20
Spence
The sensors that surround my property send an alert to my watch. Someone is coming through the gates, so I take my phone out and pull up the cameras that follow the car for the full mile it takes to get from the road to here.
A familiar car.
A familiar face.
It’s funny that she makes me grin, despite the fact I don’t intend to let her stay long.
Things have changed for me lately, and I have no fucking clue how it happened. One minute, I’m me and have exactly zero fucks to give about how women feel about me. I don’t care about their feelings, I don’t care about treating them like a lady, I don’t give a shit about them in any way except finding a place to fuck, and giving their rump a pat as I tell them to go away. But now I’ve developed a conscience, and the scar on my face has stopped being something I consider badass, a sign of how cold I can be, and something to revel in, and turned into a reminder that my actions hurt people, and that it’s not okay to treat others as though they are dispensable.
And… my newfound conscience freaks me the fuck out.
My entire adult life has been about being cold and calculating. It has been a necessity. It was too dangerous to have a weakness and let the world know about it, so once my mom passed, and since my dad skipped out long ago, my personal connections became history, and my liabilities became none.
I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, without fear of backlash or them hunting down my family and exacting revenge when they couldn’t find me. I’ve tortured men, I’ve killed men, I’ve burned, cut, doused, and taunted men in their final breaths.
If I were ever found out, despite my belief I never hurt an innocent, I would be convicted and sent far away for a long time.
Having a wife isn’t conducive to that kind of lifestyle. Which meant emotionless fucking and no coffee dates the next morning.
But then Abigail happened.
Tossing the last of Jay’s trash into the garbage, I walk to the front entrance and fold my foot over the opposite ankle while I watch the white Corolla pull up outside. She wears tight… everything. Tight shirt. Tight bra. Massive tits. And when she climbs out, I get an eyeful of tight jeans, and heels I used to like once upon a time.
This woman is everything Abigail is not: tall, sleek, proportionate—if you consider double Ds on a hundred-and-twenty-pound, five-nine body proportionate. Her legs are as long as mine, and her hair is always styled and curled to perfection. Her nails are talon long and always shiny, whereas Abigail’s are cut short and usually bare of polish. Her eyes are always smoky and sinful, whereas Abigail’s are…Fuck.They’re unique and deep enough to get lost in.
For some reason, I used to be turned on by plastic and fake, but now I seem to like red hair and cute freckles.
I’ve created the very vulnerability that’ll get me killed someday, because when I should be working and unfeeling, I’ll be watching Abigail. I’ll be worried about her, I’ll care that she’s okay, and I’ll be watching her back instead of my own.
“Hey.” My visitor turns to me with what could be described as a shy smile.
Probably becauseusuallyby the time she’s pulled in and opened her car door, I’m in her face and pulling her to me. But today, I stand by my door and fold my arms in a clear ‘not open’ position.
I care enough that I don’t want to hurt her feelings when I tell her no.
And that alone is freaking me out.
Why would I even consider sending her home when she’s right here, wearing fuck-me shoes? Why send her away when it’s a guaranteed orgasm and a drama-free goodbye, just like every other time we’ve hooked up?
Why, when Abigail refuses to return my texts with anything more than polite replies and gentle rebuffs?
When did I change?
Ashley leans back into her car and tugs out her purse, then, slinging it over her shoulder, she turns to me and does that hair flip all the girls do. The kind where they throw their head back and flash a seductive grin.
A month ago, it would have worked. But today, I remain standing in my doorway with my arms folded and my body closed off.
“Hey.” I lift my chin in greeting, then point between us as though to illustrate what I’m about to say. “We can’t do this anymore.”
Ashley stops halfway across the twenty feet of space that separates us, and skids in the gravel. Her eyes widen, and her plump lips drop open as she works through her confusion.
I don’t do long and drawn out, and I don’t do mixed messages, so I look into her eyes and shake my head. “Sorry.”
“We can’t…” Her eyes dart around the yard as though seeking out a hidden camera. “What?”