by Banks, R. R.
Shortly after I'd moved out and filed for divorce, the city life began to wear on me. Things that I'd found charming before suddenly became annoying. I was constantly on edge. Irritated. And worst of all, I was lonely.
It was then that I decided it was time to come home. The pace of life in Sheridan Falls was slower. Easier to manage. It wasn't so compacted and congested. It wasn't so busy and frantic. I felt like I could actually breathe.
It was a nice change of pace.
Still, I felt like I had to slink back into town with my tail between my legs, ashamed that I'd been proven wrong. It's not like anybody was actually judging me – other than me, anyway. On some level, I feel like I'd failed. That I wasn't able to hack it in the big, bad city.
Honestly though, I had to admit that what they'd said before I left was true. I'm not a girl who's cut out for big city life. It was a fun experience for the most part and I'm glad I tried it, but the only thing it did was make me appreciate Sheridan Falls that much more.
Sheridan Falls isn't a big city, by any stretch of the imagination. But it's not a small podunk middle-of-nowhere town either. We have a population that's a little over two hundred thousand now, and it's growing. It's an idyllic little place in the northwest corner of Washington that a lot of folks have figured out is a nice place to raise a family.
“Abby?”
James' voice cut through my thoughts and pulls me back to the present. I look at him and realize I have absolutely no idea what he was talking about. I shake my head and give him a sheepish grin.
“Sorry, I zoned out for a minute,” I say. “Long day. What were you saying?”
He looks a little annoyed, but reins it in quickly. “I was just asking you how your meal was?”
It is fine. It's always fine. We are sitting in Davina's Cucina, James' favorite Italian restaurant – just like we do every Friday night. Honestly, I'm not a huge fan of Italian food, but I deal with it for him. Over the months, I found a couple of things I liked, so I usually ordered them.
James though, he orders the same thing every single Friday night. He's been doing it so long; the waitress knows what he wants before we ever sat down. The only reason why they still even bother with menus is because I sometimes change things up and order something different – something that seems to irk James a little bit every time.
Like I said, he's a man of routine. A never, ever, ever, varying routine.
“It's delicious,” I reply.
He nods. “Oh, it's just that you're kind of picking at it,” he says. “Usually, if you order the eggplant parmesan, you don't pick at it so much. So, I was just thinking maybe you didn't like the lasagna or something.”
“Oh no, I like it just fine,” I say. “I guess I'm just a little tired and out of it or something today. Not all that hungry after all.”
He looks at me for a moment and then nods, as if he somehow needs to process my answer before accepting it. I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I usually enjoy James' company – he actually is a good conversationalist, a smart man, and we have some terrific talks about any number of things. But for whatever reason, tonight isn't one of those nights.
Tonight, I just want to go home, put on some pajamas, curl up on the couch with a tub of ice cream, and binge on Netflix all night.
But, it's Friday night. Date night. And if I decide to alter our routine, it's going to throw James into a tailspin – something I had a little firsthand experience with. James doesn't like surprises or changes to his routine we didn't talk about first – to give him a little time to prepare – and so, I always do my best to avoid springing anything on him out of the blue.
“You sure?” he asks, looking at me curiously. “Everything okay?”
I reach across the table and give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Everything's fine,” I say. “Promise.”
He nods and goes back to eating, apparently satisfied with my answer. Truth is though, I'm not fine. I just feel – off. A little unsettled, perhaps. Why I'm feeling this way, I haven't the first clue. It's just something that's becoming more and more persistent in my mind and in my heart.
But it's nothing I can point to or identify. And until I can figure out what's bothering me, there's obviously nothing I can do about it.
The waitress comes by and clears off our plates a little while later. She gives James a smile, knowing the routine very well.
“Tiramisu coming right up,” she says and James beams back at her.
I groan inwardly. I hate tiramisu.
Chapter Four
We get back to my place and I think that there's enough time to kick James out and binge on a few episodes of something before I fall asleep on the couch. Which sounds fantastic to me. But I know better than that. I already know what's going to happen.
And like clockwork, after I hang my sweater in the hall closet, I feel James' arms on my waist as he nuzzles my neck from behind. Friday night date means Friday night sex. It's the routine, after all.
James kisses my neck, running the tip of his tongue from my ear down to my collarbone. I lean back into him and smile, enjoying the sensation. I can feel his hard cock pressing up against my ass. If there is one thing I know with certainty, it's that James really likes me.
I turn around and clasp my hands behind his neck, leaning in and kissing him deeply. Passionately. Our tongues swirl and dance in my mouth and he slides his hands down my back, squeezing my ass. Our kissing grows more passionate, more intense, and I reach down and stroke his stiff cock through his slacks. He throws his head back and moans softly.
James looks at me, a look of absolute hunger in his eyes. And I feel the fire between my thighs grow even hotter. I'm suddenly feeling a little frisky and want to change things up a bit. He gives me a curious look as I step back from him, looking him in the eye, and bite my bottom lip seductively. I crook my finger, motioning for him to come to me. He cocks his head as if he's not sure what's happening, but obeys me.
When I get to the couch, I turn around and bend over the arm of it, hiking my skirt up around my waist. Looking back over my shoulder at him, I smile lasciviously.
“Fuck me, James,” I purr. “I need you inside of me right now. I don't want to wait another minute.”
I can see the desire in his eyes, but it's at war with his natural order of things. Of how things should go and should be.
I feel the stab of disappointment in my heart as he pulls me up and takes my hand.
“Let's go to the bedroom,” he says. “Where we'll be more comfortable.”
The goddamn routine. Always the goddamn routine. Sex on Friday nights. Never on Thursdays, every other Saturday, but always Friday. And always in the bedroom. James' idea of getting frisky was turning the lights on – and it had taken me the better part of three months to convince him to do that.
I sigh to myself and push down the irritation that had bloomed in my chest, letting James lead me into the bedroom – noticing that he flipped the lights on with a flourish and doing my best to not roll my eyes.
Standing at the foot of the bed, James pulls me to him and kisses me again. It's a deep, fiery kiss and despite my annoyance, I feel myself growing wet. If there's one thing James does well, it's kiss. He knows exactly how to use his mouth and he does it well – my only wish was that he used it more.
He pulled me to him and I could feel his hard cock pressing against me. Despite myself, my irritation from a moment ago evaporates and I lose myself in the moment. I feel his hands slide down and unzip my skirt, letting it fall to the floor. I kick off my heels as James unbuttons my shirt, letting it join my skirt in a pile at my feet.
He runs his hand over my body, setting my skin on fire. I kiss him back as I work at his belt. I finally get it undone and then unzip his pants, pushing them down. James steps back and takes them off, followed by his shirt, and then drops them atop his shoes – neatly, of course. I move over to him and take his thick cock in my hand, squeezing and stroking it while we kiss.
/>
James moans softly and then pushes me down to the bed, positioning me on the edge. Kneeling down, James leans forward and puts his mouth to good use. He licks and sucks on me, teasing my opening with the tip of his tongue before he plunges two fingers deep inside of me.
I gasp and then moan as he works his fingers in and out of my pussy, all the while, he licks and sucks on my clit. I arched my hips upward, trying to take his fingers deeper inside of me, but he pulled them out and instead, slid his tongue in. I cried out as the rush of sensation was powerful as he licked me deep and hard. I felt the pressure building low in me and tried to encourage him to keep going.
“James –” I moan softly. “Yes, baby. Don't stop. Please don't stop.”
But he did stop and I can't help but feel disappointed. I wanted him to keep going, to keep doing what he'd been doing. But, he didn't. Instead, he has me scoot up the bed and he climbs up on top of me. I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him as James drives his cock deep into me. I groan as he fills me up and begins to pump his hips, setting a smooth, easy rhythm.
I arch my back and dig my nails into his shoulders as he drives his cock into me again and again. I try to move, to switch to another position, but James holds me fast, keeps me pinned down on my back, and keeps fucking me. Missionary is his favorite position – in fact, most of the times we'd slept together, it was the only position we did it in.
Pushing aside all negative thought, I close my eyes and give into the sensation coursing through me. James feels amazing as he drives his cock into me again and again. My body is warm and my breath catches in my throat. I look up at him and he's looking down at me, staring deeply into my eyes.
“You feel so good, baby,” I say. “I love it when you're so deep inside of me.”
James grunts and thrusts his cock into me but says nothing. He never does. Outside of some grunts and groans, he's pretty much silent during sex. I raise my hips, taking him deeper into me and revel in the waves of pleasure rolling through me.
He sheaths himself deep inside of me, taking slower, longer strokes, and I know that he's getting close. I close my eyes and try to summon my own orgasm. I grip his arms tight and grit my teeth, trying to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure from him as he pumps himself inside of me.
He squeezes his eyes shut and quickens his pace. I know James is done for. His body shudders and he moans as he unleashes his seed deep within me. A flood of warm, sticky come fills me up and James collapses on top of me, his breathing labored.
He gives me a smile and plants a kiss on my forehead before rolling off and laying beside me.
“That was incredible,” he said.
I smile but make no reply – because it hadn't been incredible. Not really. Not for me anyway. Not that it ever is. It was fine and I enjoyed it, but I never really enjoyed it. It's not James' fault. To be fair, I'd never been able to get off with any man before. The only orgasms I'd ever had in my life, I'd given to myself.
It's not all that long before James' breathing became low and steady. He's asleep, of course he is.
I get out of bed and turn off the light, heading out to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I stand at the sink, looking at the moonlit world beyond my window, I sigh. Sex with James is fine. It's enjoyable. But I can never say that I'm satisfied. I usually have to finish myself off later. But I'm not in the mood to even do that tonight.
I'm frustrated. Not just sexually – though, there's plenty of that mixed in – but emotionally, mentally, and even spiritually. Because hell, why not? I loved being back home and away from the city, but at the same time, I felt restless. Incomplete. There was something missing, some void in my life and for the life of me, I can't figure out what it is.
You'd think that being a trained psychologist, I'd have a better handle on my own thoughts, emotions, and mental well-being. You'd think I'd be able to zero in on exactly what the problem within me is. But for some reason, the answers to the questions in my mind and in my heart, continue to elude me.
It's because I'm too close to things, obviously. You can hardly ever see the problems when they're within you, right in front of your face. Not as easily as it is to see and point out the problems other people are having, anyway.
But it is what it is, I suppose. To be fair, things aren't so terrible with James. They're just not as exciting as they could be. As I'd like them to be. But I know that can also be just as much my fault as it is his. Like I said, I'm in a weird place in my head and in my heart, and I'm not sure how to make sense of anything.
I finish my water and put the glass in the sink before going back to bed, my mind and heart still troubled by the endless questions and the persistent feeling of being unsettled.
Chapter Five
Caleb
“You sure you're up for this?”
I look over at Tony and give him a smirk. “Of course, I'm up for it,” I reply. “Why wouldn't I be?”
Tony shrugged and grinned at me. “You just look a little hungover, that's all.”
Truth is, I am a bit hungover. But I don't want to tell Tony that. He's relying on me to be his backup for this job. But I'd gone out the night before and although I didn't mean to, I'd tied on one a little too hard. Woke up in some random girl's bed with my head pounding like a son of a bitch.
I didn't remember much from the night before, but getting a good look at that tight little ass in bed next to me told me that it had been a good night indeed.
Of course, I spent the day hydrating and trying to recover knowing that I had to meet Tony tonight to nail down his bounty. I don't usually do a lot of work chasing down bail jumpers, but I did a little now and then. When there weren't a lot of soon-to-be divorcee looking for dirt on their significant others or missing people to track down, bounty hunting filled in the financial gaps.
Tonight, is Tony's bounty though – I'm just there for the added muscle. He and I go way back – I'd done a couple of tours with him in Afghanistan. Tony is a stand-up guy. A good man. I'd put my life in his hands more times than I can count, and he's done the same with me.
When I finally rotated out of the Corps and came back to the States, it was Tony who helped me get set up as a PI and a bail bondsman. After everything we'd seen and done over there, he knew better than anybody that a nine-to-five office job wasn't going to work for me. He knew that you couldn't adjust to life in a cubicle after spending years on a battlefield.
“I'm good, man,” I said.
“You read the file, yeah?”
I give him a thumbs up. “Of course, I did.”
He looks at me and I can see the skepticism in his face. Tony knows me pretty well and knows my disdain for paperwork. But he also knows that he can count on me when he's up against it. Knows I'll always have his back.
“You read the whole file?” he presses.
I start to nod before stopping myself and flashing him a crooked grin. “I may have – skimmed – certain parts.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Of course, you did.”
“Don't worry, man,” I say. “It's going to be fine. We'll get your bad guy and then go out for a beer.”
“It might not be the walk in the park you –”
“Come on, man,” I cut him off, “he's a twenty-four-year-old dope dealer. He's not some hardass criminal mastermind. And he's definitely not any more dangerous than some of those shitheads we dealt with over in Afghanistan.”
“True, but –”
“He's armed,” I say and tap on my chest. “I know. Got my vest on already.”
Tony chuckles and shakes his head again. “Just make sure to keep your eyes open and your head on a swivel, dude.”
“You know me,” I reply. “I'm always ready for anything.”
“Yeah, you're gonna need to be.”
We get out of the car and head toward the small duplex. The neighborhood is run down, dirty, riddled with crime. There are bars on the windows of most every home and the place is infested with drugs and ga
ngbangers.
In other words, it's the perfect place to find the scumbag we're looking for.
“Okay, here's the plan,” Tony says. “I'm going around back. This dude is a runner and is probably going to bolt at the first sign you're there. You flush him out and I'll be waiting to scoop his ass up.”
“Easy peasy,” I say.
“Yeah, well, just remember to keep that head on a swivel like I said,” he says. “And keep your comms open.”
I snap him a quick salute. “Yes, sir.”
I watch him trot around toward the back of the house. I check my earpiece and make sure my comms are open so we can keep in direct communication with one another. Plans are great things to have, but they seldom went exactly as you laid them out. And as long as we can communicate, we can adjust to whatever wrench gets thrown into the works.
After giving Tony a couple of minutes to get into position, I head up the front walk and up the three crumbling brick steps to the porch.
“At the door,” I say softly into my comm piece. “You ready?”
“Roger that,” Tony's voice comes back to me.
I nod to myself and pound on the door as forcefully as I can and shout. “Recovery agents, open the door.”
Much to my surprise, as I'm beating on the door, it flies inward, crashing into the wall behind it. With my gun in hand, pointed at the ground, I step inside, my eyes scanning the entire room. It's empty. I strain my ears and listen, my body tense and poised to fight.
The inside of the house looks a lot like the outside – dirty, cluttered, disgusting. There are empty pizza boxes, beer bottles, and dirty dishes covering every surface I can see – even the floor. The stink in this place is unbearable. I've been in porta-potties in the middle of a heat wave that have smelled better. It's all I can do to avoid gagging.