I've Made Up My Mind

No More Second Chances

The cigarette had burned itself down to the filter before I realized I had stopped smoking it. I crushed it into the ashtray and glanced at the clock again.
Thirty minutes. Long enough for excuses. Long enough for second thoughts. Long enough for somebody to lose their nerve.

Outside, rain streaked across the motel window, turning the parking lot into a blurry watercolor of taillights and reflections. Every set of headlights that turned in made my pulse jump. Everyone that kept driving made me smile a little more. Because tonight wasn’t about hope. Tonight was about closure.

I poured another finger of bourbon, letting it sit untouched in my hand. The room smelled of smoke, cheap air freshener, and the perfume I’d put on knowing it probably wouldn’t matter. He had promised he was coming.

Then again, his wife promised to kick my ass if she ever got me alone. The funny thing was I no longer cared which promise got kept first. I looked at my phone. No messages. No apologies. No last-minute lies. That was almost refreshing. For three years I’d lived on almost. Almost divorced. Almost together. Almost ready. Almost free. Love built on almost is just another word for waiting, and waiting is what weak people do when they’re afraid of making a decision. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the small envelope I’d been carrying for a week. Inside were his apartment key, the pictures, the handwritten notes, and the silver lighter he’d left on my kitchen counter months ago. Every memory weighed less than I remembered. I set the envelope beside the ashtray. The clock clicked over to thirty-one minutes.

Then headlights rolled into the parking lot. A black SUV. The engine idled, then the driver door opened. It wasn’t him who stepped out. She was wearing a dark leather jacket and the expression of a woman who had spent the drive rehearsing every possible ending. She spotted me through the window. I didn’t flinch. After a moment she opened the motel room door without knocking. Neither of us spoke for several seconds. Finally, she looked at the envelope.

“So,” she said quietly. “You finally made up your mind.”

I slid the envelope across the table. “No,” I answered. “I made it up thirty minutes ago.”

She looked from the envelope back to me. “And him?”

I smiled for the first time all evening. “He had thirty minutes to decide which one of us he wanted to disappoint.”

Outside, tires crunched across wet pavement. Another car had just pulled into the lot.
Moments later, the doorknob rattled. He was here. He stood there, silhouetted against the parking lot lights, a look of stupid relief on his face like he’d just won a race he didn’t know he was running. His eyes flicked from me to her, and the relief drained away, replaced by a slow, dawning horror.

“Well,” he managed, his voice a dry rasp. “This is... unexpected.”

His wife didn’t turn. She took a slow sip of my bourbon; her eyes locked on mine over the rim of the glass. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mark. Your little side piece and I were just getting acquainted.”

I smiled, a real one this time, and leaned back in the chair.

She looked at me. “Mark’s always been late, hasn’t he? To dinner. To anniversaries. To his own goddamn funeral.”

She set the glass down and licked a drop of bourbon from her lower lip. Her gaze was electric. “I’ve been wondering what you taste like. Until now, I’ve only tasted you on his tongue.”

The air thickened. Mark stood frozen in the doorway, a useless prop in a scene he’d lost all control of. “What the fuck is this?” he asked.

“This,” I said, finally looking at him, “is what happens when two women get tired of sharing each other’s scraps. We decided to have the whole meal.”

She stood up, moving with a sexy grace that belied the tension in her shoulders. She walked around the table, her fingers trailing across the wood until they reached my hand. She didn’t stop. Her fingers laced with mine.

As you well know, Mark has a good cock,” she said. Her eyes never left mine, and her voice was a conspiratorial whisper for me alone. “But he doesn’t know what to do with it. Does he, baby? Just jackhammers away like he’s trying to break concrete.”

A choked sound came from the doorway. “You’re... you’re both insane.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, squeezing her hand. “Or maybe we’re just the first sane people in this whole fucking mess. Tell me, does he still cry after he comes? Pretend it’s just sweat?”

Her lips parted in a silent, wicked laugh. “Every goddamn time. Pathetic, isn’t it? All that talk, and he’s just a little boy who needs his mommy.”

I let go of her hand and stood, closing the distance between us until we were inches apart. The perfume, the bourbon, the faint scent of leather from her jacket; it was making me fucking wet. I reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing the soft skin of her neck.“I’ve thought about killing him,” I whispered in her ear. “But I’ve thought about fucking you more.”

Her breath hitched, just a little. Her hand came up to rest on my hip. It was possessive and sure. “I brought a gun,” she breathed back, her thumb stroking the fabric of my dress. “But I think I’d rather use my hands.”

She stepped closer, her body flush against mine. The leather of her jacket was cool against my skin, but underneath I could feel the heat radiating from her. “You know, for three years I’ve imagined scratching your eyes out,” she murmured, her lips grazing my cheek. “But now that I’m here, I’m thinking there are better things to do with these hands.”

My fingers tightened in her hair. “Like what?” I challenged, my voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“Like seeing if you taste as good on my tongue as you do on his.”

Her mouth found mine, hard, demanding, tasting of bourbon and something wilder. I bit her lower lip, not gently, and she responded by pressing me harder against the table. The edge dug into my back, but I barely noticed. All I could focus on was the heat between us, the battle for dominance in every touch.

Mark made another choked sound. “This is insane. You hate each other.”

She broke the kiss but didn’t move away, her forehead resting against mine. “Hate is just passion without direction,” she said, her voice ragged. “And right now, I have a very clear direction in mind.” Her hand slid from my hip to my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp.

“Is that all you’ve got?” I taunted, grabbing her jacket and pulling her closer. “I expected more from someone who promised to kick my ass.”
She laughed, a low, dangerous sound. “Oh, I’ll kick your ass. Later. Right now I want to see if those moans he bragged about are real.”

Her mouth found my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. I arched against her, my own hands exploring the curves beneath that leather jacket. “They’re real,” I breathed out. “But you’ll have to work harder than he ever did to earn them.”

Mark finally seemed to find his legs, stumbling back a step. “Stop it. Both of you. This isn’t happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” she said, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder, her body still pressed against mine. “You’re just not invited.” She looked back at me. “The question is, do we let him watch? Or is this party just for the two of us?”

I let my thumb trace the line of her jaw, feeling her pulse hammering under my touch. I tilted my head, my gaze flicking to the useless man still gaping in the doorway.

“Get the fuck out,” I called out. “And don’t wait up for her to get home anytime soon. She and I have a lot of unfinished business with each other.”

The door slammed shut behind him, and the lock clicked into place with a finality that made my pulse race. She turned back to me, her eyes dark with desire and something else. It was recognition. We were two sides of the same coin, both betrayed, both wanting something more than what we’d been given.

“I meant what I said about kicking your ass,” she said, her hands gripping my shoulders.

“I know,” I replied, my fingers working the zipper of her jacket. “But I’m going to make you earn it.”