Where We Left Off

She was either military or an ex-convict or in the Witness Protection Program.

Those were the options I was going with. Other than a marriage license, there was very little in the way of Internet presence when it came to Mallory Alcott.

Mallory Quinn.

It was a beautiful name, even though someone else gave it to her. She deserved a beautiful name, though. McBride just made me think of a wedding catered by McDonald’s or something. Maybe if I’d suggested that to Kayla things would’ve gone in a different direction. Instead, we had a five-course meal enjoyed with our 350 best friends on a beach one hundred miles from our house with a reverend neither one of us even knew. Many of these so-called friends Facebook blocked me the day Kayla walked out. How odd was that? That she left me, yet took our entire social circle with her.

All I really had left were my family, my students, and my roommate, though I supposed that was all I needed.

Maybe I didn’t even need the roommate.

Actually, at this late hour, as I listened to whatever bedroom Olympics were taking place behind the wall shared with mine, I decide I really didn’t need a roommate. Not this one, at least.

Paul was a good enough guy. He didn’t touch my food in the fridge and he bought toilet paper when we ran out. Those were definite marks in his favor. And he was a Pre-Cal teacher at Whitney High, so carpooling cut down on gas money. He had a great collection of vintage Grateful Dead LPs that were on constant rotation and he hadn’t mentioned Kayla’s name even once since moving in, so those were the obvious reasons I liked him.

But the slumber parties, those had to stop.

This guy was a sex athlete because just as I thought his date and my ears were about to get a little reprieve, he was back at it again, going for the gold.

I needed to escape this. I slammed my laptop closed and grabbed my wallet and keys. Our apartment was on the second floor and though it neared ten o’clock, the air was still heavy and hot and I was sweating by the time I made it down the flights of stairs. I clicked my truck unlocked, the beep echoing off the carport roof. The cab was musty with the stench of decomposing fast food still left in crumpled brown bags. I’d take better care of the junker if I thought it would mean I could someday sell it for Blue Book pricing, but this thing didn’t even register on there. It was the equivalent of Fred Flintstone car, for sure. But it continued to run fine enough, so I kept it.

I hit the gas as soon as I eased out of the complex’s parking lot. I didn’t bother with the radio anymore, it had been on the fritz since I purchased the vehicle, so I pulled out my phone from my back pocket and scrolled through the playlist, one eye on the road, the other on the phone.

And then both of them on the rearview mirror and the flashing blue lights that sparkled like a house all lit up with a Christmas display.

Groaning, I slid deeper into my seat as I angled the jalopy off to the shoulder of the road and readied my license and registration.

“Good evening,” a clean-cut officer about my age greeted as he peered in my rolled down passenger window. I jutted my hand out with my documents and he took them from my grasp. “I gather you already know why I’m pulling you over.”

“Yes, sir. For doing the very thing I caution my students not to do on a daily basis.”

He nodded and smiled as his pen scrolled across his notepad. He had a high and tight hairstyle going on and a tan that looked more inherited than sun-given.

“A teacher, huh? Locally?”

“Whitney High School just down the street.”

“Excellent football team.” He still didn’t look at me and I was eye level with his broad chest and shiny badge adorning it. Officer Douglas.

“Back in the day, definitely.”

The Matadors hadn’t had a winning season in nearly a decade, but for five solid years there we were nationally ranked champions. It was funny that those few good seasons earned us a positive reputation that we couldn’t shake. In a way it was good we were able to hold on to that claim to fame, but it was reliving the glory days at its finest, and at some point that became tired.

The officer was still studying my information when he crouched down and rested his elbows on the window ledge of my car. “Heathcliff McBride?” he asked, a strain in his gaze. I thought through all the things I’d ever done wrong and wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was some outstanding warrant for my arrest that I was totally unaware of. Panic stabbed me in my stomach.

“Yes, sir.”

It seemed like maybe I was supposed to know him, the way he scanned me for recognition. “Heathcliff McBride, please don’t let me find you on your phone again while driving, okay? California is hands-free.”

I tried not to let him see the huge breath I had to release. I hissed it slowly between my teeth. “Understood.” I reached down and grabbed my cell phone and chucked it over my shoulder into the back seat. That elicited a laugh from Officer Douglas and he slapped the inside of my door as he pushed up to stand. He tossed what I assumed to be a ticket onto the passenger seat, along with my registration and ID.

“You seem like a good guy and a fine teacher. Thank you for all you do for our community.”

“The same to you,” I said though it didn’t feel like enough.

He flicked me a quick salute and headed back to his cruiser.

I took a few minutes to clear my head and get the car in gear to continue to my original destination. Staying at home would’ve been the smartest decision—and likely the cheapest given I’d already got a ticket and I was only ten minutes in.

But there was comfort in the neon yellow light that flickered above Pint and Pail, like a beacon for the downtrodden and discouraged. That was a touch melodramatic, but I honestly loved this place. They had the best beer on tap, no question, and the bucket of peanuts was pretty awesome. Who didn’t love throwing the shells on the ground, knowing you wouldn’t be the one to clean them up? After my years bussing, I took full advantage of being able to make a mess and have someone else deal with the aftermath.

Reggie was behind the bar when the door swung in and he immediately nodded toward an empty stool near the end of the establishment. “Over here, Champ! Saved you the best seat in the house.”

It was the only open stool. Reggie was a jokester like that. I admired the fresh ink twisting around his arm and nodded my appreciation as I made my way down the bar. “New?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed at the colorful tattoo. “I had to come up with something to disguise Tatyana’s name. Why the hell did I have to be engaged to a chick with such a long name? It was quite the feat to get it to even look this decent.”

“I bet.” I settled onto the barstool and emptied my wallet and phone onto the counter. Reggie had a square napkin ready and slid it toward me. “It does look good, though, man. You can only see “ana” left on it, and that could be really convenient if you happen to meet a hot girl named Ana. Immediately score some points with that.”

Reggie flicked his head to the person seated to my left. I hadn’t noticed her when I first came in, which seemed absolutely crazy now that I looked at her. She had blonde hair in perfect long waves and the fullest lips I’d ever seen. Not the kind that appeared pumped full of toxins, but just naturally pouty and kissable. I found myself biting my own as I studied her more.

“Your name happen to be Ana?” Reggie asked with a deep, flirtatious grin plastered on. He was burly and mildly intimidating, but she didn’t appear the least bit phased by any of it.

“Nope.” She smiled politely. “Sorry.”

“Damn shame.” He hit his fist against the counter and shot her a wink. “Damn shame.”

Nervously, she glanced my direction. I was surprised when she offered a shy smile, but grateful that Reggie’s failed flirting only made me look that much better.

“Hi,” I mouthed.

She took her straw between her teeth and murmured a soft, “Hi,” back.

“What’ll it be, Cliffy?” Reggie shouted over his shoulder as he pulled down on a carved wooden handle to fill a pitcher with amber colored beer. “The usual?”

“Nutty Brunette tonight,” I called back and then turned my attention back to the blonde next to me. “You?”

“I’m fine.” She waved me off with a manicured hand. “For now.”

It looked like she was drinking soda and I took the necessary moment to look her over and make sure she was of legal drinking age. She didn’t have wrinkles by any means, but she’d lost just a bit of that childlike softness to her face. She was still youthful, but definitely out of her teen years, which allowed me to breathe a sigh of relief. To anyone else, I was sure she’d appear quite young, but being around teenagers all day gave me a good gauge on judging someone’s age. Based on what I could see of her, I guessed her to be twenty-two, newly turned.

We caught eyes again and she looked down at her lap, then back up at me, her gaze coy yet intentional. Then she locked in on my hand.

“You’re married?” It was nearly a yell though she tried to keep her volume controlled.

“What?” My head snapped up as Reggie settled my drink in front of me. “No, why?”

The blonde nodded her head to my left hand. “Your ring tan. Dead giveaway.” She pushed up to stand. “Sorry, I’m not into being with a cheater. Better luck with someone else.”

“Neither am I, which is the exact reason for my recent divorce.”

Like I’d thrown a bucket of ice water on her, she pulled stick straight, only relaxing once the words really sunk in. “Oh God.” She covered her mouth. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m awful.”

“You’re not.” I tugged out her stool from under the counter and tried not to stare as she slipped back onto it, her bare legs exposed under her short black skirt. “I’m not really good at this.”

“Me neither.”

She twirled her straw in her drink and the ice cubes spun around. “In fact, I don’t do this. I don’t come to bars and hit on guys twice my age. Like, ever.”

The sip of beer I’d had held in my mouth nearly spat out across Reggie’s sticky counter. “Twice your age? Just how old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Forty?” Her light eyebrows raised to her widow’s peaked hairline. “Forty-five?”

The ale in my mouth was bitter as I swallowed it down. “You can’t be serious? I’ve had a rough year, but I didn’t think it aged me that much!”

“You’re not that old?”

“God, no.” Relief washed over her as panic invaded me. Maybe she was much younger than I originally suspected. “I’m not even thirty.”

She slumped down in her chair and threw her head back with a cackle. Blonde strands swung around her body as she brought her head to my shoulder. She shoved at my side. Clearly there was a little something else mixed in with that Coke. “That’s really, really good news.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She lifted her head and took another sip from her drink. Her lips pressed to the straw and stayed there like they tempted me on purpose. They were so incredibly plump and damp from her drink and I couldn’t look at anything but them as she said, “Seven years isn’t nearly as bad as seventeen.”

So she was twenty-two, just as I’d thought. I didn’t know if I should be happy about this, but the fact that she seemed pleased that I wasn’t the grandpa she’d originally assumed did make me feel better.

So did the three other beers that I consumed as the night lingered on.

Reggie was the type of bartender that kept them flowing, and though I’d never needed his heavy hand when it came to pouring before, since my breakup with Kayla, I’d relied on Reggie to get me wasted more times than I liked to admit.

But I wasn’t wasted tonight. Buzzing, but not hammered.

Just drunk enough to no longer be offended by the fact that the blonde thought I was nearly elderly, and just drunk enough pretend that part of our night never even happened.

The only part I chose to focus on was this moment—the one where this stranger straddled me in the front seat of my truck, her honeysuckle-scented hair fanning across my face, her chest pressed to my chin as I laid kisses across her porcelain neck. The windows fogged, an opaque layer of steam keeping the outside out and whatever happened inside the truck, in.

“Mmmmm,” she moaned into my ear as I ran my jaw over her ample cleavage, playfully biting at her collarbone. My hands grabbed her ass and lifted her closer to my body. “I really like that.”

I did, too. At least, my body did because I was a guy. Guys liked hot girls pressing their bodies firmly to theirs. That was just the nature of things. My brain, though, that was a different story. He’d been scolding me all night, an internal lecture that didn’t relent.

She’s not for you.

This will go nowhere.

It’s not fair to do this with her when you don’t even know her name.

But then my body whined back, spouting off how unfair it was that he’d been celibate for over a year now, and during half of that time, he even had a wife. How was that for unfair?

My mind finally agreed with my body. Totally unfair.

The blonde from the bar went home with me.

I still didn’t know her name.