The “new” Kyle who stares back at me looks nothing like the old Kyle. I’ve lost a little over thirty pounds over the past seven months—by design—and the gaunt angles caused by the weight loss and the removal of a fuck of a lot of my long, blond hair and beard left a new man in its place. Many people who go into hiding color their hair, but all I did was remove it, so nothing is left but very short stubble that actually appears dark against my pale skin. Put a recent picture against the old Kyle and nobody will see a resemblance. I’m hiding in practically plain sight.
My gaze drifts down past my jaw to halfway down my throat. Tattoos rise above the collar of the white t-shirt I’d worn to bed. Now those tattoos… those would identify me as Kyle Sommerville, so I keep them hidden as much as possible. I moved to Maine from Chicago in February. Those first few months were bitterly cold, and it wasn’t a problem to hide my tats. But it’s May now. The weather is starting to warm, so they’ll be partially visible.
Oh, well.
I seriously doubt anyone from Mayhem’s Mission or, even worse yet, a certain senator who probably didn’t take kindly to his arrest, are going to look for me here in Misty Harbor, Maine. This is about as far off the fucking grid as possible to get, and I trust the U.S. Marshal’s office, in conjunction with the ATF, to have crossed all t’s and dotted all i’s when it came to creating my new identity.
I’d love nothing more than to return to bed and fall back asleep, but I’ve had that nightmare one too many times to know that won’t fucking happen. With a sigh, I turn the faucet off and blot my face with the hand towel, deciding to head out for a late-night drink—or ten—and maybe for something else that will help me sleep.
?
The Lobster Cage is a dive bar that smells like sea salt and fish. That’s because most of the inhabitants work the numerous lobster boats that prowl the local waters by day. The jukebox is playing an old Johnny Cash tune, but it’s turned down low. The men here aren’t interested in loud music or entertainment. They want to get drunk, and possibly get laid, then they’ll go to sleep before they hit the waters tomorrow for another hard day’s work.
The pungent scent of cheap perfume hits my nose before the scantily clad ass hits the barstool beside me. It’s getting late—or rather, early morning—and there are only a handful of people still here. I’ve got a good buzz going as I nurse my fourth whiskey.
“Hey stranger,” the woman purrs beside me, but I don’t even bother turning my head. Her perfume identifies her clearly. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”
That’s true. I moved to Misty Harbor in February and since that time, I’ve only been here a handful of times. Still, I’ve come in enough times that I’m known by the bartender and a few of the other locals.
“What’s up, Barb?” I return gruffly as I stare down into my liquor. If I were to look at her, I’d see a woman who has the potential to really be pretty. But she mars that up with too much makeup and too much hair frizzed up all over the place. She’s got a decent body. Even in the winter months, it’s always on full display with lots of cleavage and legs showing. She has no clue I’ve seen so much of that in my lifetime that it’s sort of like looking at the same piece of art every day. No matter how fantastic or beautiful it may be, when it’s seen over and over again, it just ceases to be special anymore.
She’s nothing special at all.
“Looking for a good time tonight?” she purrs, her hand going to my thigh as her nails press down into the denim.
Good time?
Yeah, that is not what this will be.
A chance to bust a nut?
Absolutely.
I pick up my glass and toss back the last of the whiskey. Setting the glass back on the grimy bar top, I shoot a look at the old, grizzled bartender—a retired lobsterman named Gus—and give him a slight shake of my head to let him know I don’t want another. He merely gives a short nod and lets his gaze go back to the TV above the cash register where an old black-and-white movie is playing silently.
Pushing off the barstool, I take Barb’s hand. “Let’s go.”
I pause briefly at the door so she can nab her jacket off the rack, and then we head outside into the chilly night.
?
It takes less than five minutes to get my fix.
Less than thirty seconds to lead her around to the rear of the building that’s completely darkened because Gus is too lazy to replace the back door light. If there was a light, I’d see that the gravel and hard-packed dirt are littered with empty beer bottles and used condoms.
After another thirty seconds, Barb’s got my dick her in her hand and her mouth on my neck as she works me up. I lean back against the building and close my eyes, concentrating on the feel of a soft hand on my cock rather than my own callused palm.
It’s nice.
I guess.
A few more strokes has me rock hard, then she’s up against the dirty brick wall and I’m lifting up her short skirt. We’ve done this a time or two. With practiced hands, she gets a condom on me and then I’m inside, her long, skinny legs wrapped around my waist. She makes a move to kiss me, but I turn my head and bury my face against her shoulder.
I have no clue if she gets off, but, in less than five minutes, I do.
Over and done with.
I feel slightly better.