No Attachments

Chapter 1: Why lightweights shouldn't drink

Ashton


"Come on, go," my friend, Tressa said, trying to push me out of my chair. "What good is a bucket list if you're too chicken to do any of it?"

"Zip it," I said out of the corner of my mouth as I apprehensively eyed the situation in front of me. It seemed like a good idea on paper, but actually committing to it suddenly made me nauseous. I took a long pull from my beer, hoping that would help calm my nerves. "God, that's disgusting." I grimaced as the foul liquid poured down my throat. "I don't know how people drink this crap," I complained, slamming the bottle back down on the table a little harder than I should have.

"You're stalling, Ash. Besides, this was your idea. Pick up a random stranger and bang his socks off," Tressa quipped. "You need to seize the opportunity before someone else does, otherwise you'll be SOL, and your only choice will be Old Man Jones over there," she added, making our friend Brittni snort loudly.

"Shush," I said, elbowing her in the gut. Tressa had one volume level—loud. Her words traveled from our table to the many other patrons throughout the only bar in this sleepy little town. Joe's was the hotspot here in Woodfalls, and Friday was your only good chance to meet someone if you were single and on the prowl because Saturday was family karaoke night.

"Ow, bitch," Tressa said, rubbing her stomach. "It's not like the grumpy old fart can hear us anyway," she said loudly in his direction.

"Gahhhh, shush, Tressa. He's going to hear you," I said, sliding back down in my seat.

"Chillax, drama queen. He doesn't even have his hearing aid in. Watch," she said, shooting me a mischievous grin. "Hey, Mr. Jones, I really want to blow you," she said loudly.

She managed to get the attention of about a dozen guys with that one, including Mr. Jones, who whirled around, studying us with his beady black eyes. His grey bushy eyebrows came together in a unibrow that looked like a giant caterpillar on his forehead.

Brittni snorted again as she shook with laughter. I squirmed uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench, fighting the urge to point at Tressa like we were in kindergarten and had gotten busted for throwing spitballs or something.

Tressa returned his stare head-on, smiling sardonically until he turned back around.

"Sheesh, girl, you're lucky he didn't take you up your offer," I said, stifling my own laughter.

"Hey, you never know what he's sportin' in those dusty old overalls." Tressa winked.

"Gross," I shrieked.

Tressa just shrugged, unconcerned. I couldn't help admiring her self-assuredness. She didn't care what people thought about her. She was loud and seriously inappropriate, but hilarious as hell, despite the tight leash her boyfriend tried to keep her on. We'd only been friends for four months, but I had grown quite fond of her in the short period of time. Both she and Brittni had welcomed me into their friendship circle without a second thought. They acted like I belonged. Not because they felt sorry for me or pitied me like everyone else had done for so many years, but because they genuinely seemed to like me. Brittni wasn't as flamboyant or inappropriate as Tressa, but she had a wickedly dry sense of humor that kept people on their toes. And then there was me. I wasn't completely sure what I brought to the group, but that's why I was here. Somewhere over the last five years, I'd forgotten who I really was.

"Alright, time to stop stalling. Get off your ass and pick up that tall, dark, he-can-have-my-panties-any-day seximist," Tressa said pointedly, looking at the stranger we'd been eyeing for the last fifteen minutes.

"Maybe I should do something else on my list," I said, pulling a rumpled slip of paper out of my bag while desperately trying to ignore the butterflies that had suddenly decided to hang out in my stomach. I gently smoothed out the creases as I contemplated the items scrawled on the paper.

"You're kidding, right? This town has a population of like negative ten, and he's the hottest thing to walk in here in forever. When are you going to have the opportunity to have one night of hot wild sex with a stranger like that again?"

"That's my point. Don't you find it a little weird that we don't know this guy? This town is pretty much off the beaten path. He could be some mass murder. How do you know he wouldn't put my head in his freezer or something?"

"Sweetheart, after a night with him, you'll want a freezer to cool you off," Tressa said, eyeing him with open admiration. "Besides, if you don't make your move, I'm totally claiming him," she added, adjusting her shirt so the tops of her ample breasts peaked out from the thin camisole she was wearing under her button-up see-through shirt.

"So, you wouldn't mind that you don't know him and that he could very well chop up your body into a million pieces? Not to mention what Jackson would say if he found out," I said, reminding her of her boyfriend.

"Wow, seriously, chill, Ash. She's just trying to give you a spark. Besides, you were a stranger here once too, and you didn't show your true crazy for a couple days," Brittni teased. "Now get up there and sex that possible serial killer up."

"You two are a riot," I said, choking down the last of my beer that tasted like elephant piss, or at least what I would assume elephant pee would taste like. "Alright, wish me luck," I added, finally sliding out of the booth. "If he chops me up into little pieces, neither of you get those boots of mine you want so bad," I threatened. I made my way up to the counter where the object of our interest was perched. Considering my shaky legs, I wasn't exactly as subtle as a prowling jungle cat. Tressa was right. Finding a perfect candidate for a one-night stand was slim to none in a town the size of Woodfalls. Strangers were far and few between. Couple that with the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous and his sudden appearance was like a gift from god. Not that good-looking was a prerequisite. The only requirement I had set was that he know nothing about me or my past. I wanted one night where someone wanted me for me, not because they felt sorry for me.

"Hey, Joe, can I get a shot?" I asked, sliding onto the barstool next to the tall-dark-panty-dropping-worthy hunk.

"Sure thing, Ashton. How'd you like your beer?" Joe asked, drying a small shot glass with a cotton towel he had tucked into his apron.

"It tasted like pee," I confessed.

Joe threw his head back as a loud roar of laughter erupted out of him. "Drink a lot of pee, do you?" he asked.

I opened my mouth to answer him sarcastically when the object of my fascination let out a low rumble of laughter. Seizing my opportunity, I gulped down the bourbon Joe had placed in front of me and swiveled around to face the stranger next to me. The liquor burned its way down my throat, leaving a fiery trail all the way to my belly, but it was eclipsed by the liquid fire that burned through me when my eyes finally met his.

"Can I get you another?" he asked softly in a radio DJ-like voice that you would hear on a lonely Saturday night, encouraging listeners to call in with their favorite weepy love songs.

"Sure." I eyed my empty glass as my body responded to his sexier-than-sin voice. I was a sucker for a deep voice—or an accent, especially British or Australian accents. Neither though, could compare to his rich deep voice that seemed to vibrate through me. I realized in that instant I had left a crucial item off my bucket list. Having an intimate conversation with someone with a voice like his should have topped my list.

"You all right?" he asked, looking bemused as Joe placed another shot in front of me. I started to answer his question and mentally kicked myself when I realized I'd been staring at him like he was a tall glass of water on a hot summer day. Matter of fact, I was about ninety-nine point nine percent sure I may have licked my lips in anticipation.

"Absolutely. How 'bout you?" I asked, trying for a seductive throaty voice that just went wrong. "Thanks for the drink," I added, sucking down the liquid confidence in an attempt to calm my frazzled nerves.

His bemused expression turned to outright amusement as he took in my watery eyes that had resulted from my quick gulping of the whiskey shot. "Another?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"Why not," I answered, though the room was already tilting slightly. I could count on one hand the amount of times I'd actually had a drink growing up. They all centered on the time my life had slipped drastically off course. I'd gone hog wild for a couple of weeks until I realized drowning my sorrows in alcohol only made me sick, and didn't solve anything anyway. After that it wasn't a viable option. Needless to say, my time in high school and college had been pretty lackluster.

Tall, Dark and Dreamy chuckled softly beside me as he flagged down Joe for another round. Holding up his own shot glass, he waited until I raised mine to meet his, and then winked at me as we clinked glasses. "Damn," my breath hitched. I was a sucker for winking too. Something about it made my stomach tighten up in anticipation and my breath quicken. Not to mention having Mr. Seximist behind the wink made other areas tighten up too, while a certain other area began to throb. It took me a moment to distinguish the throbbing as desire. My one and only sexual encounter had been four years ago, after prom, and it didn't last long enough to ever cross over into the desire category. It was the means to an end. I had wanted to feel normal just for one night, and by the end of the dance, I finally coaxed Shawn Johnson into ending my virgin status once and for all. He'd resisted the idea at first, but my constant touches and whispered comments finally muddled his brain enough that he caved. The actual act lasted less than two minutes and hurt like a bitch, but in the end, I was glad I'd gone through with it.

It was ironic that one wink by Mr. Voice had me crossing my legs in an attempt to distill the ache that was slowly beginning to radiate between my legs. He'd managed to excite me more in three minutes of flirting than Shawn had done in an entire evening of slow dancing, grinding and sloppy kisses.

I was pulled away from my thoughts by a low chuckle. "Son of a bitch, not again," I thought, blanching inwardly. He busted me gawking at him like a lovesick teenager again. "Okay, pull it together," I reminded myself. "Focus on why you're here." I welcomed the warm buzz from yet another shot of bourbon and the uncharacteristic confidence that came with it. Licking the last drop of amber liquid off my bottom lip, I watched with satisfaction as his eyes settled on my lips. I could do this.

"You know, you keep winking at girls like that and one of them is bound to take it as an invitation," I said.

"Sweetheart, I only wink at the girls I'm interested in," he answered smoothly, tipping his own glass to his lips.

The desire I had been trying in vain to control unfurled inside me, making my nipples harden beneath the black lace bra I had the uncanny foresight to don that evening. The dull ache between my legs morphed into a steady throbbing that even my crossed legs could not ease.

"Is that so?" I asked, arching my eyebrow in what I hoped was a seductive manor.

"It's a fact, sweetheart," he whispered close to my ear.

I clamped my lips together so I wouldn't embarrass myself by moaning out loud as his warm breath rustled the hair at the nape of my neck. I resisted the urge to sweep my long dark hair out of the way to give him more access.

"You're pretty cocky," I said as he signaled Joe for another round. My head was already spinning, but I figured another one couldn't hurt.

"Not cocky, sweetheart, confident," he answered huskily, reaching for our drinks with one hand when Joe brought them over.

I reached over to relieve him of my glass, but before I could retract my hand with my drink in it, he snagged my pinkie with his. Looking at our now linked hands, I watched as he slowly raised my hand to his mouth. I gripped the glass tightly as he brushed his lips across my knuckles before releasing my hand.

Suddenly, the drink felt ten times heavier with the sudden absence of his hand. I worked to keep the glass upright in my shaky hand as I raised it to my lips. Gulping the contents, I set the glass down and took in his slightly blurred features.

"You okay?" he asked as I swayed slightly on my barstool.

"Absolutely. I do this all the time," I lied.

"I'm sure," he mocked, softly signaling Joe for another round.

"You can bank—" my retort was cut short when my cellphone chirped in my purse.

"I need to use the ladies' room," I breathed, rising unsteadily to my feet as the floor tilted slightly beneath me. "I'll be right back."

"Do you need some help?" he asked, cocking his eyebrow at me.

"Um, I'm pretty sure I know how to pee on my own," I answered, feeling flustered.

He chuckled. "I meant getting to the bathroom. You looked like you were a bit unsteady there."

"I'm good," I clarified before strutting away. It took all my willpower to keep my gait steady as I made my way across the scuffed wooden floors to the bathroom. Tressa and Brittni were leaning against the bathroom counter waiting for me when I entered. It was all part of the plan we had set up. They were here for the status update.

"So, is he a serial killer?" Brittni asked as I headed for one of the stalls.

"Hold on, I really do have to pee."

"He looks like he's into you," she added, switching on the faucet so I could pee in peace.

"Of course he's into her. She's smoking hot," Tressa interrupted. "I bet he's already suffering from a case of blue balls," she added laughing as I heard the smacking of flesh.

"Do you always have to be so crude?" Brittni asked disgusted as I flushed the toilet and opened the stall door.

"He's not the only one," I muttered, filling the palm of my hand with soap before sticking them under the faucet that was still running.

"Ooh, things a little damp downstairs?"

"Oh my god, Tressa, seriously?" Brittni said, taking another swipe at her.

"That's one way to say it. Put it this way, he'd slide in pretty damn easy right now if you know what I mean," I giggled, bracing my hands on the counter as the floor beneath me continued to sway.

"You okay, slick?" Brittni asked, really looking at me for the first time since I'd entered the bathroom.

"Fine," I answered, moving my eyes from the slow rolling floor.

"She's buzzing," Tressa crowed, taking in my glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.

"I sure am," I cracked up, not entirely sure why I found it so funny.

"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 a*shole,'" 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 a*sholes. 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 a*shole."

"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.