Page 2 of For Fillies and Monsters

McCrae claimed it was needed for gas and groceries—more like beer and cigarettes.Doesn’t matter, I never have had much to live for or care about. McCrae always made sure of that.

On the outside, it might seem strange—a twenty-five-year-old man letting his older brother leash him to a life he hates. But no one knows my story, no one knows why I feel like I owe McCrae my life, and I plan to keep it that way.

So, I’ve always just carried on, there hasn’t been anything worth changing for, anyway.

Until I met her.

I don’t believe in love at first sight; that shit is for fuckers who write poetry and dance under the stars naked. I can’t say I’ve ever really believed in love at all, except I know what my parents had was love. Unfortunately, they’ve been gone so long now, their memory is a faded and dusty version of what it previously was.

But when I saw her, it was like something inside of me melted—or rather, caught fire. I felt everynerve ending come to life, every worn out, dusty spec of my existence turn to face her. Like two magnets, or a moth to a flame, or the tide to the moon—whatever stupid analogy suits your fancy, but whatever it was, I saw her and knew she wasit.

Not just my next conquest, but it,as in the big it. The kind ofitmy parents used to have, and I never realized how much I wanted such a thing until the feeling was welling in my chest so fully that I felt like a dam ready to burst. The second I saw her, I knew nothing in my life would be complete without her by my side.

Which is a fucking crazy thing to feel for a man like me.

She looked young, eighteen or nineteen—still so soft and new to the world. But unlike other girls her age, she didn’t have that same blissfully ignorant air about her; she didn’t seem to care about fashion, or what the girls next to her were gossiping about. She looked sad, knowing—like she had seen the worst of the world already, and was ready to fold her deck. Which only called to my ragged soul more; someone to see and be seen by that would understand.

She paid me no mind, and when I had walked up to her as if on autopilot, she hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. She saw me, but looked right through me—her eyes darting around nervously, always checking the door and her phone.

What had she been looking for? Or rather, who? And why had they made her so nervous?Who had hurt her, and how could I hurt them?

She left without a goodbye to the girls she was standing next to, or without a backward glance toward me. I hadn’t even opened my mouth to speak; all thoughts robbed from my brain as I had taken in her sad, yet perfect face.

I wanted to chase her or grab her or ruin her. Preferably all three. But I was frozen.

I couldn’t stop the image of running my calloused, dirty,work-roughed hands over her soft, raspberry pink lips just to feel their plumpness give way to my hardness. I daydreamed about shoving my thumb in her mouth, my tongue, my cock—anything to fill that perfect little porn star mouth of hers.

What noises would she make? How much would she be able to take?

“Fuck.” I kick at a pebble and scrub a hand over my face.

Even when I close my eyes, I am plagued by her image haunting my every thought. Her large, gray-green eyes, rounded and shining with tears as I make her gag. Droplets of water clinging to and dripping past her pale eyelashes and over her rounded cheeks.

“Get it together, you fucking psycho,” I hiss to myself. “You’ve had more women than any twenty-something year old man has the right to.”

It is true; being on the circuit, a cowboy, and a decent one, at that, means I get plenty of ass. And my type has always been older women—mommy issues, am I right—the experienced ones who always appreciate the attention, know what they want and love a good story.

So, why can’t I stop thinking about a girl? A fucking girl I’d only seen for moments?

“Porn star mouth.” I huff and shake my head. It definitely can’t be because I am already in love with her. No, I don’t even know her name.

Just thinking about her mouth makes my dick pound aggressively. I know I should feel dirty thinking about a girl like that.

But I don’t.

And I want to be the one to ruin her.

I’ve always been a sick fuck, and she is just one more piece of evidence to that fact. I am who I am, and most women like that fact about me. The cowboy they can do and say and betheir most depraved selves with, and then leave the next morning to return to their pure little lives.

The wind howls around me, pulling me from my thoughts, and I look around. The sun is setting, tearing pink and orange gashes across the pale blue sky. Sunsets in Texas are always beautiful, if I am being honest with myself.

And I don’t find much in this life “beautiful”.

Hot, yes. Sexy, for sure. Fuckable, always. But beautiful? I rarely say the word aloud. It’s too soft for a man like me.

I’ve wandered to the end of the street, the single street light flickering on the other end beckoning me to take another pass. Turning on my heel, I plan to take one more slow stroll up the street, in hopes that a fucking sign will fall from the sky—at this point that seems more likely than running into someone helpful, anyway. I know I’m becoming desperate, crazy even. I mean, who fucking wanders around an empty town, hoping to run into a girl who is close to ten years younger, and a hundred percent not interested, only to get their name so that I can find her again?

I thought if I waited around, I’d see her, or maybe someone who knew something about her. But people here are so closed off, and unwilling to talk about one of their own to an outsider. I’d hate to come from a place like this and then betray it—the people here would never forgive you.

---