4. Darren
DARREN
I won’t touch Katie until she’s sober. I let her go once because of foolishness; I won’t lose her again because of impatience.
I can wait for her. For as long as she needs. But I know now that I have to have her. Eventually, whether it’s tomorrow or next year or ten years from now, Katie will be mine.
When we get to my place, Katie is fading fast. She’s reached peak drunkenness — at least, hopefully it’s the peak — and is also sleepy.
This combination creates a very affectionate, very clumsy version of the woman I’ve known for two decades.
“Ouch! Why is your sidewalk so hard?”
I rush around my truck to help her.
“I told you to let me help you get out,” I scold, pulling her off the sidewalk and back into my arms. I can’t ignore the way my cock is brought to life every time we touch.
It’s instant and urgent, and I know once we’re settled in for the night, I’m going to need a long, hot shower to take care of this erection.
“Oooh, are we growling again? Fun!” Katie says happily, her hair tickling my chin. “My turn – My name is Darren. Grrr. I like to make out with girls and then pretend they’re invisible the next day.”
I ignore her, too focused on getting her into my house without falling down. But she continues.
“I hate Katie so much, I bought a whole damn building out of spite!”
“I didn’t buy it to spite you.”
“Coulda fooled me. It’s not enough that you had to buy it – you had to tear down my princess bridge too.”
“That thing was a goddamn hazard.”
“You’re just saying that because you hit your head on it! For those of us below six feet tall, it was fine.”
“It wasn’t just that,” I reply. “There were rusted nails sticking out all over. And the wood was rotted. I had nightmares thinking about you walking on that thing every day. It was a matter of time before you or one of the other women got hurt on it.”
Miraculously, we’ve reached my front porch. I search my pocket for my keys with one hand. Katie leans on the door for support, looking up at me with those chocolate brown eyes.
“You were worried I’d get hurt?” she asks me.
“Of course I was,” I tell her. “Why else would I demolish the bridge?”
“Because you knew I loved it,” she says woundedly. “And you hate me.”
It hurts me to hear her say this. She looks like she really means it.
Every word. It’s taking all of my restraint not to touch her right now.
I want to pull her into an embrace and kiss her, show her just how much I don’t hate her.
But she’s drunk. She doesn’t know how to say yes right now.
And I don’t want her to wake up tomorrow and regret yet another kiss with me.
“I don’t hate you, firecracker,” I say.
She smiles weakly.
“You haven’t called me ‘firecracker’ in so long. I thought you’d forgotten the nickname.”
“Honey, I could never forget anything about you. That’s the whole problem.”