The Real Mrs. Price by J. D. Mason

Author:J. D. Mason
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781466853751
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Tell You My Sins

WHAT WAS THIS CREEPING UP on him? A dark, shadowed, wheezing, and pitiful thing slithering up next to him in the passenger seat of his car as he made his way back to his hotel room from a late dinner at a greasy burges joint. Was that regret? He’d only ever laid eyes on it once or twice in his life, and it had been so long since he’d last seen it that he almost didn’t recognize it. It showed up to remind him of some things he could never have or that he chose not to have because life was easier without them, less complicated and convoluted and messy.

Beautiful women were a dime a dozen, and he’d enjoyed more than his fair share of them. Plato was fortunate in that sense. Women lavished him with affection and sex, and he’d wallowed in all their lavishness like a pig in slop. He never bothered with promises he couldn’t or wouldn’t keep or elaborate diatribes about why he couldn’t or wouldn’t see them again. He admired their beauty and made it clear to them that he did. And that was usually enough. Wine and dine them, smother them with entirely too much attention that could easily be mistaken for love, touch, kiss, and one thing would lead to another, which meant all the fucking that he could handle in the course of a night, maybe a night and a day, and then he’d move on.

But regret was sitting next to him, shaking its ugly little head, pursing its thick and slimy lips. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Plato had been married so long ago and at such a young age that most of the time he felt as if some other dude had said “I do” to his ex-wife. They’d lived together, made a kid together, probably made some promises to each other, but it was all ancient history and fleeting—well, except for the kid part. Home was whatever hotel he was staying in at the time. It was his car, airplanes, hostels. He had more money than he could spend in his lifetime, and yet he was homeless.

Women like Marlowe were the physical interpretation of the word home to Plato. A lovely, comfortable, inviting woman that welcomed a man with open arms and good food and good love. The misogynist in him gloated. It almost shamed him to admit, even to his slimy little friend next to him, that he could want her if it wasn’t for the kind of life he led. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way about a woman. Of course, in all fairness, he had seen her beautiful self all shiny and naked the night before, spread out before him like treasure. So maybe that’s where all this melancholy was coming from. He was horny. Plato sighed, relieved. If that’s all it was, and he convinced himself that it was, then regret had wasted a trip visiting him, and it needed to get its dirty little ass out of his car.

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