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!
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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."
