"I'm sorry for your loss," he replied, finally offering up the words that I had grown accustomed to hearing.
"Thanks," I said, not sure if his sympathy was genuine. Maybe he really was some psycho who traveled through small towns collecting heads and storing them in his trunk. I sucked down the contents of my glass once again. My brain was teetering on the edge of remaining focused on the noticeably rock-hard pecs beneath his shirt and becoming drowned by the liquor party that was flowing through my bloodstream. My tongue became numb while the buzzing in my head intensified, making me wish I could rest it on the bar. I contemplated climbing up on the bar so I could lie down, but even that seemed like way too much work. Instead, I tried to focus on my last coherent thought, knowing it had something to do with my head.
"Are you going to put your trunk in my head?" I asked, finally able to make my tongue work.
"Excuse me?" he asked amused.
"Wait. I mean, are you going to put your trunk in me?" I asked, though the question still seemed slightly off.
"Is that what the kids are calling it now?" he asked with open amusement.
"Wait. What did I say?" I asked, shaking my head in a feeble attempt to clear it.
"Well, darling, you asked if I was going to stick my trunk in you. Is that an invitation?"
"Well, shit. I meant, are you going to put my head in your trunk?" I asked slowly, making sure the word placement was correct.
"Just your head?"
"Unless you keep the whole body, but won't your trunk get full if you keep the whole body?" I reasoned, pleased that I was able to form a coherent question even if it was related to my decapitation.
"I'm more a breast kind of guy," he said, smirking.
Laughter bubbled up out of me. "So, your trunk is full of boobies?" I asked, giggling uncontrollably.
"Boobies?" he snorted. "I haven't heard that word in like twenty years."
"Twenty years? How old are you?" I asked, giggling again at the idea that my one-night stand would be with an old man.
"Twenty-nine. What about you?"
"Twenty-nine? That's not old."
"Who said I was old?"
"Didn't you?" I asked confused over why I had thought he was old.
"I only said I haven't heard them called 'boobies' in twenty years. It's actually closer to sixteen years to be precise."
"So, 'boobies' is a thirteen-year-old-boy word?" I snickered again, not surprised at all. I'd been known to crack up over word choices for years. It was official. I had the mind of a thirteen-year-old boy.
After that, the conversation took on a hazy quality as Nathan ordered more drinks. I lost track of what my thirteen-year-old mind said, but I was pretty sure I asked Nathan to put his trunk in me again, which is what I was going for before the booze messed it up.
Chapter 2: The big head versus the little head
Nathan
I couldn't help contemplating my actions that evening as I carried her motionless body into the small cottage in the woods. If lightning struck me at that moment, I could see where it was justified. The moment I entered the bar, I seemed to ignore every rule I'd ever set. My rules were simple enough that a fucking two-year-old could follow them. Find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties concerned, find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties...I never deviated from this routine for a reason. I had a job to do. A job I was good at. A job free from personal attachments. It was a routine that suited me well. Of course, the delicate brunette I held in my arms contradicted all of it.
I shifted her slightly in my arms, suppressing a chuckle as she let out a loud snore when her head rolled backward over my arm. I pulled her more securely against my chest as I carried her through the only doorway into the cottage. I didn't want to admit to myself how much time I'd invested that evening thinking about what she would feel like pressed against me. Of course, carrying her like this wasn't the kind of pressing I had in mind. Her delicate frame made it easy to shoulder her weight, and she had a firm body, I could feel that even through her clothes. It'd be embarrassing as fuck right now if she woke up and saw the hard-on I had just from holding her. Unable to resist, I inhaled her heady perfume one last time before gently placing her on the bed. For a brief crazy moment, I considered crawling into bed next to her. It had been years since I'd felt the urge to actually stay in a bed with a woman any longer than it took to have sex with her. You couldn't call it "making love" since it was never intimate enough for that. Hell, it wasn't even "fucking" since even that required emotion. It was just sex. Nothing but two bodies coming together to scratch an itch.
I backed away from the bed and left the room before I could cave to the urge. She was an assignment, not a means to scratch an itch. Besides, it was a dick move to mix business with pleasure, and a threshold I never crossed. It was time for me to leave anyway. I had made contact with my target, and by tomorrow my job would be done. Instead of heading for the front door though, I walked to the far side of the room where a small functional kitchen was located. I'm not sure why I bothered going to the trouble, but I filled a glass with water and palmed the bottle of aspirin off the top of the refrigerator where it was sandwiched between a bag of powdered mini doughnuts and a stack of magazines. I focused on remaining professional as I returned to the room where the spitfire temptress was still snoring. Helping her through her given hangover would only make my job easier in the morning. It would help expedite the job. Glancing down at her unconscious body, I decided I might as well make her as comfortable as I could, so I sat the water and aspirin on the nightstand and got to work pulling off her jeans and shirt. "You're not a perv," I kept telling myself. "You're just trying to make her more comfortable." Of course, tell that to the other particular part of my body that was responding to her creamy smooth skin and brutal curves. With one last reluctant look and an apology to my painfully throbbing boys, I pulled the quilt over her and exited the room.
I locked the cottage door behind me and headed purposefully toward my trusty Range Rover before I could change my mind and climb between the crisp sheets with her.
The drive back to my hotel was short given the town's size. Two stop signs after pulling off the dirt road that led to Ashton's small but charming cottage, I pulled into the parking lot of the only hotel in town. It was actually more of a motel, but I guess they figured slapping the title of "hotel" onto the sign made it more legitimate. As long as the room was clean and the staff stayed out of my way, it suited my purposes. The last thing I needed was for some nosey maid to riffle through my papers and find out why I was really in town.
The hotel was cemetery quiet as I climbed out of the Range Rover and locked it behind me. The late hour combined with the stillness around me provided a ghost town-like aura. It felt strange to be out here in the middle of nowhere. Ever since I arrived here I'd been wondering why a rich girl like Ashton had picked this town to hide. I would have expected the glitzy lights of New York or the party atmosphere of Chicago to appeal to her, but instead she'd chosen Woodfalls. I'd seen her type over the years: rich, easily bored, with big time diva complexes. Woodfalls was too tame for someone like that.