Free Crave You by Ryan Parker

was quite new. At the time, Heather fulfilled everything I was looking for. Attractive, available, and willing to live by the “one time” rule I demanded.
    I knew very little about her, but luckily she’d told me her last name so I was able to check her out beforehand. She was all over social media. Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
    She was a flight attendant, stationed in Baltimore, and she was on her way to being reassigned to Portland, Oregon, in the next two weeks. I knew she was safe to meet, and it went well.
    Which is why I was surprised that she was emailing me all these months later.
    “Hey, Andrew,” she wrote, using the fake named I’d given her. “Remember me? I bet you do, but in case you don’t, maybe this will refresh your memory. You were the first guy I had ever tried reverse cowgirl with. Remember me telling you that? Anyway, I am back in town for the next six days and—”
    I hit delete. I didn’t even finish reading her email. It was obvious where it was going, and I just didn’t care.
    She wasn’t Rachel.
    None of them were Rachel.
    While still logged into the dating site, I went to the account settings and deleted my membership.
    Done. Finished. I wouldn’t go back there because I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to.
    I turned my attention to other matters, pulling up my contacts list and finding the email address of a book collector I’d sold some titles to the previous month. He bought only signed copies of books, any edition, so I knew he would buy the copy of Lolita, and he’d buy it fast.
    I wrote to him, quoting $9,000. Within an hour he wrote back and said if I let it go for $8,200 we had a deal.
    I placed it in a book mailing box. It would go out the next day, I’d have the money by then, and it would all go in my “Go To Hell” fund.
     
    . . . . .
     
    Drifting off to sleep that night, I gave some more thought to what I was beginning to refer to as The Rachel Dilemma.
    I had no idea whether she’d even talk to me, so all of the effort I put into it could be a lost cause from the beginning. Still, I had to work it out for myself.
    My physical attraction to her was undeniable, and I had to be honest with myself in admitting that it was a strong driving factor in what I was about to decide. And no matter the other thoughts and feelings I had for her, yes, I still wanted to have her.
    If I saw her again, I’d be breaking my own rule, which was in place for a damn good reason. I had already put her in the potential line of danger by seeing her once. Was it worth the risk to see her twice?
    I was getting to the point where the question was all about the risk and danger it presented for her, and no longer what kind of danger I was putting myself in.
    She had often mentioned her reclusive lifestyle, never talking about friends or dates. If I had hurt her as badly as I feared, I hoped she had someone to fall back on. Like family, maybe. Or supportive co-workers.
    She had never said anything about those, either. I had never given it much thought but now I wondered what type of job she had and what she did all day.
    I had seen pain on her face that had come from somewhere deep inside, very likely from an old emotional wound.
    I could relate to that very well. That’s why I saw it in her expression. I’d seen it so many times on my own face as I shaved, brushed my teeth, any time I was in front of a mirror, actually.
    We had the obvious connection built during our months of emailing, but now I knew we had something else in common—something like what they call a “trauma bond” only I had no idea if we’d gone through similar types of anguish in our lives.
    Did she see it on my face that night? Was I even showing it?
    And what was at stake if we did make that connection?
    I decided to sleep on it.
     
    . . . . .
     
    I woke the next morning, went downstairs and started the coffee machine while I cooked breakfast—two scrambled eggs, one slice of bacon, one slice of toast, and