation therein. You never felt so much solidarity with Eve facing down the serpent as in that moment. 

“Maybe you're not a good person, y/n. Have you considered that?”

“Why does everything have to be such a mind fuck with you?” 

His grin is nothing less than a baring of teeth, and he walks you forward to bend you over the bed, making sure you can still see yourself in the mirror. 

“What's wrong, y/n, is this juicy little pussy jealous?” 

You have to admit, even if you won't say it aloud, that you're relieved when you hear the descent of his fly, and soon feel the soft kiss of his broad tip at your entrance. You betray your eagerness as you cant your hips towards him, craving the stretch of his cock filling you. You don't even care that he laughs at you, delighting in your need. Your moan as he buries himself inside you is beyond incriminating.

“Greedy girl.” He swats your backside with his big hand, you suspect just for the sound of it, the pearls clacking around your neck as they pool on the silk sheets beneath you.

You watch him in the mirror, unable to tear your eyes from his magnificent form, and you think he's on to something with his penchant for voyeurism. 

“Avarice for my cock. Lust. Vanity. It's not looking good for you,” he teases darkly, barely brushing your clit with his fingertips.

“That doesn't make me a bad person,” you snarl beneath him, frustrated and bewildered by all this. A gift can never just be a gift from this man. An outing cannot just be for fun. There are always layers upon layers, and you are dizzy from it all. 

“Oh, add wrath to the list too. It’s nothing personal. No one is truly good. Not really. Some people are just a little less terrible than others, and if you ask me, anyone who insists they are good are just fat, fucking, hypocrites.” 

“What an uplifting view of humanity.” Are you really having this debate right now? 

“I'm a realist. I watch all the naughty things people do when they think no one’s looking for a living,” he insists, holding your hips as he drives himself inside you to the hilt. You shudder as he leans over your body, his lips to your ear again. “And I'm trying to set you free to enjoy this adventure with me without over analyzing every little moment of it. Do you have to fight me at every turn?”

It’s impressive, how quick he is to pivot in his methods of manipulating you. You told him once that you didn't really care for ostentatious wealth, despite your obvious fascination with him. Expensive things are not quite enough to tempt you, but to have his company? You must accept them all. This will become clear later, as you're looking back with bewilderment on the night’s events, but your brain is not functioning well enough to totally piece it together now. There’s just a fuzzy outline, a suggestion of what he’s doing to you, and you don’t know what to say back to him that won’t sound stupid or childish. 

You hate it that tears of frustration fill your eyes, and you hide your face by glaring down at the bed.

“I don't want to fight you,” you whimper with your face in the sheets, finally worn down by this man’s exhaustive games. All you really want is him, but he talks circles around you until you’re unsure of everything. 

All I want is you.

It’s stupid, but true, If you say it aloud you fear he’ll take everything. Because he is not a good man. You know that in your bones; and maybe you always have, but you want him anyway. What does that make you?

He goes still above you, caressing the curve of your spine, and you shudder like a nervous filly beneath the warmth of his hand. He's gentle with you now, almost as though to soothe you through the shock of your disillusionment. “It’s alright, y/n,” he purrs. “I've seen you all along.”

You're afraid he's telling the truth about that. Maybe he’s always known the weave and weft of you, and how it all ties together in the binding of your heart and soul. You are no great mystery, and he was certainly right when he said you’re no saint. 

What does it say about you, that a man like him wants you so much? You don't know, and you're definitely not going to suss it out now. You are tired, and half crazy with lust and unsure if the rest of what you feel is actually love, or just a stubborn craving for his approval. 

You feel him undressing behind you, divesting his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt leisurely while still warming his cock inside you. You wait with a new sense of patience, feeling strangely disconnected from yourself, almost meditative as you kowtow with your head bowed.

With a hand tangled in your hair he pulls you upright on your knees, his arm about your waist supporting you. The press of his bare torso engulfing you from behind is a splendid thing; you can't help but sigh for the solid wall of warmth behind you, and for the umpteenth time you know you are utterly lost to this man. 

He stares you down in the mirror, those black holes for eyes boring into your very soul. He lets you get away with closing your lids this time, allowing you to retreat into yourself as his possessive touch slides up your torso, beneath the pearls to press over your thundering heart, then higher to your throat, your pulse beating like a trapped butterfly against his fingertips. “Don’t cry, bunny,” he consoles you, his tone deceptively gentle as he kisses a tear away, savoring the taste of your mourning for the death of something you’d clung so dearly to. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve got you?” 

Despite how many times this man has already taken what he wants from you, somehow this is the moment it really, truly sinks in. You will remember the turning point of this night until the day you die, as though something inside you stretched and finally snapped like a rotten rubber band. He reads this shift in you as surely as writing on a sign, the tilt of your head on his shoulder and the submission of your body in his arms, as though your very bones have finally wilted in surrender to him. 

He doesn't make you say anything more, revelling in his victory as his lips claim yours, and his arms wrap around your body possessively, holding you hard as he pistons his cock inside you. With an all too knowing curl of long fingers between your legs he sets you free, and you cum on his dick with a moan that is tellingly close to a sob. He swallows it all with his mouth over yours, shuddering as he spends inside you with a triumphant growl.

When you collapse at the foot of the bed, too wrung out body and soul for anything more, you feel the whisper of dextrous fingers at your neck relieving you of your precious neckwear. He goes off to the closet, presumably stashing them for safe keeping. Then you are surprised when he spoons his long body behind yours, indulging in a post-coital cat nap with his freshly-conquered prize caged in his arms. 

When you wake later the room is dark, and Donaka is gone. You can’t decide if you are disappointed or relieved, and you are still confused about it by the time you shower and crawl back under the sheets. 

TBC...

"There she is. I was afraid my boys overdosed you. Was it necessary to give them such a hard time?"

Slowly you turn your head to find Donaka Mark seated in a carved ebony throne of a chair at the head of a long dining room table, self-satisfied as a man who has finally won a long game of chess.

"Donaka…you. Fucking. Idiot."

His amusement shifts into a terrible frown, eyes narrowing to anthracite slits.

"That's not how you want to start this off, y/n."

You sit up, too fast, and the vast room spins. You brace yourself, and wonder how mad he'd be if you threw up all over his beautiful silk pillows. What the fuck did he drug you with?

You swallow back the urge to blow chunks. You can always save that for later. "I'm going to level with you," you groan, closing your eyes against another wave of nausea.

"At long last."

"I am on the run from someone."

"I know."

"He found me. Tonight. I locked him in a room at the shop, but that won't hold him for long—"

"I know."

"What do you mean you know?"

He smirks down at you, having fun again.

"I told you I've been watching you, y/n. We noticed a new player skulking around your normal haunts a few days ago. It was obvious."

You blink, the urge to slap that smug smirk off his handsome face burning so real that you clench your fist. He knew. He knew, and he didn't tell you.

"He's a very dangerous man."

Donaka just chuckles at you. "So I hear."

"You don't understand."

"Has it occured to you that maybe you don't understand? Come eat something, I promise you'll feel better." He removes a lid from a dish to tempt you, and an amazing savory smell wafts through the room.

Shaking your head, you finally feel well enough to push to your feet. "I don't have time for this."

You make it two steps before Donaka is on you, lithe as a panther, picking you up like you weigh nothing at all. The current state of your muscle control is no match for him—god he's a big man—he actually laughs as you struggle, pushing against him until he plops you down in the chair next to his, pinning your hands on the arms.

"Calm. Down."

"I'm warning you, Donaka. I'm a curse you do not want a piece of. He'll kill you. He'll kill everyone here."

With a sigh Donaka picks up a set of chopsticks and expertly starts doling out bite-size tidbits onto your plate. "You do remember my business is security, sweetheart? I employ the most skilled and ruthless ex-military contractors in my personal detail. If that man comes here, he'll have a bad night."

He holds up a small dumpling to your lips in offering, and a pregnant pause weighs between you like a physical testing of wills. "Eat."

"I can't," you plead. "Please, just let me use your phone. I have to call Jack—"

Donaka throws the chopsticks; they skitter across the fine table setting with a clang, overturning a small cloisonné enamel vase of flowers. "Jack, Jack, Jack. You are safe with me. I have delivered you from what I can only assume is your worst fear, and all you can talk about is Jack?"

"I have to go now!"

You push out your chair from the table, trying to scramble away, but he's on you again in the blink of an eye, catching you with an arm around the waist. This time he's not so gentle, slamming you down on the table and pinning you beneath him. Silverware clatters and rings—china shatters on the floor. You try to get your leg under his torso for leverage but he locks his lower body against yours, wedged between your legs, holding your hands over your head with a grip that makes the bones in your wrists creak. You scream and thrash and snarl against him until you physically cannot do it anymore, heaving for breath while baring your teeth.

The buttons of his shirt strain across his broad chest as it heaves, looking down at you with all the sympathy of a tiger with a tasty deer in its jaws. He smirks, assessing your disheveled state, all wild eyes and still ready to bite. His usually so carefully coiffured hair has fallen down into his eyes; they are sharp and shining as obsidian blades.

He is beautiful, and terrible, and you would stab him with a fork right now if you could only get your hand free.

As though to emphasize your defeat he deliberately grinds his hips against yours, punishing you with the hard bulge of his erection at your center.

"Creep!" you snarl, struggling again for spite, though you really are out of steam.

"You are a little fighter," he pants, short of breath from your battle. "I have to admit. This is the most fun I've had in a long time."

He shifts to hold your wrists with one massive hand, reaching down to unbuckle his belt like he has all the time in the world to play with you now. This is when you start to cry, your lips trembling as fat tears roll from the corners of your eyes. All you can think is I'm sorry, Jack. You fought as hard as you could…but you aren't strong enough to prevent this betrayal. You're afraid you'll never be able to look him in the eye again. This all flashes through your mind in a matter of seconds, this pervading feeling of defeat and treachery sinking into your bones.

"Aw, don't start crying now, you little hellion," he mocks you. "Surrender, and I'll still let you cum."

The thought twists like a vile knife in your guts.

"Donaka…please don't. I know you're a better man than this," you plead, choking out your last word.

Strangely this is the thing that gives him pause, looking down at you with that timeless dark gaze that has always made you squirm. He lays his palm flat over your chest, not groping you, but to feel the hammering rhythm of your heart beneath the spread of his hand. "I'm really not, y/n. Though I might have kept up the charade for a little while longer, just for you."

"I'll hate you forever," you warn him, your words like sandpaper in your throat.

"No you won't," he scoffs. He has not taken a single word you've said tonight seriously. You wonder if he'll pay for it with his life.

"Just you wait."

"Suit yourself. I've got you where I want you now."

He goes back to his belt, flipping it free, undoing the top button of his designer slacks.

The bark of a gunshot startles both of you, plaster raining down from the ceiling.

A booming command of "FREEZE, MOTHERFUCKER!" cuts through the room, and you sag with relief, your head knocking against the table.

Jack.

He stands in the doorway with his gun drawn, your knight in shining white t-shirt.

Thank god.

He's so tall and fit and true, the veins in his arms and his neck popping with his fury. You can't hold back your sigh, even if you know you're not out of the woods yet.

Donaka doesn't even look up at first, smirking down at you. "Officer Traven. Late to the party, as usual."

"Back away with your hands on your head!"

Considering Jack has a large caliber weapon pointed at him and a look of pure murder on his handsome face, Donaka decides it might be prudent, though he still does it as though he is merely indulging the police officer's childish demands.

"How ever did you find us?"

"911 call comes in from her shop and she was missing? You were my first suspect, asshole."

"Is that why you're here alone, without backup?"

Jack just frowns, caught out that he's cowboying on this one, alone.

"Sounds like you didn't have any evidence for a warrant…"

"Does it look like I need a warrant?"

"Does he even know about…?" Donaka gives you a pointed look with a lifted brow, like not even he wants to utter the Baba Yaga's name.

"Shut up. Back away from her, slowly. No funny business. I'm itching for an excuse to shoot you."

"You won't shoot me," taunts Donaka. "You're one of the good guys, Traven."

"Not feelin' so good right now, believe me. Turn around." Jack crosses the room, gun in one hand, cuffs in the other. You gingerly push yourself off the table, standing on legs that still tremble. Donaka watches you with a smirk, and you contemplate hitting him in the face with the last remaining china plate on the table.

"You ok, baby?" There's nothing you want more than to hide in his arms right now, but you know he has his hands full.

Jack dares to glance your way while cuffing your kidnapper.

It was a mistake.

Donaka explodes into action, knocking away Jack's gun and pouncing on him. The two tumble and exchange blows like rabid dogs engaged in battle, snarling and punching. Unfortunately…the millionaire actually knows how to fight. This is why his hands aren't soft, you think to yourself in a panic, looking around for a weapon. The gun has skittered off somewhere and the two powerful men are exchanging blows that sound like they could fell an ox. Donaka actually manages to get on top of Jack, rearing back to hit him when you pick up a very large, very old, very expensive blue and white Ming vase from a side table and crash it on Donaka's head as hard as you can.

He doesn't go down quite like you hoped he would, but the shock of it gives Jack just enough of a window to flip him. He manages to get one hand cuffed with a knee on Donaka's spine when shouts from the door fill the room.

"Freeze!"

"Get on the ground!"

Suddenly the room is filled with four security guys kitted out in full tactical gear with weapons drawn. They're Donaka's well-paid attack dogs, and you absolutely believe that they will shoot both of you with so much as a nod from Donaka.

With a hangdog look of apology that cleaves your heart Jack raises his hands, slowly dismounting from the millionaire he was trying to arrest.

Maybe Jack should have just shot him.

Furious and bloody, Donaka lands a sucker punch that makes you scream. Jack falls back as you run towards them, forgetting the guns in a very stupid moment of animal instinct to protect your mate. Perhaps it's lucky for you, that Donaka grabs you up before the guards turn you into Swiss cheese.

"Restrain him," Donaka snarls, kicking Jack in the ribs.

"Stop!" you plead, struggling in his vise-like grip, crying and carrying on like a mad woman again.

"Be still," hisses Donaka, twining your hair in his fist, pulling your head back at a merciless angle as he pins you against him.

You are so consumed with the fear of what he intends to do with Jack that you tremble like a leaf, so hopped up with adrenaline you don't even feel the pain. You realize you weren't afraid before. Not really. Not like this. Now you're ready to beg on your knees—ready to trade anything for Jack's life—but you are all interrupted by a smattering of gunfire at the other side of the house. The crisp pow pow pow is unmistakeable, and you don't know if you are terrified or relieved.

"What the fuck was that?" snarls Donaka, pulling your hair as though you are personally responsible.

"We're under attack, sir. We need to evacuate you to a more secure location."

There's more gunfire, nearing closer, and with a strange sense of acceptance you just listen, knowing very well what's coming their way.

Death wears a kevlar suit, and they're about to find out he wears it well.

TBC...

Our playlist ..... Pandora link & Spotify

- You've tried explaining that you're changing careers soon politely to one of your regulars, but it seems to fall on deaf ears. Sure, he tips really well, in the VIP room. And maybe you've looked at his big hands and strong body with more than strictly platonic admiration. (He obviously does something besides sit behind a desk all day). But when he tells you that you were meant for more, and that he would take such good care of you, while you’re dancing up on his solid and bespoke-suited form, you tell him sweetly you like taking care of yourself. 

He smirks at you with those flashing dark eyes while you writhe in his lap, and he's so handsome but there is something about this man that scares you. Some deep dark instinct, left over from a time when we lived in caves and the things that went bump in the night could devour us whole…that's what you feel, when Donaka Mark looks at you. 

You’ve devised a million ways to flirtatiously tell a man no, but you have no idea that you drive one more nail into your coffin, every time you refuse him. This is a strip club, after all, not a brothel. You’re peddling desire here, not gratification. He seems to take it like a gentleman, but deep down? That man is plotting. 

-So needless to say, you're a little bit fucking taken aback, when you're strong armed into the boss’s office your next shift, and accused of stealing 10 thousand dollars. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I've got you on video, y/n.”

“Bullshit!”

“I’ll prove it.”

Hank shows you the video on his computer screen, and goddamn if it doesn't look like you helping yourself to stacks of cash out of the safe. It’s gotta be a fake…but it’s a damn good one. For crucial moments you are speechless.

“Just give it back y/n. No harm, no foul.”

You’re all sweetness and flirtation while you work, but there is something small and savage in you that seethes beneath your surface, and it rears its head now. 

“I don't have 10 fucking grand. I didn't fucking steal it!”

“Sure, bitch.”

His flunky emphasizes the epithet by cocking the hammer of a .357. A sensible firearm that can none the less make a big hole in a person. You do not like the look of it at all. You've always known, sure, that despite how high-end this club is, your boss was into some shady shit. Name a strip-joint owner who wasn’t? But…would he actually kill you? 

You're starting to believe that he might. 

You try to run, but you trip over your fucking heels. Donnie, the piece of shit bouncer who’s always barging into the dressing room and gets too fucking handsy with you girls, catches you and roughs you up. 

“Not the face!” screams your boss. “I gotta get my money back!”

-You're handcuffed in the office with a throbbing fucking headache when he walks in. Donaka Mark. Looking like a million bucks in one of his silk suits, all broad shoulders and big dick energy. Something softens in you, when he looks at the damage you've taken with a frown. “What did you do to her?”

“Had to remind her of her place,” answers Donnie.

Donaka meets your eyes for a bare second before punching Donnie out cold. He falls like a tree to the floor, and shaking his hand, Donaka demands, “Get those things off her. You're damaging my property.”

With a nod from your boss one of the other bouncers scrambles to comply.

-Looking back, you can’t believe how you just let him do it. You let him bundle you outside with his suit jacket around your shoulders, his arm a steadying brace around your waist. You let him guide you into the passenger’s seat of his pretty blue Bugatti. Sure, maybe you were in a daze from the pain, and you were pretty fucking scared. But it didn’t even occur to you to question it, until he had you safely ensconced in his penthouse apartment downtown, looking over the whole city from the top of the world.

-“I didn’t do it.”

“The surveillance footage says otherwise.”

“You think I'm a thief?”

“I think people do desperate things when they think they’re owed.”

He sits there in his living room in his nice suit like this is a normal business meeting, looking at you with a strangely neutral expression, save his eyes. His eyes are the shiny jet black orbs of a shark circling the reef, just waiting for his chance. 

You're afraid you already know the answer, but you ask anyway. “What's going on here, Mr. Mark?”

“I purchased your debt, y/n. With some interest.”

“So…now I owe you ten grand I didn't steal.”

Finally, those full lips curl in a cruel smile. 

“Now you're getting it.”

“This is nuts. This is not how the world works. If he thinks I stole from him then he can have me arrested, and I get my day in court!”

Donaka’s smirk only widens. 

“You have money for a lawyer then?”

You deflate in your chair. 

“No.”

“That, my dear, is how the real world works.”

You sit there under the searing heat of his hungry gaze, and you're afraid he's absolutely right. 

-He doesn't pounce on you immediately. Looking back…now you know it's because he loves to toy with his prey. The anticipation in the hunt is just as important as the kill. The details of a good manipulation orchestrated in perfect order are this man’s idea of foreplay. 

He gives you some time to settle in. Not in the penthouse, that's his lair, but the apartment below it. Still…you never dreamed you could have such a view. He lets you adjust to your new surroundings. Lets you heal and pamper yourself with the huge tub and the expensive toiletries and the gourmet snacks in the pantry. Lets you go through the closet of the luxurious clothing he’s selected, running your hands lovingly over the fine fabrics, and the box of jewels on the vanity you think must be fake until you look closely at the hallmarks. 

He takes you to dinner, and talks to you like a human being, and not like you’re just a combination of curves and angles of flesh that he finds appealing.  

The first time he kisses you, with his big hand wrapped around the delicate column of your throat, your world shifts. 

Yes, he’s a bad man, somehow both your savior and your jailer. But in a way…this relationship is one of the more honest ones you’ve had with a member of the opposite sex. There’s no subterfuge, or so you think. The expectations and compensations are laid out with the precision of a business arrangement. For exactly one year, you’ll belong to him, and all debts will be forgiven. 

And most damningly of all, here in the real world, outside the club’s carnival lights and atmosphere of glitter-salved flesh for sale…you find you are wildly attracted to him.

-When you ask him what he does for a living and he tells you, Security, you take that to mean arranging capable men and women to bodyguard for the rich and famous. The Secret Service for hire. It doesn’t occur to you yet that he might have actually built his empire on surveillance, or that he heavily invested in the nefarious technology that can be used to create deep fake videos with anyone’s likeness…

All you know is that he's going to let you finish your degree. He's going to pay off the remainder of your student loans. He'll even pay for grad school, if you’re so inclined. The noose tightens with every temptation he offers you. He’ll open up the world for you–so long as you give him everything that he wants. 

He’s not an unreasonable man, he tells you in that silky tone that must charm clients and board rooms alike. All he asks is that you play his perfect little pet. If he texts you at three in the morning to come upstairs and suck his cock, you do it. If he wants you to kneel naked by his bedside for an hour while he gnashes his teeth over a report he doesn’t like so he can stare at your ass…you do it. And if he tells you that you can't cum for days on end while he teases you with his fingers and his tongue and a diabolical cellularly connected toy while he’s away at the office…you don’t.

-You got a little too comfortable once, lounging beside his private pool in his lap. You hadn’t seen him for over a week, he’d been gone on business, and you found yourself feeling surprisingly needy for a relationship that’s supposed to be all business. He barely had to guide you with his hand on the back of your head down his body, you’d so missed the taste of him. Buried balls deep in the back of your throat, he has the nerve to answer a phone call on that bluetooth earpiece you’ve kind of developed a complex over. And maybe it was the martini you had after dinner that fueled your temper, and definitely not the fact that you’ve started to catch feelings for this man. Maybe…you were just temporarily insane, when you sat up in his lap and plucked the earpiece off of him, throwing it behind you into the pool. 

There is a savage glee in the tear of a smile he pays you, two seconds before he has you flipped over his legs and his big hand makes contact with your backside. You jump from the sting of it, struggling to get away, but he pins you easily. You can’t say you forget how strong he is–but somehow, sometimes, it still surprises you. “That was a very important call from China, sweetheart,” he seethes. “You just hung up on the Minister of Finance of the PRC.”

He spanks you again, the sting hot and sharp on your backside, and for a few suicidal moments you sorely consider sinking your teeth into the muscle-strapped flesh of his thigh. “I haven't seen you in a week!” you whine. 

His fingertips ghost over the place he just struck, strangely soothing, gooseflesh erupting across your skin. “You missed me?”

You hate how pathetic You know you sound, when you whimper, “Yes.”

“Hmm.” He continues to pet you, and you dare to hope it's his version of an apology. You know better than to hope he'd utter the actual words aloud. However, when he tells you, “You seem to have forgotten your manners while I was gone,” in that certain tone of voice, you know you're still in for it. It's further confirmed when he stands with you in his arms, stalking back into the bedroom with you. 

You guess it’s something, that he doesn't drop you onto the floor. Just the bed, and with a gimlet stare that dares you to fuck around and find out, he orders you to stay there, or else. Only the flash of a smirk as he slams the door behind him indicates that maybe he's enjoying this. 

Well, you're not, and you curl up at the foot of his gargantuan bed feeling sorry for yourself. It's possible that there are tears stinging the corners of your eyes, but you don't let them fall. It feels like hours pass, before he returns to you. You haven't moved from the position he left you in. You do not say a word, as he approaches, nor as he stands with his arms folded, looking down at you. 

“That was a naughty thing you did.”

“Are you going to hit me again?” you grouse into the bedspread, though hardly loud enough to be considered brave.

You hate it, how his dark chuckle warms something inside you. 

“That wasn’t hitting,” he assures you, though the tender flesh of your backside disagrees. “But I think…you've earned yourself a special little treat, with that stunt of yours.” He caresses you from the curve of your spine to the seam of your derriere, winning an involuntary shudder that you 1000 percent wish you could take back. 

That's how you find yourself, little by little, tied up in knots with red silk rope until you can barely move a fucking muscle. “You like this, baby girl?” your paramour purrs, running his hands over the rows of knots.

“Not really,” you sigh, your head down, your ass in the air with your legs spread. You're not entirely sure you're telling the truth–and by the dark way he chuckles at you, you know that he's not either. As though to further make a fool of you, he tests your hole with two fingers, finding your treacherous liar of a cunt soaked.

“Hmm.” He follows with his mouth, and the sound you make declares you a liar indeed. The ropes somehow both constrain you and support you, as you endure the exquisite torture of his tongue on your clit. He stops just as things start to get interesting, the way you already knew he would. It doesn't stop you from crying out with protest, even if the tinniest whine.

“Changing your mind, naughty girl?” he taunts you, standing to bracket your hips with his hands. 

“No.” 

He actually laughs at this, seemingly delighted. “There's the defiant little firebrand that caught my eye at the club. I wondered where you went.”

This gives you a moment of pause, but you don’t get much time to think about it.

He kisses your entrance with his blunt tip, teasing your saliva slicked folds before just hovering there, taunting you with the promise of that thick cock you've come to crave. You might have angled your ass even higher in offering, if you could fucking move. “You want this, sweet girl?”

The sound you make is closer to a growl than actual language.

“What was that?”

“Yes,” you answer begrudgingly into the mattress. 

“Then what do you say?”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Go on, pet. I can wait all night like this.”

The scary thing is…you believe him. And you know if he leaves you tied up like this all night you will lose your fucking mind.

“I’m sorry,” you say into the bedspread, your voice muffled. 

“I can’t hear you.” 

You feel him tense as though to walk away, and maybe you do panic. “I’m sorry!” 

“That’s better.” His fingertips trace the knots down your spine. “Are you going to interrupt me while I’m working again?” 

Oh, the litany of replies that run through your head. Then maybe don’t take a call while I have your cock in my mouth, asshole, only one of them. You’re smart enough not to say any of them aloud. 

“No.”

“Good girl.” You’re not proud of the moan of relief that escapes you, as he eases himself inside you, stretching your body deliciously from the inside all the way to the hilt. Your thighs quiver, your eager cunt clenching upon his thick shaft in equal parts protest and eagerness. He’s so large it’s as though you can feel him in your lungs, your capacity for breath annihilated by the space he claims inside your body. Slowly he starts to move, and you become a drooling mess of trussed flesh and pure want beneath him, grateful there are no neighbors to disturb with your wanton cries. 

“This is supposed to be a punishment,” he taunts you, his voice thick in the back of his throat, and you take some solace in the fact that he’s as affected as you are.  

“Consider me…chastised,” you pant breathlessly in response, winning gravely laughter and a light swat upon your behind. 

“Cheeky girl.” 

You’re very aware of the fact that he could hurt you like this, spread wide open for his pleasure and secured in place without a defense left to your name. Yet he relishes slowly fucking your tight hole instead, teasing your clit with the slap of his balls and the light touch of his fingers, moaning with you as his swollen tip pops free of your greedy cunt and plunges inside you all over again. 

“Do you think you deserve to cum, my little brat?” he taunts you, and suddenly you’re so certain you’re doomed. 

“No,” you sob into the cover, on the edge of despair and driven half mad by the exquisite feeling of him inside you. He’s going to string you along for days, the way he likes to when he’s in a particularly evil mood. Oh, you just know it. 

“That’s right.” He swats you again, making you clench and squirm. It tears a moan from deep in his chest you don’t think he meant to let slip. Yet you double down upon him with the strength of your walls, resigned to your doom and determined to at least make it up to him. (He has fucked your mind just as thoroughly as he fucks your body.) 

You strain against your bonds with surprise when he reaches between your legs, and there are real tears of gratitude in your eyes when he circles your clit with his finger, slowing his stroke inside you to hit the place he knows will send you to pieces. “But maybe I’m feeling generous because you cry so prettily for me,” he taunts you. “Cum with me now, or not at all.” 

You know it’s no empty threat on his end, and you strain and reach with every muscle you possess to obey him as he moves inside you. You sob and moan as the sweet release takes you, that liquid gold pleasure that curls through your loins and radiates down your spine made twice as wonderful by his shuddering thrusts and his hips locking against yours, filling you with the luscious warm rush of his seed. You quiver and twitch as you come down, his huge body draping over yours. 

His teeth grazing your shoulder wins him a defeated cry; you are resigned in that moment that every cell in your body belongs to him, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. 

-Something shifts between you, after that night. Maybe before the perfectionist in you strove to please him exactly to his direction, but you learn that acting out once in a while gives you both something you crave. You learn a lot about Donaka Mark over the course of the year. Not about his business, or his past, but about what makes that man tick. He’s tough as nails and hard as granite, but somehow also he’s generous to no end. There’s always an element of manipulation to it, but sometimes, you’re just stupid enough to believe the softness for you in his gaze is real, when he slides a velvet jewelry box across the table to you at dinner, or when he wrecks you for the umpteenth time while watching you in the mirror. 

-Maybe you never really catch on to how big of a voyeur this man is. You never realize that he’s watching you anytime he wants via the feed of several micro-cameras he has placed around your apartment. You certainly never suss out the source of that damning video that sent you running into his arms. Maybe you would have been more suspicious about it, if you had not settled into such a state of contentment with him. You’re smart enough after the Earpiece Incident not to call it love, but you’re sad, when you think that sometime soon this wondrous thing will come to an end. 

And yet a part of you is relieved–you feel pieces of yourself slipping into his possession with every passing night, and you know that if you allow it to go on then someday, you will have nothing left. It’s good that there’s a cap on it, you reason. It makes your time with him more intense, and more precious, as the year draws to a close. 

“I’m so tired!” you exclaimed, burying your face in your hands. “I can’t write a single line. Line? Single word! No, even letters seem impossible!” You muffled a desperate growl against your palms, feeling utterly defeated.

Across from you, your best friend glanced up from the phone she had been absentmindedly scrolling through. Without a word, she tossed it aside and knelt in front of you, gripping your knees gently.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me,” she began softly. “You’re an incredibly talented writer. Maybe you just need a change of scenery.”  

Before you could answer, the door creaked open.

Friends’ mom stepped in with her usual warm smile carrying two steaming mugs in her hands. The smell of tea drifted through the room.

“Hello, girls!” she said brightly.

“Hi, mom,” her daughter replied and glanced back at you.

“Hello, Mrs. Smith,” you replied, attempting something that resembled a smile. “How was the service today?”

“It went very well, thank you.” She set mugs gently on the table by the window as she turned to you. “But why do you look so tense?”

“She’s got writer’s block,” your friend blurted out.

You shot her a warning look and she winced and mouthed a quiet “sorry” for dropping that bomb.

“Oh, honey.” Mrs. Smith crossed the room and pressed a warm mug into your hands before resting her palm gently on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry. That’s a hard place to be.”

You wrapped your fingers around the ceramic. “It’s fine,” you muttered automatically.

Your friend noticed your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. With a sigh, she slowly stood up and reached for the mug of tea on the table. Taking a cautious sip, she finally spoke.

“You should really consider talking to a therapist,” your friend murmured as she settled into a nearby chair, curling her legs underneath her. 

“I don't believe them,” you said, “I can’t shake the feeling that they’re more interested in billing hours than actually helping you.”

Mrs. Smith, who had been quietly observing, took a seat beside you on the coach. “You know, it might also help to talk to God.”

You tried to suppress the urge to roll your eyes, resisting the temptation to mention that you especially don’t believe in him.

“Mrs. Smith, you know I’m an atheist,” you said, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Mrs. Smith, seemingly oblivious to your reaction, reached out and placed a hand on yours. “It’s not about religion. Sometimes just talking things out can bring a sense of relief.”

“So, what… are you suggesting I make a confession?” you replied, a bit of sarcasm slipping through despite your best efforts. But deep down, the idea intrigued you more than you cared to admit.

Mrs. Smith smiled. “Well, if you have anything on your mind,” she replied, “it doesn’t have to be formal. Just sharing your thoughts might help lighten the load you’ve been carrying.”

“Yeah, to our priest? He drinks like a fish,” you scoffed.

Your friend almost choked on her tea, a surprised giggle escaping her lips as she tried to regain composure.

“That’s really not appropriate,” Mrs. Smith scolded, her frown deepening as she shot you a look of disapproval. Mrs. Smith stood up, gathering her thoughts. “Alright, girls, I need to head out.” She paused at the door as she looked back at you. “Just think about what I suggested, okay?”

You nodded slightly. As the door closed behind her, your friend’s eyes widened dramatically.

“That,” she declared in a mock-serious tone, pointing at you, “was rude.”

You pressed your lips together. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I have an idea!” your friend suddenly exclaimed, her face lighting up with excitement as she leapt from her seat. “You need a vacation! Just take the car and drive a hundred miles to some quiet, out-of-the-way village.”

You raised an eyebrow. She noticed your attention and continued, her voice dropping to a low, mystical tone. “Just imagine… a remote village surrounded by forest. No one knows you there. You can just disappear for a while… well, how does it sound?”

“It sounds creepy…”

“That sounds awesome!” she countered, undeterred by your tone. “And I bet there’s a church too,” she went on, her excitement bubbling over as she gestured wildly. “It’ll be a great place to unwind and recharge. Plus, you won’t have to worry about paying a priest.”

“Well, I’m not sure…” you said, your gaze dropping as you tried to picture the journey.

“Even if you don’t go all in, at least you’ll get a break,” she said, then gave you a mockingly seductive look, purring, “And hey, maybe you’ll meet a cute guy to brighten up your lonely nights.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. Maybe she was onto something.

“Okay, maybe it’s worth a shot,” you said, hopping out of the coach with a grin. “I’ve heard the village guys are hot and not too picky.”

***

You turn off the main road and head deeper into the woods. A welcome sign greets you at the edge of town, if you can call it that. The board is cracked and letters so faded you have to squint to make them out. It looked untouched since the day they first hammered it into the ground.

The road narrows, winding through thick trees, and after a couple of miles the small town opens up before you. It is barely more than a handful of streets and buildings. The air feels different here. Quieter. Cleaner. Older. 

That is exactly what you needed.

You slowed the car without even thinking about it. The engine hummed softer, the tires rolling almost carefully over the worn pavement. It felt like every pair of eyes in town was following your car as it passed, not hostile, not welcoming either. Curious.

Finally, you pulled up to a small building with a sign that read Rooms for Rent in faded lettering. The place looked like it had once been grand but now it sagged slightly. You stepped out of the car and slung your backpack over your shoulders. It felt heavier than it had before the drive. Maybe it had absorbed your doubts and frustration. 

The bell above the door jingled when you pushed it open.

Inside, the air was warm and carried the faint scent of old furniture with a trace of something sweet underneath. Lavender, perhaps, an attempt to soften the years.

An older woman sat behind a wooden counter, her silver hair pulled into a long braid that rested over her shoulder. Grey eyes watched you from behind thin reading glasses.

“Good afternoon,” she said with a smile that was welcoming and just a little too knowing.

You walked up to the counter and let your backpack slide off your shoulder with a heavy thud. 

“Good afternoon,” you echoed, trying to gather some energy. “I’d like to rent a room.”

“For how many days?” she asked.

The question caught you off guard.

How long were you planning to stay?

You had not really thought about it. How long would it take to find whatever you thought you were looking for. Or to outrun whatever you were escaping from.

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how uncertain you sounded in your own head.

“For a few weeks,” you said finally. Then, quieter, “I guess.”

The old woman raised an eyebrow. In judgment or concern you couldn’t tell. After a moment, she nodded and made a note in a large, leather-bound book with yellowed pages.

“Fourteen nights, then,” she confirmed, sliding the book across the counter. You quickly scrawled your information in the designated spaces, feeling her eyes on you the whole time. When you handed the book back, she nodded again and reached for a set of keys, the metal clinking softly as she placed them in your hand.

“Room 207, up the stairs,” she instructed. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, taking the key and slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“Breakfast is at eight.”

You nodded absently, not really listening.

You turned toward the staircase. Halfway there, you slowed for a second, a strange hesitation tightening in your guts. Then you forced yourself to keep moving.

The stairs creaked under your steps as you made your way up. The hallway above was narrow, dimly lit by a single wall lamp. Room 207 waited at the very end.

The door resisted when you turned the key, sticking for a second before finally giving in 

Inside, the room was small but unexpectedly cozy. A large window let in soft afternoon light that spread warmly across the floor, the bed stood neatly made with a handmade quilted coverlet. A small wooden desk rested beneath the window, and beside it a chair that had clearly seen better decades.

You dropped your bag onto the floor and let yourself fall back onto the bed. It was not bad at all. Or maybe you were simply too tired to care.

For a moment you stared at the ceiling.

Then your phone beeped.

You groaned softly and rolled onto your side, leaning over the edge of the bed while fumbling through your bag. After a few seconds of blind searching, you finally found it.

A message from your friend.

Are you ok?

You stared at it longer than necessary.

Yeah I’m good, thanks, you typed back, your fingers hesitating before you pressed send.

You let the phone drop onto the bed beside you and glanced at the clock on the wall. Just after one in the afternoon.

Your stomach growled, reminding you that breakfast had been hours ago.

“Alrighty,”  you muttered to yourself, pushing yourself upright. You needed some fresh air and some food to clear your head.

You made your way downstairs, the old woman still at the counter, her gaze lifting as you approached. 

“Can you tell me where you guys have lunch?”

“If you want something local, Leela’s Eatery is around the corner,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact as she returned her attention to the book.

“Thank you.” You managed a small smile, but you didn’t move. Something was holding you back, a nagging thought at the back of your mind. 

“Anything else?” she asked, glancing up again.

You hesitated, wanting to ask about the church. It was stupid, really. Instead of asking, you blurted out, “What are your attractions?”

The woman’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“The fishing museum is around the corner, across from Leela’s Eatery. Liberty Square is the town’s center. All the roads lead to it. You’ll find it easily enough. The church…” Your heart skipped at the mention of the word. “…is on the edge of town, down the road.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

You left the building, the afternoon sun warming your skin as you stepped outside. The town feels almost suspended in time.The streets were mostly empty. You walked without choosing a direction. Eventually, you found yourself in Liberty Square, a small park surrounded by shops and cafes. 

You found a place to eat and sat, savoring the simple, good food. Afterwards, you wandered through the narrow streets, passing windows filled with handmade trinkets and bright postcards. At one shop, you stopped in front of a large display case crowded with souvenirs.

“Do you believe in God?” 

The voice comes out of nowhere.

You turn and see her. A beautiful woman in her forties, dressed in a modest gray robe. Your eyes fell on the flyer she was holding out to you.

“I only believe in him when I’m having sex,” you said wryly. The woman looked embarrassed and pouted, but still held out the flyer to you. You took it, feeling guilty for your intemperance.

“Come to the Evening Mass.” she said.

You examined the flyer, plain with text and a small cross in the top corner:

Join Us for Evening Mass!

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

In these challenging times, it is so important to gather together to find peace and comfort in prayer. We invite you to participate in the Evening Mass to be held in our church.

Date and time: every Friday at 7 p.m.

Place: Church of Magdalena.

We look forward to seeing each and every one of you!

With blessing,

priest Jardani.

“Thanks, I’ll think about it.”you smiled awkwardly and folded the flyer and put it in your pocket.

You came to your room and dropped onto the bed, staring at the flyer in your hands. You were not religious. You didn’t believe in God.

You had always handled things on your own. You never liked the idea of leaning on something you couldn’t see or prove. Depending on yourself had always been enough.

But here, in this quiet town with its quiet streets, you wondered if maybe you were the one who needed this.

Not faith.

Just… something…

Nah.

You tossed the flyer aside. The paper slid across the bed and fell to the floor. You pushed the thought away and forced yourself to unpack. A few shirts, jeans. Some underwear. Laptop.

For now, you just needed to get through the night. Settle into the unfamiliar room. Lie down. Close your eyes. Maybe when the sun rose, you would feel a little less lost.

Three days had passed since you arrived.

You took your laptop and sat back on the bed, opening it. The screen lit up, revealing the same blank document. You stared at the cursor, its steady blinking seeming to mock you.

And still, you hadn’t written a single word.

You thought you knew what you wanted to say. The idea was there but every time you tried to shape it into sentences, your mind emptied . Completely blank. You’d hoped that coming here, to this small, quiet town, might help clear your mind, might allow the words to return. But now, sitting in this room, you felt the same frustration.

You snapped the laptop shut.

Silence filled the room.

Your eyes drifted to the window, catching a glimpse of the church on the hill. 

The thought of walking in there made your chest tighten. Sitting across from a stranger. Admitting you felt lost. Saying out loud that you needed help. You were not used to that kind of vulnerability.

Still, you could not deny it anymore. You were not fine. You had not been for a while. And if stepping through those doors might ease even a fraction of the weight pressing down on you, then what was the harm?

You would not break just by trying.

***

You took a deep breath and walked into the church. The old floorboards creaked under your feet. The faint scent of incense did little to soothe your nerves.

You approached the small wooden confessional booth, its dark frame was strangely inviting.

A quiet chuckle escaped you. The only reason you would ever enter a church was for cultural reasons, not faith and certainly not to sit in a confession booth.

But here you were, pushing open the creaking door and stepping into the small, dimly lit box. You closed the door behind you, and the space immediately felt almost claustrophobic. For a moment, you just stood there, only sensing the scent of old wood.

As you settled onto the narrow bench, you nervously rubbed your knees and scanned the empty corners of the wooden walls, searching for something to occupy your attention. It felt like you’d been waiting forever, and you were just beginning to relax, thinking no one would show up. 

You let out a relieved breath and were about to stand when the sudden creak of the sliding window sent a thin stream of light spilling into the dim booth.

You turned toward the partition, your gaze locking with the small, latticed window that separated you from the priest on the other side. Through the dim light and the wooden slats, you could just make out his eyes.

Their intense brown hue cut through the darkness, making you feel unexpectedly vulnerable, as if they could see right into your soul. Then, his voice, hoarse around the edges, filtered through the small opening, breaking the silence.

“Hello, welcome. It’s good to see you. How can I assist you today?” 

“Uh…” You felt your palms grow sweaty and quickly wiped them on your jeans.

The silence stretched for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like he was giving you space. 

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?” 

Your own voice came out small. “Yes, I’ve never… done confession before.” You let out a small, nervous breath. “I’m not even sure I have anything to confess.”

“It’s alright. Sometimes we just need to talk. You don’t have to confess anything if you’re not ready, or if you don’t feel the need. This place isn’t only for the faithful. It’s for anyone who needs a moment to reflect. Or to be heard.”

You glanced at the partition again, meeting those intense dark brown eyes.

“I’m a writer,” you said, then huffed softly. “At least… I’m supposed to be. I’ve had writer’s block for months. I thought if I arrived here…, it would fix it. Like the place would just… unlock something.”

He stayed quiet, listening.

“But nothing happened,” you admitted. “I sit there staring at a blank page, and it’s still empty. Maybe worse now. Because I came all this way and I’ve got nothing to show for it.”

A quiet breath came from the other side.

“Sometimes we think changing our surroundings will change what’s going on inside,” he said. “But inspiration doesn’t work on a schedule.”

You gave a small, bitter laugh. “So I basically ran away.”

“Maybe,” he said calmly. “But people usually run when they’re exhausted. Not when they’re weak.”

That made you pause.

“I just didn’t want to waste the trip,” you said. “I told myself I had to write something important while I’m here. Otherwise what’s the point?”

“And what if the point wasn’t productivity?” he asked. “What if you just needed to stop for a while?”

You went quiet.

You hadn’t thought of that.

You nodded slowly, feeling something inside you ease for the first time all day.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Maybe I do.”

***

After that day, you didn’t push yourself.

You stopped staring at the blank page. Instead, you enjoyed the atmosphere of the town.

You wandered narrow streets. Sat in a small cafe by the square, drinking coffee while watching people pass. You took long walks to the lake.

You didn’t write much.

Just fragments. Observations. 

And sometimes, annoyingly often, your notes circled back to him.

The priest.

His voice hadn’t been young, but it hadn’t been old either. It was the kind of voice that could easily belong to someone who had seen and done things most people couldn’t even imagine, yet chose to speak softly. And those eyes. You’d only caught them once. Twice? Briefly, through the carved partition. Dark and intent. The kind that made you feel seen without being touched.

You frowned at your notebook, tapping the pen against the page.

He stirred something in you. Curiosity, perhaps.

You tried to picture him properly. What did he even look like?

You exhaled sharply, annoyed with yourself.

That was when you noticed the edge of a flyer sticking out from under the bed.

A call to Evening Mass.

You reached down and pulled it free.

Right.

Curiosity.

Professional curiosity.

Writer’s curiosity.

Nothing else.

***

The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the wooden pews. Candles flickered along the altar

At the altar, the priest stood composed and unhurried. Everyone began to approach him in turn, kneeling before him, he solemnly served the host, and then the laity offered the cup from which each person drank. 

You stayed seated at first. You weren’t prepared for this part. You barely remembered the order of things.

People began to rise. You unconsciously did the same.

The candlelight caught the edge of his profile when he turned. You could see more of him now than before, not fully, but enough to make your pulse one humiliating skip. 

This is ridiculous, you scolded yourself. You’re here to write. To think. 

The line shortened.

Too fast.

You shrank slightly into yourself, hoping no one would notice.

A hand pressed firmly between your shoulder blades.

You jolted.

“Go on, dear, take communion,” an older woman murmured beside you, already guiding you up with surprising strength.

Your breath snagged in your throat. “But I-” you tried to protest, but you were already in line. 

Fuck-Fuck-Fuck.

The line carried you like a current. 

Your palms went damp. 

Your heart began to pound harder.

You shouldn’t be here.

You’re not ready.

You didn’t even know if you believed. YOU Didn’t!

The person in front of you rose from their knees.

And suddenly, there was nowhere left to hide.

You stepped forward.

What were you doing?

The priest’s gaze met yours from the altar.

And in that moment, an unexpected feeling struck you, as if you had always known what you were meant to do.

You lowered yourself onto the soft cushion before the altar, your lips parting as you slightly stuck out your tongue. Your eyelids fluttered, and you glanced up at him again. Kneeling before him, he seemed powerful. Standing tall in a lavish purple chasuble that draped over his broad shoulders, he exuded an aura of authority. 

His dark hair was meticulously combed back. High cheekbones and chiseled features highlighted his face, and a defined chin and jawline neatly framed by well-maintained stubble. If the Lord had crafted the ideal of male beauty, the priest would have been the flawless blueprint.

Kneeling before him felt oddly reminiscent of something far less holy; you had only ever knelt like this in front of a man for one reason, and it had nothing to do with communion. And you could swear to God (if He really was there) that you would have gladly accepted everything the priest could have provided beyond the simple communion of bread.

The priest’s hand moved with grace, holding the sacred host. 

“The Body of Christ,” his voice carried a hushed hoarseness as he leaned closer. You felt the host placed delicately on your tongue, and you closed your mouth, swallowing it.

“Amen,” you barely could hear your voice. 

A woman from the laity,the same  who gave you a flyer, passed the cup to the priest. 

“The Blood of Christ,” he intoned, and you took a small sip. The taste was rich and deep, lingering on your lips as you savored the sensation. When you lifted your eyes, the priest’s shrewd eyes locked onto you with an intensity that was both captivating and unnerving. 

For a split second, you thought you saw something holy there. Something gentle. 

A man devoted to God. A man offering sacrament with those reverent hands.

No. No-no-no…

There was something beneath his priestly exterior. A predatory glint in his gaze, as if he observed everyone closely, composed to either attack or defend himself at any moment. And his hands… big, calloused, long-fingered… hands that seemed capable of much more than offering the sacrament.

It troubled you deeply, yet at the same time it pulled you in.

❤︎ Part 2

***

Oh the places a simple crush can land you. Going along with John Constantine frequently has you questioning your own sanity. It shouldn't surprise you. When someone deals with demons for a living, they must have experimental hobbies—you just didn't expect to be included in this next one.

Constantine first introduced this hobby to you one drizzly evening while eating your favorite takeout together. The comfort food paired nicely with the casual atmosphere and smooth blanket of rainwater cascading down your apartment windows. You took another bite while watching two wayward water droplets race along the pane. A soft prickle traveled from the back of your neck and up to the tips of your ears.

Each of your senses flared when you came in close proximity to Constantine, especially when his eyes were on you. You were hopeless. You weren't sure what stage of infatuation you were in when every millimeter of your body heated up when any amount of his attention was on you. It didn't matter what emotion: he could be melancholic, cranky, irate, or amused—you've never seen Constantine fully happy—they all brought about the same reaction.

You try, and fail, to ignore the obvious heat budding in your face. Turning, you see the umber shades of his irises dimmed by exhaustion and bad habits.

"I need a back door into Heaven." It was concerning how nonchalant he could be when discussing matters of the divine.

"Oh really?" You've learned to always hear him out no matter how impossible it sounds.

With a lazy draw of his freshly lit cigarette, he continues. "I need to get into Heaven for work purposes. However I can't simply fly through the pearly gates, that would bring too much attention."

Seems simple enough. "How do you plan on getting there?"

"Whenever I say 'I'll try anything once,' this is not what I mean!"

Constantine twists one of the squeaky knobs on the porcelain bathtub. Steam curls around his unnaturally pallid face. He was sickly looking like a Victorian child but with the constitution of a 70s rock star. His brow furrowed in concentration while testing the water's temperature.

"Can't give away all my plans. You would back out every time if I did." A smirk ghosts across his lips when looking at your apprehensive expression.

"I love—" you caught yourself. "I'm happy to help you, but I've never put my life in danger for you…"

"Don't trust me?" His eyebrow raise would be enough to end you.

"It's not that," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the tub next to him. "What if I crossover and don't come back? Or at worst I end up going to Hell instead—"

Constantine grabbed your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. His fingers are warm and still wet from the bathwater, their touch lighting up your nervous system like electricity. His demeanor was deadly serious, burning you as if you were one of those wretched demons he fights.

"I've got you." His other hand trailed from your shoulder to your elbow, holding you firmly. "I'm going to be with you the whole time. If anything happens, I'll pull you out."

If Constantine is anything, he is persuasive with you. If his hands weren't already on you, you'd be jumping in the water immediately.

Instead you stand up and unzip your jacket, revealing your tank top. You internally preened when his eyes trailed your torso and locked onto the button of your pants.

"I'm already drowning myself for you. You don't get a show." You tease, earning a soft exhale—the closest you've ever gotten to a laugh—from him.

"Understood." He whispers, taking your hand and guiding you into the bathtub like an uncommonly gentleman.

The tepid water envelopes you in a rolling embrace. Constantine keeps a hand to your back while you sat with your legs out. "I understand water is a common method of going between worlds but how long exactly will I be submerged?"

"As long as it takes." There he goes again with the edgy vagueness you simultaneously love and loathe. "Remember—"

"Heaven and Hell are closer to us than you realize." You complete his saying.

"Good girl."

Oh that bastard.

"W-well, I—" you stammer.

"Lie back." He commands softly.

He'd rolled up his sleeves, exposing his pale forearms and the split Red King alchemy tattoos. The same hand on your back lowers you below the surface. It was a strange parody of a baptism—with Constantine as your unorthodox priest and you being his ever so faithful follower. This dangerous exercise would prove to you just how far you're willing to go for your faith in him.

The reality of your situation pressed down on you like Constantine's hand currently resting against your sternum. He plays fast and loose with his own mortality, you are all too aware he held your own quite literally in his hands. There's nothing else for you to do but close your eyes and wait for your life to inch recklessly towards the edge with only John's word that he'll save you from oblivion.

Moments passed like grains of sand in an hourglass. It was far too late to give up now; even if you wanted to get out, Constantine was far to strong. In fact, his hand on your chest pinned you with even more force while his other hand—was unbuttoning your pants.

Wait…this wasn't part of the deal…

You open your eyes and see through the surface of the water Constantine looming over you like an angel of death. His gaze leers at you. Gone was the teasing and his sardonic attitude; dark eyes like voids threatening to overtake you in their abyss.

He pulls down on your pants zipper. Panic floods your mind and you try pushing or kicking him away. It's no use, he deflects every one of your feeble attempts at fighting him off. Exhaustion from being underwater slowed your struggling. Before he continued touching you, he held both your wrists while his other hand rested firmly on your thigh, squeezing it tightly.

He expression didn't waver but through the panic of your body in fight or flight, you barely captured a glimpse into his eyes yet again. Heat flickered in the darkness, looking at you with longing: raw and unable to be hidden.

Trust me, he seemed to tell you. Let me take you to Heaven.

Loving Constantine is hazardous but he was going to make it all worth it. His hand moved from your thigh and plunged under your waistband, thumb circling your clit through your underwear in torturous circles before pulling them to the side. It took every ounce of your willpower not to moan and release your precious air when he breached your entrance with two long fingers.

With the risk of your life, he had to work fast. His skilled fingers set a fast rhythm making your back arch and your hands grip the sides of the tub. He must use some of his divine magic to give you this much intense pleasure. How else would he make you feel this good?

He adds a third finger and the world around you goes blurry. Your arm shoots out of the water and you grab onto his bicep. His muscles flexed with every thrust and curl inside you, making you tighten and melt beneath him.

This must be Heaven. Goes your final thought before your vision goes white, your brain shuts off, and you scream…

There is brightness all around you gradually fading back into nothingness before you finally register Constantine's lips on yours giving you the kiss of life. Once conscious, he gently rotates you on your side to get the rest of the water out of your lungs.

"There you are, sweetheart," he rubs your back. "Welcome back."

Pushing yourself off the floor, you take in your surroundings. John had pulled you out of the bathtub, his white shirt was soaked through. You knew you were alert and cognizant when your attention pinpointed the material clinging to his lean torso and emphasizing the muscles there.

"I hope you got into Heaven because I am not doing that ever again," your tone was exasperated as he draped a fluffy towel around your shoulders.

"I did," he helped you stand up and steered you towards his bed. "It was only a second for us but to angels that is how long eternity is."

John gets you another towel while you dry off. Looking down at yourself, you notice your pants had been zipped up again. Butterflies violently swarmed in your stomach while he was carrying himself as if what he did to you never happened.

You couldn't bear ignoring what just happened to you. He will not evade this explanation. "John…"

This gives him pause, coming back to your side and assisted toweling your arms and shoulders. "Yes sweetheart?"

"I was not expecting your hands—" you bite your lip. "And everything else that happened…"

"I know." He says, wrapping a protective arm around you.

"I liked it," you laugh despite the situation. "But maybe give a little warning next time…"

"I'll remember that." He smirks.

"Why?" So much was loaded behind your one-word question.

"Euphoria is what guarantees Heaven. Death alone is only a fifty-fifty shot." He states matter-of-factly.

"Of course," you comment sarcastically. "The saying is 'at least buy me dinner first' but in this case, will you take me to dinner now?"

"Let's go." He helps put your jacket back on before doing the same to himself and you two leave his apartment for your favorite fancy restaurant.

Solace was too simple a word to describe how Constantine felt when Heaven gave you back to him. He may work with celestial beings, but no angel in Heaven compares to the light you bring to his life. If he was honest with himself, he knew you deserved so much better than someone as damaged as he is. But despite knowing this, he was still selfish and wanted to have you in any way he could.

It was just unfortunate the only way he could rationalize being with you physically was when Heaven or Hell was involved. Maybe one day he will be able to tell you how he really feels about you, but for now he was formulating the next mission he will need your "help" with.

Like the gremlin you are, you can't help but savor their second thoughts about this whole mess, and you let them squirm about it. “Oh come on, you said it was your turn to pick,” you tease with no real malice. “It was my vote to drown him in the pool.”

“Yeah right,” answers your friend with a playful glare. “You were salivating for that man right along with us!”

“You’re the one who said he was fuckable!” you cackle, pointing. And boy howdy, was your friend right about that.

This admission makes Johnny frown a little. Jack is inscrutable as stone, and you do wonder if there's something to what Tex said about these men actually being in law enforcement.

“Just…be careful, ok?”

“Of course. Not my first rodeo, babes.”

“We know…”

“We just love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll be back later. Bye boys!”

Is Tex rubbing off on you, that you feel you have to taunt the [alleged] cops? You definitely don’t grasp the true gravity of your situation, fluttering along in vacation mode, convinced nothing truly bad can happen to you. You've committed to the bit, and you're determined to play it out now, even if you suspect it’s going to hurt your heart later. 

You slip out the door with a finger wave, skipping off to meet Tex downstairs. 

You just kind of assumed you were going to take a taxi to whatever destination Tex had in mind. But he is leaning against a black vintage muscle car with his arms crossed, the outlaw of your dreams dressed all in black. He lets out a wolf whistle as you approach, appraising the cut of your flowy tropical dress over the top of his dark shades. 

“Oh my god,” you say under your breath, and he smirks like he heard you. “Tex, where did you get this?” 

“I borrowed it.” 

You steady yourself with palms on his solid chest as you lean in for a kiss, and his hands sneak around your waist with an approving rumble. “You didn’t steal this car, did you?” you whisper, voice low so no one can hear. 

The idea of it makes him chuckle darkly, hands following the curve of your spine, perilously close to your ass as he pulls you full against him. Uff, this man is built solid as a tree. You’re almost too distracted to register his simple denial of, “No.” 

Not sure you really believe him, you search his face. You can hear the doormen behind you talking and whistling low amongst themselves, you’re pretty sure about the car.  He lets you stew in your uncertainty, clearly amused as he looks down at you. Finally you say, “I believe you, only because if you did steal it you’re so vain you’d brag about it.” 

This wins you a bark of laughter and a smack on the derriere. “Get in your ass in this car, pretty mama. I’m taking you for a ride.”

You have no idea how prophetic this seemingly innocuous declaration will prove. 

Maybe it’s stupid, how quickly you unwind, all your knee-jerk fears of earlier forgotten, while roaring down the seaside highway in this beast of a car with the windows down, holding Tex’s hand between shifting the gears. 

In a change of pace the two of you don’t talk [fight] much, blissfully content to watch the palm trees race by with the warm breeze on your faces, the glittering waters beyond gilded in rose gold by the setting sun. 

This place truly is a paradise.   

“Having fun?” he asks while kissing your hand with a smoldering look, his rough twang underscored with the barest note of earnestness that squeezes your heart. You haven’t known this man long at all, but you’re beginning to learn the subtle cues he keeps hidden beneath the boisterous good ol’ boy facade he wears for the world. 

He’s got a soft spot under all that armor; maybe it’s how he so adroitly recognized the same tender underbelly on you. The thought makes you squeeze his fingers in yours; every minute that goes by in this man’s company makes you dread more and more the moment when you’ll have to let go.

You do know it won’t last. Even if you stay, it never lasts, and the ache of this only intensifies the thrill, like scratching an itch with a razor-sharp blade. 

 “Yes.” 

This wins you a roguish smile that quickens your heart like the ridiculous creature you are. 

“Hard to keep my eyes on the road,” he admits, shifting to rest his hand in the soft crevice of your inner thigh. 

“Tex!” you giggle, and he chuckles in kind, pinching you lightly to make you squirm in your seat. 

“You are the worst,” you sigh wistfully, squeezing his hand between your legs. 

You think you’ll remember the sound of his happy laughter for the rest of your life, and you know that no matter what happens…you will be forever changed by this man, and the wild bliss he’s called up from the razed earth of your heart these past few days 

His shapely mouth curls in a half-smile for this, and he at least pretends to pay attention to the road while his thumb draws maddening circles upon your thigh.

Your trip ends outside the touristy parts of town, where the buildings are smaller and older and a little rundown. You like it immediately, and when he parks in front of a brightly painted little place on the beach constructed out of cinder blocks and old wood, the patio seemingly held together by twining bougainvillea, baling wire, and palm fronds, you believe that you are indeed in for a genuine taste of this beautiful country.

The patio wraps around the back with a breathtaking view of the beach, and the waitress gives you a little table with a front row view by the railing. “You like?” asks Tex with a half smile, clearly enjoying your wide-eyed wonder. 

“Very much,” you tell him, taking his hand. He tangles you up in his long legs under the table, and the two of you stay that way for the duration of the meal. Over margaritas, tequila shots, cochinita pibil and moharra frita you feel something shift in Tex as you’re talking. Some small barrier has fallen between you, and you feel like he’s not completely bullshitting you with every word he says. Maybe you’re not as guarded as you usually are either, when he asks you about your family and your life and the places you’ve been. It’s...nice, and it makes the sting of certain impermanence hurt all the more. 

A varied crowd of people fills the seaside restaurant. There are some tourists, but mostly it’s locals filling the chairs and the stools along the long bar that wraps around the back of the building. “How did you hear about this place?” you ask Tex, chasing the last bit of fruity goodness in the bottom of your margarita glass with a straw. 

“Got a rec from one of my…business associates,” he tells you. This makes some sense to you, as the night goes on and you don’t think you’re imagining that some of the clientele seem to have a certain edge to them. And a few at the bar seem to be paying a particular attention to you, or Tex, or at least the general direction of your table. Despite the uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, you tell yourself you’re just being paranoid, and when the waitress swings by you don’t object to Tex ordering another round of margaritas. 

“Gotta hit the head,” he tells you, leaning over to kiss your cheek before ambling around the building towards [you assume] the location of the facilities. You pass the alone time by looking out over the ocean. The sun has set by now, but the moon has risen, and you can see the glitter of the ever-moving water along with the distant sound of the surf. The patio is lit up by strings of festive fairy lights, you’ve got a great buzz from the tequila and a belly full of good food, and for a fleeting moment you are perfectly content. 

Then a shadow falls over your table, and you look up to see two of those tough looking men from the bar have come to loom over you.      

“Where’s your novio?” one with a scar over his eye demands, his voice like tires driving over broken glass. 

“He…went to the bathroom,” you stammer, your Spanish evaporating in the face of this tense situation. 

The two heavies look at each other knowingly, one hissing with disbelief through his teeth, the other reaching out to grasp you by the back of the neck. “Hey!” you protest, but quickly shut your mouth as the other flashes a chrome-plated handgun stuck in his waistband under his shirt. 

“You wanna see him again? Shut up, puta.”

Deep down, you know you should resist. You should make a big fucking scene, scream and shout and tip over tables. Make yourself memorable, at least, in case someone with a connection to your embassy might be watching. You should not go quietly, sandwiched between these scary men with eyes as sharp as the volcanic stone their ancestors once used to carve out the hearts of their enemies. 

But something freezes inside of you. Something gets stuck between fight or flight, and you just watch, hoping deep down that Tex will come to your rescue at the last minute. 

You walk out the restaurant, and across the car park, and you don’t see or hear a peep out of him as Big Tough #1 shoves you into the back seat of a Mercedes G-Wagon, and sits beside you with the gun pressed into your ribs. 

Tex, you son of a bitch.  

 🌴🌴🌴

Deafening gunfire echoes through the cavernous warehouse, and you struggle in your chair, desperate to get free. One of the henchmen takes a bullet to the chest, collapsing at your feet. Something wet and hot splashes the side of your face, and you can’t bring yourself to admit what you know: it’s totally blood.

Puke or cry, puke or cry? The dilemmas facing a modern woman these days… 

Drawing a gold-plated Desert Eagle from his waistband while reciting a string of rapid-fire expletives, the leader of the trio takes cover behind you, pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple. 

“Your stupid boyfriend has become a real pain in my ass,” hisses the Jefe in your ear, poking you viciously with the gun for good measure. 

“Welcome to the fucking club,” you snarl back, as pissed at him as you are at Tex. Fucking men. 

“Don Juan!” bellows a voice from behind a crate. 

Why does your stupid heart still sing at the sound of that shifty motherfucker’s voice? You should hate Tex’s guts, but there is still a small part of you that hopes against hope he didn’t abandon you at the restaurant, and there is still some sliver of hope that he actually cares about you…enough to get you out of this mess, at least.

“You lousy cheating hijo de puta! Did you really think you could sell me fakes and get away with it?” your captor answers, poking you with the barrel of the gun with each word. Goddamn, dude, ease up. 

“Well…” 

“Wrong answer, cabrón!”

“Ow!!” you scream as Juan wrenches your head back with a grip in your hair. 

“Hey now, easy on the goods, partner!” 

“You want her back alive? You better get me my money back with interest, for a start.” 

“Uhhh…”

“TEX!” you snarl, so fucking fed-up with his shit. You can’t help but think back on that amazing night you spent together, interrupted by his midnight sojourn, and him returning in that sharp suit. You don’t know what kind of grift he pulled on this guy, but you are so fucking pissed that you’re in the middle of it now. “GIVE HIM his FUCKING MONEY BACK!” 

Juan laughs softly behind you. “Your lady is smarter than you, señor. I’d take her advice.” 

“Yeah. About that…I–” 

The roar of an engine and the explosion of a car crashing through the side of the warehouse interrupts Tex mid-sentence. Chaos rains down and gunfire fills the air as more of Juan’s goons fire at the vintage muscle car drifting through the stacks of crates and shipping containers. Somehow–while steering and shifting–the driver picks them all off one by one. The shock of the spectacle might be what saves you all–Don Juan does not run from his cover of using your paltry form as a human shield. He watches in disbelief as the Mustang circles your chair in a burnout that positions the driver at the perfect angle to put a bullet between your captor’s eyes. 

Suddenly the warehouse is quiet as a cemetery at midnight–because everyone is dead. 

More blood has spattered onto your face–you do not care, unable to tear your eyes from the dark and terrible form that emerges from the driver’s side of the car. He is tall, clad in a beautifully tailored black suit, his crisp white shirt specked with blood, a matte 9mm clasped in his large hand at his side. You lose time as he turns to look at you with eyes like dark pits that hold all the sorrow of the world, falling into those fathomless orbs. 

You cannot look away. 

He looks like Tex…but not.

“You alright?” he grumbles, almost begrudgingly, as though speaking is something he’d rather not do and words are in limited supply for him. 

“I think so?” you squeak, though deep down your limbs have begun to shake and you don’t think you can stop. 

You gasp as he produces a knife from seemingly thin air, but relax as you realize he’s using it to cut your bonds. He crouches beside you, looking you over as though he didn’t believe you when you said you were fine. You’re not sure he likes what he sees, from the tired way he sighs. “You poor thing. Didn’t have a clue, did you?” 

You try not to cry as he pulls a white linen handkerchief from inside his smart jacket and wipes the blood off of your face. 

“Thanks.” 

“Whew!” Tex finally emerges from behind his cover of haphazard crates, his boot heels clicking on the concrete. “That was some driving, budd–” In the blink of an eye this newcomer has Tex up against the side of the Mustang in a choke hold, cutting off his air supply with his forearm on his neck. 

“You,” snarls your savior, none too happy to see his doppelganger.

“Hegh—John–C’mon–” Tex taps at the iron bar of an arm against his windpipe, but John only presses harder for a few seconds more. 

“You. Stole Viggo’s blue diamonds. And sold them to Juan fucking Aragón–while pretending to be me? You. Fucking. Asshole!”

“They were fake diamonds!” Tex protests.

“I don’t fucking care!”

“Aww, c’mon. What are brothers for?”

“You're not my brother.”

“I’m your twin!”

“You can’t talk your way out of this one. I have to bring you back.”

“I can’t go back.”

“You don’t get a choice.”

“John…c’mon.”

“Dead or alive. Your choice.”

You involuntarily make a pitiful little sound behind them. As though he forgot you were even there, this terrible killer turns his attention to you again. “Who's she?”

“Just some girl. Don't hurt her.”

Gee, thanks.

“I’m not going to hurt her.” He fixes narrowed eyes on Tex. “But you're not getting out of this.”

Tex looks past his brother to you with forlorn puppy eyes, and fuck if you don’t melt a little, like the fucking idiot you are. “Can I at least say goodbye?”

“Fine,” John growls. “But make it quick.” He releases his brother, and Tex makes a show of brushing himself off, looking at John with a raised eyebrow.

All it earns him is a snarl before the assassin turns his back on both of you.

Tex sidles your way with that come-hither smirk curling his oh-so-kissable lips. This manchild thinks all this was funny. 

He doesn’t even see it coming when you wind up and slap him across the face. “Ouch! Easy darlin’!”

You can’t stop yourself from shoving your finger in his face, even if you have to stand on tiptoe to do it. “You asshole! You left me–”

With the speed of a pouncing leopard this man snatches you up in his arms–and slants his mouth over yours. You struggle for about 2.5 seconds before you hate to admit–you give in to it, all your good sense going up in smoke with those clever lips and that devilish tongue lighting up your world one more time. He kisses you like he means to devour you from the mouth down, like he would like to permanently imprint the taste of you on his tongue. He is definitely holding you up by the time he’s done with you, and you forget how to speak when he draws back to look down into your eyes. 

“I didn’t leave you, honey. I just…had to time it right, or I knew I wasn’t going to get you back.”

You can't help but think it was his brother who saved all your bacon. Yet when this menace of a man sweeps your hair behind your ear, you can’t stop yourself from leaning into him.

“Sorry I got you mixed up in all this.” 

You whimper out of frustration, knowing you shouldn’t believe him, but wanting to. Your attempt to pound on his chest with your fist is thwarted by his arms locked tight around you. 

“Tex…is he going to hurt you?” you can’t help but ask, looking at his lethal twin who is clearly losing his patience, leaning against his baddass car. 

“Nah. We’ll work it out. Always do.” Tex winks at you with that trickster’s sparkle in his eye, and you strangely sympathize with the mafia assassin having to deal with this wild man who somehow worms his way into your heart, despite all the trouble he causes. 

Tex chucks you under the chin when he sees it quivering with the urge to cry. “Here’s–” 

“If you say ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ I will knee you in the junk, Humpy Bogart.” 

He laughs at that, a full-on head-back guffaw. “Baby…I’m going to miss you.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Sorry we’re wrapping early. I had some elaborate plans for your juicy little pu–”

“Tex!” you giggle, squirming as he nuzzles your neck with a wicked chuckle, his big hand grabbing your ass low, his long fingers brushing your center. He captures your lips again in a long wet kiss that curls your toes in your shoes and your fingers in his shirt. 

“Time’s up, Romeo,” growls the other brother in black, and Tex sighs. There are sirens in the distance, but getting closer. Lots of them. 

“Gotta go, darlin’.” 

“Wait…how am I getting back?” 

“Eh. They’ll give you a ride.” 

“Who are they? Hey, wait!” 

But Tex veritably lopes on those long legs, hopping in the passenger side of the Mustang in three strides. The assassin named John doesn’t even look at you before getting behind the wheel and starting the car with a roar. As the warehouse is filled with the wails of the police sirens the outlaws are burning rubber in the opposite direction, making a new hole in the other side of the building. 

One of the official cars tries to follow them, but you doubt it will get far. That man can drive. 

You are practically blinded by the flashing lights all around you, huddling in your little dress with your arms crossed, praying they don’t mistake you for a bandida and shoot you. There’s a lot of yelling of “¡Manos arriba!” and pointed guns. 

Shit, it’s all old hat to you now. 

You do as you’re told, lifting your hands above your head. 

A team of Federales fan out into the warehouse, looking for targets. All they find are bodies. 

One of them cuffs you, and you stand there feeling sorry for yourself while they tear the warehouse apart looking for clues or evidence or the Easter Bunny. They bring out some drug-sniffing dogs who are very interested in the crates Tex was hiding behind. 

Great.

The thing that shocks you out of your heartbroken stupor is Jack and Johnny striding up in commando gear, looking ridiculously fine in their bullet proof vests, big guns holstered on their hips. “Where did Tex go?” they ask. 

“Fuck if I know. Are you DEA?” you ask back, more relieved than you would like to admit that they’re here and maybe sorta on your side. But then again…maybe not. 

“I’m Special Agent Utah, FBI,” Johnny answers, flashing a badge. 

“Detective Traven, LAPD,” Jack echoes, unclipping the badge on his belt for you to see. “We’re gonna have to ask you some questions.” 

“Yeah. I figured.” 

“Did you know he’s a hitman?” Jack asks in a deep, no-nonsense LEO voice, very different from the easy going guy who was canoodling with your friend just this afternoon.

“What?” John was obvious, but Tex? Ok, maybe you sensed something dangerous about him, but…?

“He’s a contract killer. We’ve been tracking him for years.” 

Bewildered, you shake your head, the last bit of wind blown out of your sails this night. 

“No. He just…sold some bogus diamonds to this cartel guy, apparently.” 

“Any idea where he stashed the money?” 

You snort. “Nope.” 

“You’re not lying to us, I hope.” 

You just sigh, suddenly so very tired. “No.” 

“You’re in a tricky situation here, ma’am,” says Johnny, like he wasn’t joking with you by your first name with your friends in the pool just this morning. “Juan Aragón was the head of the serpent, but some of his underlings might still want revenge. You’ll be wanting to fly home tonight–but we can only make that happen if you're telling us everything you know.”

“I am!” Oh god. “What about my friends?” 

“We’ve already got them at the airport with a detail,” Traven answers, and you sigh with relief. 

So much for a carefree vacation…

Boy, do you know how to pick them. 

Or maybe, you think, this time…he picked you. 

And deep down…in the deepest dungeon of your heart…in a place you’ll never reveal to anyone else…it’s possible…you’re glad he did.  

🌺🌺🌺

A year goes by in a fog for you. You swing between hating yourself for being such a fucking idiot to missing that dark-eyed bandit with every cell of your stupid little being. 

The FBI and LAPD question you a few more times, but eventually they’re satisfied that you really were just a random vacation hookup, and had no true connections to Tex Johnson’s criminal activities.

This truce might have been helped along by the fact that your friends are still dating Agent Utah and Officer Traven. Who honey-potted who?

You’re so happy for them. Jack will surely be popping the question any time now, and Johnny is just as smitten. Not all vacation flings have to end in total disaster…

But sometimes, late at night when you’re alone in bed and consumed by the fever of a nebulous wet dream–you wish you'd jumped in that Mustang while waving your middle finger goodbye to your stable, boring life.

You try dating. 

It’s a joke.

No one gives you that bone-deep thrill like one wink from that outlaw cowboy could. No one else can match your wit or your temper; they just run for the hills like the cowards they are.

No one else calls up that red-hot desire that threatens to burn you alive from the inside out. 

Maybe you are a hot fucking mess, but as time goes on you start to fear more and more that Tex really was your perfect pairing, like gasoline and a careless match.

It doesn’t matter.

You know you’ll never see him again. 

The knowledge of this sinks into your bones, heavy as lead. You accept it, even if you don't know how to get past the dark cloud that constantly hovers over you. 

After a very long day you sit down on your couch with a glass of wine to go through your mail. It’s mostly bills, offers for credit cards you don’t want, and some magazines. You almost miss a bright little postcard of the Golden Buddha of Wat Khao Rang, a temple in Phuket, Thailand, tucked into an ad circular by the postman. 

Your heart leaps into your throat while racing a mile a minute. Your hand starts shaking as you get up the courage to flip that piece of cardstock in your fingers. 

Somehow…you just know, and you're not sure if it's a good thing or not. 

Finally you turn it over, finding a short message in a barely legible left-handed scrawl:

Do you still think about me?

◻️Yes  ◻️No

A ridiculous smile spreads over your cheeks, and you collapse back into your pillows, holding the card over your heart that’s suddenly turned into a butterfly house. 

Later that evening, you find yourself browsing flights to Bangkok on your laptop.

If insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly while hoping for different results…

Fuck it. 

☁✈

The END…

…or is it?👀🤭