Any friend of yours has to be fucking nuts. I’m going to play squirrel and see what’s up with her anyway. How much money did you get off me?
Melanie: She’s different and fun, isn’t she? I knew you’d love her!
Axel: How much, Mel?
Melanie: $35.00. How’d you know?
Axel: Because I’m not fucking stupid.
He made his way to his truck, got inside, and sat there with only the glow of his phone and the thumping music drifting from the bar, probably the last song of the night.
Melanie: We make bets on couples all night to see who is going to link up. Don’t tell her. She wouldn’t understand.
He started up the truck.
Axel: Too late. I want free beer next time I come in here. I want it for an entire month if she turns out to be some Aileen Wuornos type lady.
He placed his phone down, lit a cigarette, turned up his stereo, and drove away to the sounds of ‘Rodeo,’ by Juvenile.
Chapter Four
I’m a mental case and a fraud, and you know what? In the right circumstances, I’m okay with that. I avoid bad boys as a rule, tending to go for the educated lames, but I was never happy traveling that predictable journey. Come to find out, the educated lames are sometimes just as bad as the thugs and bad boys, if not worse. Make it make sense. I’m also sickeningly attracted to White boys with long hair and tattoos. I don’t know what it is, but it’s beautifully strange, just how I like it. I like my men either Black as night in a starless city, or some tall glass of melanin-deficient son of a bitch who acts like he owns the damn place.
I look nothing like how I behave, and I’m more than fine with that. Only a few people know the real me, and those folks always ask me the same question that demands a complicated answer: How could someone with so much education, common sense, and a good family such as my own be so dark inside? I don’t know how to respond to this, but that is how I am, and it’s mine to keep.
I called myself a fraud. I am. It’s not a common occurrence, but a tool I use when necessary. Why am I a con artist, you may ask? I’ll tell you… I was acting my behind off at the bar tonight.
Of course, I knew who the hell Axel Hendrix was within five seconds of him entering the pub. I never forget a face, and this photographic memory of mine has served me well in my thirty-two years on this planet. Melanie began speaking fast, giving me his resume, and she seemed in shock—something about not seeing him for years, and that he’d been her brother’s best friend. Meanwhile, I watched him interacting with people and knew then, I wouldn’t need any introductions. After all, how could anyone forget that rumbling, rusty voice, and the long, dark blond hair that at times hung almost perfectly over one eye, so he’d gently flip the strands over his shoulder.
And good God… that face. Imagine Josh Holloway with a thick beard, but not too thick, and long ass hair. Yeah, now you understand.
Axel’s features were striking, something you’d pause for and give a double take, Then he had all of those tattoos… Whew. Angel wings and classic symbols that let me know that he enjoyed history, too. I noted the Neptune, Venus, and Mars on his body, all the Roman deities. Seeing him in the flesh was an unexpected treat.
Several weeks ago, I was home, stuffing my face with Pamprin for some monster menstrual cramps, hugged up with a pint of Rocky Road ice-cream, Kleenex in my hand while I cried about a story on Instagram, and just lying across my bed in a dramatic way no doubt, hot water bottle on my bloated abdomen, and then I heard the news come on. I looked away from my phone towards my bedroom television and literally said… DAMN.
There was something sexy and sinister about a man who could shoot someone without a second thought, and something noble about him making it clear he was no killer, but he’d rest easy knowing he did what he had to do. He gave no fucks or apologies, but he wasn’t bragging either. I liked that. He stood there with that reporter, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that looked more like a joint, and calmly discussed how he blew a hole in a man. It was obvious he didn’t want the media attention—he was looking everywhere but at the damn camera—but still, his confidence and persona exuded from the screen. Now, I’ve met him. I have his number, but will I call him? He’s yet to call me. Maybe it’s for the best…