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They call me a heartbreaker.
I’ve constructed the exact type of life I want for myself–isolated from feelings, and numb to the world around me.
Running from my own fears.
I get paid to be an a$$hole. Easiest money I’ve ever made.
She’s the one person who digs beneath the layers to see the truth hiding there.
Why’d she have to be so pretty? Why do I need her so bad?
They call me a heartbreaker, but little do they know my heart is the one that lies bleeding.
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Of all the places I’ve been, this is the last place I want to be. But, here I am. Back at my childhood home. Back to sell this place. To move on and forget it.
It feels as though a million years have passed since I was last here. And maybe in some weird way it has. A million years worth of memories are suppressed neatly in the dark hollows of my mind.
A tall overgrowth of grass brushes across the lawn, the blades nicking my calves. As I trudge through, I can’t keep my eyes off the paint-peeled, red door. Majestic and unyielding, larger than any other in this quiet neighborhood, it keeps the world out and its secrets tucked safely inside.
Thump. Thump. My heart pounds.
Welcome back the lock creaks out when I turn the key. Stale air suffocates me when I step inside. The large space seems coffin sized.
“This place is a dump,” I mumble into the stillness.
The house has barely been touched since I left it as a kid.
First order of business, getting the power on. No way will I spend my time fixing up this hell hole without electricity.
As soon as I push the faded curtains aside in the main room, I see it, the ticket seller to this forgotten home—the Pacific Ocean with its dark blue water crashing over sleek, black rocks in the distance.
Life pumps and breathes outside this paned glass.
This view will be the reason buyers flock, hopefully offering more than my asking price.
Anxiety leaves an icy sheen of sweat on my forehead as I walk through the cavernous rooms, assessing. Floors groan under my footsteps. Dust skitters in the air. The marks notched in the doorframe of my old room wink at me as I pass.
Before I head out to the hardware store, I take inventory of the things I’ll need: paint, drywall, tile, grout, a bed to sleep in. A handle of bourbon. It’s going to be one hell of a fixup.
Lucky for me, I have all the time in the world.
The now outdated kitchen, once the artery of this house, needs the most work. I push the back slider open and step out onto the drab patio. The backyard isn’t much to look at, a nine by nine concrete slab surrounded by encroaching weeds. This area needs to be the focal point at showings. People like the illusion of happy—pretty flowers and landscaping. Maybe I’ll hire a gardener. Maybe even plant a bush here or there myself.
The wind tugs at my cargo shorts and black shirt, and I wander to the edge of the property.
Like it always does, the ocean beckons.
The Pacific wants a word with me. I oblige, following the dirt trail down to the shore. The problems with the house can wait. I need some alone time. Just me and my thoughts.
Not even bothering to remove my shoes, I step onto the sand. The sun hangs low in the sky. Soon it will be a myriad of blood oranges and ghostly greys.
I spot the smooth rocks where I used to play as a kid and drift down to the edge of the ocean, smelling the crisp salty air of the surf.
The black rocks off to my right call to me. I take a seat, tilt my face to the sun, and close my eyes. Once upon a time I took long walks with her here. Laughed with childhood friends as we collected seashells.
“Excuse me, Sir. Can you move?” a lilting, annoyed voice calls out.
I open my eyes and focus on the dream before me. Long brown hair, flying in the wind. Sweet, rosy lips. Eyes as blue as the ocean. Pink Wonder Woman t-shirt hugging a set of pretty wonderful tits. A body composed of tight curves with long legs flowing out from a jean mini skirt.
Her eyes narrow on me. “Well?” She gives me a little move along head gesture.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
There’s not a soul in sight, so I’m not sure why she needs me to move. Or where she even came from for that matter.
“Can you please move?” she repeats.
“No, I can’t.” Fuck this. Public beach. Public property.
“I asked nicely.”
“Noted.” I close my eyes, breathing in the saline air once again, trying my best to tune her out.
“I need that rock between your legs,” she continues, apparently oblivious to my zen seeking state.
Now she’s got my attention. I open my eyes. “Well, I’ve never been propositioned like that before. Let me get this straight, you need the ‘hard rock’ between my legs?” I crack a smile. “Wow, and I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Cat, and that rock is perfect,” she says, not catching my meaning.
“I’ve been told that. A perfect, hard rock between my legs.” I wink, grabbing my crotch with one hand. “I’m blessed in that department.”