PROTECTIVENESS.
That’s what the fuck I felt the last time I laid eyes on Saylor Samson. I was in a bar, she was in a bar. I had a date, she had a date. My date was a smokin’-hot redhead I’d picked up on my way in that had already come on my knee twice. Her date was a fuckin’ prick who had jealousy issues. Not that I could blame him.
Saylor wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a full-blown woman whose dance moves had every dick in the bar twitching. Her hair was long. Really fuckin’ long. Down to her ass and thick and curly and crazy, kinda like she stuck her finger in a light socket. And it was sexy. Really fuckin’ sexy. I felt my dick press harder against my jeans, and it had nothing to do with the redhead humping my knee and sucking my neck.
Saylor wore a skirt that looked like it was made out of glitter and was so short, the cheeks of her ass hung out every time Lil Jon demanded she get low. My eyes moved down her legs to her high heels that were so tall, it looked like she was walking on her toes. I don’t know how in the hell women wear that shit, but it was hot. Especially on Saylor Samson.
She was dancing on a table with a group of her friends. Judging by the sash and tiara the girl next to her was wearing, they were celebrating something. It physically hurt when I had to drag my eyes from Saylor’s legs to find her date yelling at her. He was demanding she get off the table, and I could make out the words “go fuck yourself” on her lips. When he reached up and grabbed for her leg, I was already on my way over. I wasn’t pissed because it was Saylor who he was messing with, or at least that’s what I told myself.
Usually, I didn’t get involved with relationship drama. This guy could be her husband for all I knew, but she was a chick and he was a dude, and I wasn’t gonna stand for that shit. I felt her eyes on me, and I didn’t want to look, but I did. The fight seemed to die out of her, and I knew it was because she knew I was there. I don’t know how she knew and I didn’t care. All that mattered was that she needed me. She needed me and she knew I could protect her. I could help her. She knew this shit, and she didn’t even know my fucking name.
Adrenaline shot through my body. I could feel my temples throbbing . . . my nostrils flaring . . . my teeth clenching . . . my hands balling into fists. I was gonna kill that motherfucker. She was telling me with her eyes she needed this. She wanted this. She wanted me.
I grabbed the prick by the throat and he grasped my hand in a shitty attempt to pry my fingers from around his neck. I carried him through the crowd of people with his feet kicking in the air, trying to find the floor. Once outside, I slammed him into the street. I felt that familiar feeling of power consume me as I watched him struggle to catch his breath. People around us were screaming and cheering, wanting more.
That feeling of power intensified as my fist met his bleeding flesh each time I landed a blow to his pathetic face. When I finally stopped, I stood over his body that lay unconscious on the crowded street. I turned to the cheering group of people, searching for only one face. When I found her, she was watching me.
Her eyes were slightly narrowed and her face turned to the side as she appraised me. I wanted to know what she was thinking. I wanted to know why she didn’t look scared. I wanted to know why she was so calm, acting as if she already knew this was going to happen. But her friends were pulling her back into the building before I could speak to her. When she made it to the door, she turned back and before she disappeared inside, her left eye shut on a wink. And then she was gone.
That was last night.
—
Today, I can’t get the images of Saylor over the past five years out of my head. It’s stupid. I know that. I’ve seen hundreds of women. I’ve fucked just as many. This one I haven’t even touched, but I can’t shake her from my thoughts. Two years ago, I’d asked the man at the bar she was singing at what her name was. All this time, that’s all I’ve ever known about her. But in just a few minutes I will know everything, or at least everything that has been documented on paper. I won’t know her favorite color or what makes her laugh or what her favorite food is or any of that shit. I’m sure I can find out if I really want to, and I wouldn’t even have to talk to her, but for some reason, this is shit I want her to tell me.