No Attachments
Page 2

"Are you sure you're up for this, you lightweight?" Brittni asked, placing her hands on my shoulders so she could study me critically.
"I'm fine, Mom," I teased. "I just decided to take the liquid courage route."
"So, you're going through with it?" she asked, looking worried.
"Duh, that was the plan," Tressa chastised.
"I know, but I thought she'd chicken out," Brittni retorted like I wasn't even there.
"Hey, standing right in front of you," I said, waving my hands exuberantly in front of them like I was trying to land a plane or something to that effect. "Besides, I have to do it, it's on my list," I pointed out.
"Right, it's on your list. I still think it's ridiculous for someone our age to have a bucket list."
"I told you a million times. It's for a study I'm doing for the master's program I'm hoping to get into," I lied, smiling brightly at her. "It's a study on living life to its fullest in a limited time frame."
"So you've said a hundred times. I just think a study on males that have the best pecks or dreamiest eyes would have been more productive."
"That's so cliché and overdone. Having a nice six-pack usually translates to 'conceited asshole,'" I answered, sweeping the lip gloss Tressa handed me across my lips. "Thanks," I told her, handing the wand back. I tried not to focus on the irony of my new friends having no qualms about sharing their makeup with me. Back home, most people refused to touch anything I had touched. They were all assholes. What I had wasn't contagious.
"You better get back out there before Mr. Blue Balls thinks you ditched him," Tressa interrupted, giving my back a light shove toward the bathroom door. "Text us if he turns out to be an asshole."
"And make sure he bags his junk," Brittni piped in.
Giggling at their advice, I twisted around before exiting the bathroom and threw my arms impulsively around both their necks. "I love you guys," I said, knocking their heads together from my exuberance.
"Okay, we love you too," Brittni complained, trying to extract my arms.
"Yep, she's toasted," Tressa commented, rubbing her head where it had knocked against Brittni's.
"Maybe we should hang around to make sure she doesn't embarrass herself," Brittni mused.
"No way, you guys promised," I reminded them. "If I'm doing this, I'm going in without a safety net.
"Fine, but your scrawny ass better text us first thing tomorrow morning, or we're sending out the armed forces to take down Mr. Seximist," Brittni warned, giving me a quick hard hug.
"Don't worry, Brit, he looks harmless enough. Besides, I've taken at least twenty pictures on my phone. We'll nail that bastard's ass to the wall if he hurts her," Tressa said from behind me as I pushed open the bathroom door.
"Don't worry, my head will make a beautiful mantle piece," I threw over my shoulder as I sashayed across the room toward the bar.
"Hey stranger," I said, boldly sliding onto my barstool.
"Whoa there," Mr. Hotness said as my ass misjudged the middle of the seat and teetered on the edge, making the legs of the stool wobble. Hotness reached over and grasped my arm to steady me.
"You're hot."
"Why thank you," he said chuckling.
"I mean, your hands are hot...no, I mean, your touch is hot...shit. Never mind," I mumbled as he chuckled next to me.
"It's not the first time I've been called hot, sweetheart."
"Vanity isn't a virtue," I pointed out, picking up the shot glass that had magically filled itself in my absence. "So, what do you do Mr. I Know I'm Hot?" I asked, realizing that in all our flirting we'd neglected to exchange names.
"Nathan," he answered, holding out his hand for me to shake.
"Ashton," I parroted as his hand engulfed mine. His touch was sure and sensual at the same time, making my poor hand feel bereft once he let go.
"I'm a freelance journalist."
"Freelance journalist? What does that entail?" I asked intrigued.
"Lots of traveling and a knack for being able to dig out the truth. I've been fortunate enough to be able to pick my assignments," he answered, turning on his barstool to face me. His knees knocked against mine, which my body was keenly aware of as our legs settled, intimately touching each other. "I'm actually on my way to my next assignment. What about you?"
"Right now, I'm working at Smith's General Store over on the corner of Main and Stetson," I answered defensively, waiting for his judgments. I didn't bother to mention the barely dried ink on my B.A. in Human Psychology, or the fact that up until four months ago, I had been planning my internship at the local hospital back home. Those were need-to-know facts that he didn't need to know.
"I think I met the owner when I arrived today. Fran, right? She's quite an old card," he replied warmly, surprising me.
"Yeah, she is. Don't let her age fool you. She's sharper than people a quarter of her age. That store has been in her family for more than a hundred years. Each generation it's passed down to the next. Fran should have passed it down like fifteen years ago, but she claims hell will freeze over before she allows her 'sniveling, no-good, lazy nephew to run it into the ground.' She says she reckons she'll stay until she breathes her last breath or her nephew finally decides to man up. She says she won't be holding her breath on the latter…" I rambled on. Obviously, the multiple shots had turned my tongue into a nonstop chattering mess.
"That sounds like the person I met," he said, chuckling softly. "So, have you lived here all your life?" he asked as Joe set another round in front of us.
Running my finger around the small base of the shot glass, I weighed his question, contemplating how I wanted to answer. "No. I moved here four months ago after my dad died," I lied, giving him the standard answer I'd given everyone else when I moved to town.
"Really?" he asked, studying me critically.
I was slightly taken aback by his response. I'd been greeted with nothing but sympathy when I'd let the lie slip on previous occasions. I always felt a twinge of guilt over it, but knew in the end it was necessary. "It was quite sudden," I answered defensively.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he replied, finally offering up the words that I had grown accustomed to hearing.
"Thanks," I said, not sure if his sympathy was genuine. Maybe he really was some psycho who traveled through small towns collecting heads and storing them in his trunk. I sucked down the contents of my glass once again. My brain was teetering on the edge of remaining focused on the noticeably rock-hard pecs beneath his shirt and becoming drowned by the liquor party that was flowing through my bloodstream. My tongue became numb while the buzzing in my head intensified, making me wish I could rest it on the bar. I contemplated climbing up on the bar so I could lie down, but even that seemed like way too much work. Instead, I tried to focus on my last coherent thought, knowing it had something to do with my head.
"Are you going to put your trunk in my head?" I asked, finally able to make my tongue work.
"Excuse me?" he asked amused.
"Wait. I mean, are you going to put your trunk in me?" I asked, though the question still seemed slightly off.
"Is that what the kids are calling it now?" he asked with open amusement.
"Wait. What did I say?" I asked, shaking my head in a feeble attempt to clear it.
"Well, darling, you asked if I was going to stick my trunk in you. Is that an invitation?"
"Well, shit. I meant, are you going to put my head in your trunk?" I asked slowly, making sure the word placement was correct.
"Just your head?"
"Unless you keep the whole body, but won't your trunk get full if you keep the whole body?" I reasoned, pleased that I was able to form a coherent question even if it was related to my decapitation.
"I'm more a breast kind of guy," he said, smirking.
Laughter bubbled up out of me. "So, your trunk is full of boobies?" I asked, giggling uncontrollably.
"Boobies?" he snorted. "I haven't heard that word in like twenty years."
"Twenty years? How old are you?" I asked, giggling again at the idea that my one-night stand would be with an old man.
"Twenty-nine. What about you?"
"Twenty-nine? That's not old."
"Who said I was old?"
"Didn't you?" I asked confused over why I had thought he was old.
"I only said I haven't heard them called 'boobies' in twenty years. It's actually closer to sixteen years to be precise."
"So, 'boobies' is a thirteen-year-old-boy word?" I snickered again, not surprised at all. I'd been known to crack up over word choices for years. It was official. I had the mind of a thirteen-year-old boy.
After that, the conversation took on a hazy quality as Nathan ordered more drinks. I lost track of what my thirteen-year-old mind said, but I was pretty sure I asked Nathan to put his trunk in me again, which is what I was going for before the booze messed it up.
Chapter 2: The big head versus the little head
Nathan
I couldn't help contemplating my actions that evening as I carried her motionless body into the small cottage in the woods. If lightning struck me at that moment, I could see where it was justified. The moment I entered the bar, I seemed to ignore every rule I'd ever set. My rules were simple enough that a fucking two-year-old could follow them. Find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties concerned, find my target, evaluate the situation, contact the parties...I never deviated from this routine for a reason. I had a job to do. A job I was good at. A job free from personal attachments. It was a routine that suited me well. Of course, the delicate brunette I held in my arms contradicted all of it.
I shifted her slightly in my arms, suppressing a chuckle as she let out a loud snore when her head rolled backward over my arm. I pulled her more securely against my chest as I carried her through the only doorway into the cottage. I didn't want to admit to myself how much time I'd invested that evening thinking about what she would feel like pressed against me. Of course, carrying her like this wasn't the kind of pressing I had in mind. Her delicate frame made it easy to shoulder her weight, and she had a firm body, I could feel that even through her clothes. It'd be embarrassing as fuck right now if she woke up and saw the hard-on I had just from holding her. Unable to resist, I inhaled her heady perfume one last time before gently placing her on the bed. For a brief crazy moment, I considered crawling into bed next to her. It had been years since I'd felt the urge to actually stay in a bed with a woman any longer than it took to have sex with her. You couldn't call it "making love" since it was never intimate enough for that. Hell, it wasn't even "fucking" since even that required emotion. It was just sex. Nothing but two bodies coming together to scratch an itch.
I backed away from the bed and left the room before I could cave to the urge. She was an assignment, not a means to scratch an itch. Besides, it was a dick move to mix business with pleasure, and a threshold I never crossed. It was time for me to leave anyway. I had made contact with my target, and by tomorrow my job would be done. Instead of heading for the front door though, I walked to the far side of the room where a small functional kitchen was located. I'm not sure why I bothered going to the trouble, but I filled a glass with water and palmed the bottle of aspirin off the top of the refrigerator where it was sandwiched between a bag of powdered mini doughnuts and a stack of magazines. I focused on remaining professional as I returned to the room where the spitfire temptress was still snoring. Helping her through her given hangover would only make my job easier in the morning. It would help expedite the job. Glancing down at her unconscious body, I decided I might as well make her as comfortable as I could, so I sat the water and aspirin on the nightstand and got to work pulling off her jeans and shirt. "You're not a perv," I kept telling myself. "You're just trying to make her more comfortable." Of course, tell that to the other particular part of my body that was responding to her creamy smooth skin and brutal curves. With one last reluctant look and an apology to my painfully throbbing boys, I pulled the quilt over her and exited the room.
I locked the cottage door behind me and headed purposefully toward my trusty Range Rover before I could change my mind and climb between the crisp sheets with her.
The drive back to my hotel was short given the town's size. Two stop signs after pulling off the dirt road that led to Ashton's small but charming cottage, I pulled into the parking lot of the only hotel in town. It was actually more of a motel, but I guess they figured slapping the title of "hotel" onto the sign made it more legitimate. As long as the room was clean and the staff stayed out of my way, it suited my purposes. The last thing I needed was for some nosey maid to riffle through my papers and find out why I was really in town.
The hotel was cemetery quiet as I climbed out of the Range Rover and locked it behind me. The late hour combined with the stillness around me provided a ghost town-like aura. It felt strange to be out here in the middle of nowhere. Ever since I arrived here I'd been wondering why a rich girl like Ashton had picked this town to hide. I would have expected the glitzy lights of New York or the party atmosphere of Chicago to appeal to her, but instead she'd chosen Woodfalls. I'd seen her type over the years: rich, easily bored, with big time diva complexes. Woodfalls was too tame for someone like that.
I pushed the motel room door open with my foot after sliding the key into the lock, making sure the "Do Not Disturb" sign remained on the door. Once I switched on the lights, Ashton's face greeted me from the multiple images hanging on the wall. Each image depicted her in a different setting and pose, all courtesy of my client. Studying the pictures of her smiling, I couldn't help noting how the images didn't do her eyes justice. They couldn't capture the same sparkle I had witnessed earlier that evening. Just remembering how she'd smiled at me with her bright shiny eyes made me want her even more.
"This is ridiculous," I thought, shaking my head in disgust. I backed up to the edge of my bed and sank down onto the sagging mattress. What the hell was I doing? Lusting after a target was unacceptable. I was hired to make contact, observe, and report back to my client. That was it. I wasn't hired to sniff at her ass like a dog in heat—no matter how appealing that might be.