immediately. The ones who took what he gave them and didn’t cling were sometimes invited back for an encore. Dean knew that made him a shit in the eyes of most women, but at least he was honest. He didn’t prevaricate. It was all he had to give so they shouldn’t expect anything more.
Closing his eyes against what that self -examination led to, he stifled a groan. Good old mom. Say a big thank you to her for your troubles, ladies. Even now, he couldn’t shake her, not as an adult, extremely successful by any number of other standards. She wasn’t lucid most of the time now anyhow, sparing him to a large extent, but once in awhile the care facility would call and request that he come to visit. And he’d go like a good boy, only to be fucked up for days afterward, yet unable to refuse the summons.
Amy seemed different. He’d been told no before, albeit not in recent memory, and it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t chase. S o why had he pursued her? Cudgeling his brain didn’t formulate an answer so he looked at it from a different perspective. If she wasn’t significantly different physically than one or two other women he’d had, there had to be something else. He doubted he would have been able to change her mind if it hadn’t been for that scene at Grand Masters—he’d capitalized on it—shamelessly.
Dean jackknifed up in his lonely bed, squinting into the darkness. Fuck. She was like him . Something as yet indefinable, but very much a part of who he was, recognized something quite similar in her—uncompromising and defined. She probably had some kind of history that precluded building a relationship. He wondered if she felt it, too, and supposed she did, and might be taking a cautious look. Women were better at the nuances than men. Dean had studied enough psychology to know it.
That mystery solved, he decided to leave it to percolate. It would take some consideration before he acted on it, or not. The section of his brain tasked with puzzling out mysteries and solving quandaries relaxed, and he felt the darkness swallow him up. His last thought was that his brief encounter with his Amazon had been great .
Chapter Three
The faint ringing of her cell pulled Amy from a deep sleep. Struggling upright, she pushed at the hem of her robe, now ruc ked up around her waist, a lump of the material uncomfortable under one hip. She squinted at the clock. Seven-oh-five. Not fair. The phone began to ring again, and she realized it must be in her purse which was … maybe in the living room. The memory of last night descended like the proverbial ton of bricks and she grimaced. Oh, boy. Not even in her checkered past had she committed such a sheer number of faux pas in a single evening. That would be Sandra calling, holding on until seven before she punched in Amy’s number. Well, at least Amy wasn’t hung over. She also wasn’t ready to talk to Sandra yet.
Staggering into the bathroom, she sank down on the toilet, her nether regions tender and aching dully. The usual morning routine seemed to take a long time. She fumbled the tap on from a sitting position and pushed a face cloth under the stream of hot water pouring into the sink. Squeezing it out one-handed she scrubbed it over her face and neck, daubing beneath her eyes. She winced at the black residue on the pink cloth. Obviously makeup removal hadn’t been on the list last night. Standing to wash her hands, she took a cautious look in the mirror. Aside from a classic case of bed head, the familiar face reflected back didn’t shout out any revelations, belying the churning inside her chest. Shit. Where were the easy answers when one needed them?
Stripping off the robe, Amy dropped it into the hamper, followed by the washcloth and towel. There was another towel draped over the edge of the hamper and she stared at it, willing it to fall inside so she didn’t have to think about the body it had touched. She wandered, nude, back into the bedroom and pulled
Closing his eyes against what that self -examination led to, he stifled a groan. Good old mom. Say a big thank you to her for your troubles, ladies. Even now, he couldn’t shake her, not as an adult, extremely successful by any number of other standards. She wasn’t lucid most of the time now anyhow, sparing him to a large extent, but once in awhile the care facility would call and request that he come to visit. And he’d go like a good boy, only to be fucked up for days afterward, yet unable to refuse the summons.
Amy seemed different. He’d been told no before, albeit not in recent memory, and it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t chase. S o why had he pursued her? Cudgeling his brain didn’t formulate an answer so he looked at it from a different perspective. If she wasn’t significantly different physically than one or two other women he’d had, there had to be something else. He doubted he would have been able to change her mind if it hadn’t been for that scene at Grand Masters—he’d capitalized on it—shamelessly.
Dean jackknifed up in his lonely bed, squinting into the darkness. Fuck. She was like him . Something as yet indefinable, but very much a part of who he was, recognized something quite similar in her—uncompromising and defined. She probably had some kind of history that precluded building a relationship. He wondered if she felt it, too, and supposed she did, and might be taking a cautious look. Women were better at the nuances than men. Dean had studied enough psychology to know it.
That mystery solved, he decided to leave it to percolate. It would take some consideration before he acted on it, or not. The section of his brain tasked with puzzling out mysteries and solving quandaries relaxed, and he felt the darkness swallow him up. His last thought was that his brief encounter with his Amazon had been great .
Chapter Three
The faint ringing of her cell pulled Amy from a deep sleep. Struggling upright, she pushed at the hem of her robe, now ruc ked up around her waist, a lump of the material uncomfortable under one hip. She squinted at the clock. Seven-oh-five. Not fair. The phone began to ring again, and she realized it must be in her purse which was … maybe in the living room. The memory of last night descended like the proverbial ton of bricks and she grimaced. Oh, boy. Not even in her checkered past had she committed such a sheer number of faux pas in a single evening. That would be Sandra calling, holding on until seven before she punched in Amy’s number. Well, at least Amy wasn’t hung over. She also wasn’t ready to talk to Sandra yet.
Staggering into the bathroom, she sank down on the toilet, her nether regions tender and aching dully. The usual morning routine seemed to take a long time. She fumbled the tap on from a sitting position and pushed a face cloth under the stream of hot water pouring into the sink. Squeezing it out one-handed she scrubbed it over her face and neck, daubing beneath her eyes. She winced at the black residue on the pink cloth. Obviously makeup removal hadn’t been on the list last night. Standing to wash her hands, she took a cautious look in the mirror. Aside from a classic case of bed head, the familiar face reflected back didn’t shout out any revelations, belying the churning inside her chest. Shit. Where were the easy answers when one needed them?
Stripping off the robe, Amy dropped it into the hamper, followed by the washcloth and towel. There was another towel draped over the edge of the hamper and she stared at it, willing it to fall inside so she didn’t have to think about the body it had touched. She wandered, nude, back into the bedroom and pulled
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