Tapped Out

Saturday night, and Hank Granger was lying naked in a stranger's bed, slick with sweat, spent, and unspeakably hollow.

Not a stranger, exactly—Sarah, his assistant. Young. Lethal. Beautiful in that high-gloss, filtered way. Like a centerfold brought to life. A fantasy made flesh.

A fantasy that didn't seem to need sleep.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, aching in ways that had nothing to do with his body. They'd done it three times already that day, in every room of her too-small apartment. On the counter. In the shower. In the hallway, with his pants around one ankle. She'd come at him like hunger personified, moaning his name like a prayer and writhing like she was about to burn up from the inside out.

He'd never felt so wanted.

And yet… he'd also never felt less like himself.

"Are you falling asleep on me?" Sarah's voice cut through the dimness like a razor wrapped in velvet.

He opened his eyes. Her silhouette was kneeling at the edge of the bed. Even in shadow, her green eyes gleamed.

"I'm beat," he muttered.

"Already?" she teased, crawling closer. "It's Saturday night. Come on, old man. Don'tvmake me climb on top again."

He smiled. Weakly. When had the tables turned so aggressively? When had Sarah been able to take the power position in the relationship? She was his employee, after all. And years his junior. For weeks she'd been coming on to him, tempting him, teasing him, acting like his attention was something she craved like an addict craved a fix. Shouldn't things be the other way around?

It was a trap. All of it.

He knew it in his bones. But knowing didn't mean much, especially after the trap had already been sprung. His body still responded to her like a magnet to metal.

Still, he rolled onto his side, facing away from her. "I'm serious, Sarah. I'm tapped out. You win. I surrender."

There was a pause. Long enough to matter.

When she spoke again, her voice was cooler. Less sing-song. "You're no fun."

"I'm thirty-nine years old. Next month I'll be forty," he said. "I'm not supposed to be fun."

She laughed, but it didn't sound joyous. It felt thoughtful. Threatening.

He could feel her watching him. That look she got sometimes, like a lion studying a limping gazelle. That slight tilt of her head. That calculating glint in those too-green eyes.

It passed. Like it always did.

Moments later, she was all sunshine and kisses again, draping herself across his back, arms wrapping around his chest, her breasts soft against him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to push you. I just... I love you, Hank. I get greedy. You're like the best thing that's ever happened to me."

He closed his eyes. Bit the inside of his cheek.

I love you.

It sounded wrong coming from her lips. Not because she didn't say it like she meant it—she did. But everything Sarah said sounded like it was part of a script. Like she'd said it before. It occurred to Hank that he actually knew very little about Sarah, about her life outside of work, about her past. Yes, she had invited him into her home, into her bed, and he was grateful, but exactly whose bed was it that he was sleeping in? Was it safe?

He wanted to believe her, that she really loved him. He really did. But outside of their work lives, did they really know each other at all? How could love be possible? The rejection from Donna was still deep and painful. Whether or not he and Donna would ever be able to reconcile was a mystery. As the weekend went on and he fell deeper and deeper into Sarah's world he doubted it more and more. Still, even if his life with Donna was truly over, was being with Sarah a good decision?

She kissed the back of his neck. "My big man needs his rest. I'm gonna be so sweet to you in the morning. Like a reward."

He said nothing. Just nodded once, slowly.

Sarah curled away from him and pulled the sheets up. The room was suddenly too quiet, too still.

Hank stared at the wall. The faint light from a nearby streetlamp traced a thin silver line across the ceiling.

He missed his house.

He missed Donna. Missed her laugh, her warmth. The way she used to press her cold feet against his under the blankets. The way she would nibble on his earlobe when she was feeling playful. Even the way she looked when she was mad at him.

His mind went to his son, Joey. He'd be at home with his mother, not away at school like Juniper. How much did he know? Had Donna told him? Did Joey hate him? What did he know?

Quietly, he picked up his phone from the night stand and typed a quick text to his son.

Hey bud - just checking in. You doing okay?

He replaced the phone, careful to not make a sound. The last thing he needed was for Sarah to think he had more energy. Her insatiable appetite would be the end of him, he was sure of it. And if he was to survive the weekend, he would need his rest.

But beyond the weekend? Hank had no idea what his future would become.

He didn't close his eyes for a long time.