Stumbling Onto the Right Path

Author's Note:

Hello again Romance readers! It's been a minute.

This one might not be for you if you are offended by adultery and/or openly bisexual men. All of the erotic contact is heterosexual, however. Abuse is an undercurrent through this whole tale, and I feel something of an obligation to be up front about that.

I'd like to think I'm developing a reputation for having a soft hand with dark themes, and this story is no different. As always, the core of my story is love, understanding, and acceptance. It's just, the path is dark and full of terrors, sometimes.

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

--

Thatcher emerged through the haze of the town's most inglorious bar, confident and emotionally distant like a leather-clad train clacking toward an inevitable end.

He knew what he wanted. It wasn't noble. It wasn't admirable. But he didn't bullshit anyone about it. He was determined to be exactly as shallow and hedonistic as he appeared, but he was not playing the same game as the smattering of small-time pickup artists scattered around the establishment.

His general affect was world-weary, which bled into the neighborhood of haunted when he was a few drinks deep. He wasn't confident, exactly. More that he knew what he wanted and wasn't ashamed of it. It didn't hurt that he had a sharp jaw, soulful eyes, and an effortlessly muscular upper body that he often flaunted with tank tops or tight polos. He had an unpretentious and unflappable air of humor about him that was immediately endearing.

He strolled up to the bar and the surly bartender greeted him with the closest thing he seemed to have to a smile.

"What'll it be, Thatch?" the bartender asked.

"Rye whiskey, rocks," he answered, nodding at the older man.

The bartender nodded in acknowledgment and set to work pouring the drink.

Thatcher had noticed the brunette in the black dress on the far side of the bar before he even ordered, but he made an effort to avoid looking at her once he was in her eyeline, more out of an effort to avoid getting his hopes up so early than anything else. At first glance, she was exactly what he was searching for. Before he laid eyes on her, he really wasn't feeling a strong preference for the gender of the person that would end up warming his bed that night, but seeing her had awakened in him a distinct craving for the feminine.

He felt her eyes on him before he chanced a glance in her direction. He only intended a casual scan of the bar as his drink was being prepared, but when his eyes met hers, they stuck there, transfixed.

Her eyes were blue. Deep blue like a spring in the desert. Her face was not just pretty but striking. He quickly found his initial assessment of her from behind to be an underestimation. Moreover, she did not shy away from his gaze. She was gazing at him intently, taking her own measure of him. He recognized a kindred spirit in those eyes, her gaze both penetrating and unapologetic about their desire. And her desire was evident, somewhere between that dress, her makeup, and the way she was gazing at him.

The bartender set the drink down in front of him a little too hard, drawing Thatcher's attention away from the woman for a moment. The old man shook his head knowingly at him, chucking to himself as he turned away to make the rounds with the half dozen patrons to Thatcher's left.

When he looked back, the woman seemed to have thought better of staring, and had turned to face the bar, nursing a martini. She was sliding the pad of her middle finger slowly around the brim of the glass, her long nails shining some shade of red in the dim, neon-tinged light.

He scooped his whiskey off the bar and walked over to her. She pretended not to notice, and he took his time closing the distance, taking a full measure of her. She couldn't have been more than 5' 2", and if she weighed more than 100 pounds, he would have been shocked. Her long copper hair had hazelnut accents streaking through it, cascading down her shoulders and ending under her shoulder blades.

He sat down next to her as if it were the only spot left in the place, set his drink on the bar, and removed his leather hat with a heavy sigh, tossing it down. He glanced at her without turning his head and followed her eyeline to a rather gauche Dos Equis neon sign that hung to her left.

"Big fan of mediocre Mexican beer?" he asked casually, as if they were old friends, aping her feigned interest in the sign.

She looked at him, seemingly bewildered by the question. He kept his eyes on the sign but cracked half a smile. When she remained silent for several beats, he turned toward her, gave her a roguish smile, and offered his hand to her.

"I'm Thatcher, but most people call me Thatch."

She let him hang for a couple of seconds before shaking his hand and nodding, "Marie."

She had the air of a woman with something to say, but somewhere between ordering his drink and sitting down next to her, anxiety seemed to have bloomed in her features.

"Forgive me for saying so, Marie, but you strike me as a sort of woman who doesn't do this very often," he peeled his eyes off of her and began to sip on his drink with some intensity.

With this she finally cracked a smile. "Yeah? What gave me away?" She asked.

"The incongruence between your choice of attire and your general air of anxiety," he observed, taking another sip of his drink.

"Ah, well, Thatch..." she turned her body toward him several degrees. He set his drink down and faced her in turn, "you strike me as the kind of man who does this a little too much."

He chuckled warmly. "Guilty as charged."

Her eyes drifted over him again, and as they did, she went from jovial to anxious.

"I... don't know if I can do this," she sighed, seemingly to herself. Her eyes dropped to the mostly-untouched martini in front of her and her finger returned to tracing circles around the brim.

"Alright. I'm not here to talk you into anything, Marie." His tone was gentle, like coaxing a skittish cat out of its hiding place, "Look me in the eyes and answer me two questions. After that, I'll leave you to your martini."

He paused, and when she didn't immediately respond, he added, "unless you ask me to stay."

She looked into his eyes, a battle apparent within her. She nodded.

"When you look at me, what do you see?"

She blinked a couple of times, appearing to consider how honest she should be. His unpretentious aura inspired an unfiltered answer.

"An admittedly pretty hot man trying to pick me up."

He nodded, "And why did you come to a shitty bar tonight dressed like that, a full face of makeup, your hair done, and wearing a very enticing perfume?"

For a moment she had the air of a teenager that had been discovered by her parents in a moment she thought she had been very clever. It passed very quickly, and she seemed to settle into herself in a way he had not yet seen.

"To get picked up by a hot guy."

He shot her a blithe smile. "I like you, Marie. I admire your honesty," he finished the last of his drink and set the glass on the bar with finality, "Alright, as promised, I will leave you alone. A couple things you should be aware of before making your decision to ask me to stay or not."

He winked at her, "My bonifies, so to speak, when it comes to being a hot guy picking you up. I'm very attracted to you, for the record. I'm a much more generous lover than most of the other lunks in here, and as far as hookups go, I'm as no strings attached as it gets."

She squinted at him, smiling but not sure whether to believe him, "How do you know that? About the other guys, I mean?"

"Because I've picked most of them up at some point," he sighed, trying to cover his apprehension at so casually revealing himself. "The bi ones anyway. And I'm sure I don't have to explain to you how hopeless straight guys are, lover-wise," he shot her a conspiratorial smile.

"Oh... you're... bi?" she stammered. She seemed more surprised than anything else, but still he drew in a deep breath and tried to let it out without audibly sighing.

"I'm bi." He confirmed, half prepared to walk away.

Silence hung pregnant between them for long enough that Thatcher was steeling himself to walk away from the silent rejection. He felt her hand on his upper arm, and he turned to face her.

"Sorry. I suck at this and I'm really nervous." She was blushing hard, but her eyes had a resolve they hadn't before. "I want you to stay. I want..." she huffed out a nervous sigh, "...you."

He took her left hand in his and squeezed it gently to reassure her. Then he slowly turned her hand up to face him and looked down at her wedding ring.

He lifted his gaze to her eyes, his face serious. "Listen, you're a grown up and I'm a himbo, I don't judge some casual infidelity, but I've had a couple too many run-ins with violently jealous husbands to take you to bed no questions asked. However much you want to talk about it or not is up to you, but I need you to tell me, and I need you to be honest with me, is this a 'fuck a stranger to make my husband jealous'-type situation?"

He knew it ran the risk of being too harsh and direct, but he wasn't lying about the violently jealous husbands. As hot as Marie was, she wasn't worth his life. And being a little shocking was the best way to provoke an honest answer to such a sensitive question.

As he expected, the first few seconds of her reaction were indignation at the suggestion. He half-expected her to yank her hand free and slap him across the face.

The storm passed quickly, and her anger melted into a much deeper sadness than he expected. She was lonely. Desperately lonely. He saw some of his own demons in her eyes in the seconds before she responded and he knew before she even spoke that this was something she wanted for her, not as a means to an end.

"No, it's not like that," she started, genuine pain in her voice, "my husband... we haven't had sex in over a year, and we've grown so distant. It's a hard enough situation without my libido driving me crazy besides. I just can't deal with feeling so lonely and... unfulfilled."

He squeezed her hand again and turned her ring away from view.

"I appreciate your honesty, Marie. Like I said, how much you want to talk about your situation is up to you--I'm not going to pry. And I'm sorry for being so direct, it's just, I wasn't kidding about the jealous husband thing." He gave her a conciliatory smile.

"Well," she started, the anxiety gone from her features and a playful smile taking up residence on her lips, "you coaxed a moment of vulnerability out of me, and I think it's only fair you make it even. You know why I'm here, talking to you. So tell me, Thatch, why are you here, trying to pick me up?"

He did sigh this time, and squinted at her for a moment while he weighed the risk of reciprocating her vulnerability. He generally avoided this sort of thing in favor of more playful or teasing banter, but the conversation with Marie had already taken several turns that were outside his normal, and he found that he was enjoying the novelty, even if it was emotionally risky.

"My uhm," he started, turning his gaze to the dregs of his whiskey, "my life kinda fell apart a year or so ago, and I'm not sure it can be put back together. So I cope with it by hiding inside the oblivion of casual, indulgent sex with beautiful people."

When he lifted his eyes to hers, he found her own loneliness had resurged at the admission of his. She seemed mildly stunned that he had actually told her the truth.

When she remained silent a few beats too long, he cleared his throat, took the slack out of his hunching back and took a deep breath.

"Perhaps it's best we agree that we are both weary travelers, lost on our paths through the woods of life, seeking comfort in each other and in humanity's oldest pastime."

"I'll drink to that," she gave him a distant smile and picked up her martini. He picked up his glass and raised it to her. He sipped on the dregs of his liquor, but she took a deep and long draft from her mostly untouched cocktail.

When she had downed most of the drink in one go, she set the glass down harshly and scrunched her face up with immediate regret.

He laughed quietly at her as she recovered from the overly ambitious toast. When she had mostly recovered, she laughed at herself along with him.

He waited a beat after they had both stopped laughing and asked, "So are you ready to go to my place, or would you prefer to continue to chew the scenery for a while in this lovely establishment?"

She returned her attention to the martini, downed the dregs of the drink, picked up the olive, popped it into her mouth, and began to slide off the barstool, motioning toward the door with her chin.

He chuckled to himself, picked up his hat, stood up, and took several long strides toward the door to catch up to her.

"So do you want to follow me, or...?" he began as she opened the door and strode out into the cool midnight air. Then he remembered how quickly she just drank that martini, how small she was, and how light of a drinker she seemed to be. He observed her gait as she walked into the parking lot and found that she was swaying a little too much to be able to pass herself off as sober.

"Actually, Marie, why don't you ride with me?" he suggested casually, hoping she wouldn't make a thing of it.

"Why?" she asked, confusion in her voice. She turned around a little too quickly and almost lost her balance. He stepped into her and placed both his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

"Because you don't look like you're used to shotgunning martinis." He smiled at her, removing his hands.

She looked up at him as if the act of removing his hands was offensive. He replaced his hands, around her waist this time, lacing his fingers together in the small of her back. She leaned into him, the warmth of her body and the smell of her perfume acting on him instantly, quickening his breath and sending his mind racing with everything he wanted to do with her.

Both of their attention was diverted to the sound of a car door slamming close by and far too loud to be anything but an implicit threat. It took a moment for Thatch to place where it came from, and by the time he spotted the man approaching them, he was only 20 yards from them.

He felt Marie recognize the man. She went from relaxed and content to absolutely terrified in the space of a heartbeat. She stood up rod straight and backed away from the man, trying to place Thatcher between her and the man without appearing to do so. He instinctively reacted to her body language and stepped between her and the approaching man, making an effort to keep his hands at his sides. He could now see the other man's face in the dim light of the parking lot, twisted with rage and ready to inflict violence.

"Frank, what are you doing here?" Marie asked from behind him, her voice shaking in terror.

The other man, Frank apparently, stopped a couple of paces from Thatcher. Frank's head was shaved neatly and he had the air of ex-military. Thatcher probably had 6 inches on Frank, but he had the build of a boxer--thick neck, crooked nose, and arms and legs that rippled with taut muscle under his dirty tank top and gym shorts.

"I'm looking to see what my fucking whore of a wife is up to at midnight on a Thursday, Marie," Frank spat. The stockier man had not yet made eye contact with Thatcher. He seemed to be trying to burn holes in Thatch's torso with a baleful glare in the direction of Marie.

Of his wife.

What had he been saying about violently jealous husbands? Still, the way Marie reacted to him; it wasn't just a fear of being caught. He'd seen that before, and her reaction was far more visceral. It was the reaction of someone well-accustomed to violence being done to them.

Thatcher had a pretty good idea how this was going to play out. He wished they were closer to the door so they could make a break for the inside of the bar where an increased measure of safety could be found in the bouncer and the more public setting. But it was out of the question to turn his back to Frank at this point, and he had the sense that beginning to back up would snap the already tenuous calm.

No, he was going to have to take a couple of shots from Frank. He just hoped he could get away without having to visit the hospital tonight.

"Listen, Frank, is it?" Thatcher said, finally drawing Franks eyes up to his.

Frank sneered at Thatcher and spat, "Shut the fuck up, asshole, I will deal with you in a minute. I'm talking to my wife right now. Get out of my fucking way!"

Thatcher squared his feet, widening his stance a bit, but very consciously held his hands at his sides. His message was clear, and he could see Frank's rage bloom into something even uglier when he realized Thatcher wasn't going to be bullied.

"Right, Frank. Listen, you aren't talking to your wife, you're yelling at her and demeaning her, and judging by your body language, you're looking for a fight. If you want to hit someone right now, it's going to be me, not her. But it would be better for all of us if we could take this down around ten notches and resolve our conflict here with words and not hands."

"Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that?!" Frank shouted.

"Thatch, please..." Marie almost whimpered behind him.

Thatcher saw in Franks eyes the moment he lost control of his rage, and Thatcher was ready for it.

Frank threw a wild haymaker toward Thatch's jaw. Thatch brought his arm up to deflect the blow and dodged out of the path of the swing. It still caught him hard in the shoulder, sending his hat flying off to the ground. Thatcher had already balled up his other hand and loosed a massive blow directly into Frank's sternum.

It was a hit designed to knock the wind out of his opponent, and it did exactly that, sending Frank stumbling backward in shock when he found no air in his lungs and his ability to breathe frustrated.

Thatcher paced urgently backward from Frank, keeping his eyes fixed on the stocky ball of rage.

"Marie, run back into the bar," he said, his voice controlled. When he didn't hear her footfalls after a couple of seconds he shouted, "Now!"

He heard her take off running behind him as Frank stood up to his full height, his breath sucking in hard and fast. Thatcher saw the blind rage in Frank's eyes and knew this was not over. He backed up toward the door, slow methodical steps like a gazelle caught in the glare of a lion.

Frank charged at Thatcher, releasing his rage into an inhuman sound that was painful even to hear.

Thatcher heard the door slam amidst the haphazard footfalls of Frank charging toward him. He waited until Frank was only two paces away before he made his move. He spun around with the grace of a running back, sidestepping most of Frank's momentum as he sailed past, and as the smaller man tried to halt and turn around, Thatcher brought a devastating blow down on Frank's lower back.

Frank screamed in rage and pain as he collapsed onto the ground, clutching the spot where Thatcher struck his back even as he scrambled to get up to his feet.

Thatcher took off in a dead run to the door, fully committing to the action without checking over his shoulder. If Frank was quicker than he seemed, it wouldn't have done him much good to slam into the door, and the damage was already done.

Thankfully, Thatcher made it to the door, ripped it open, and ran inside.

It took him a few heartbeats to locate the bouncer, Don, who was already talking to Marie around 15 yards away, next to the bar. Marie was pointing toward him as he heard the door tear open behind him. Thatcher had hoped to make it deeper into the bar before Frank caught up to him, but the sound told him that hope was in vain.