Hook, Line And Sinker

Maggie waited outside the club, arm stretched out like a flag on a stick, but cabs kept zipping past. Kyle stepped out behind her, phone in hand, hunting the same unicorn. They traded jokes, then names. He dropped the bomb early: soldier on his last night before six months overseas. She bought it—hook, line, rugged smile. He fed the heat with lines about seizing the night and not knowing which day might be his last. Maggie chuckled, leaned in, said they could chase the night together and share a ride. Inside her loft the pretense dropped. Hands yanked, mouths crashed, clothes hit the floor in one sweaty rush. She climbed him like she wanted the memory stored in muscle. When he left he looked six inches taller. Weeks later she spotted him in a café, khakis instead of fatigues. Cornered, he admitted the whole war-hero routine was just a script he ran at closing time. Maggie shrugged, no frown, no smack. She said the lay had been worth the tale. He stared, dumbstruck, then nearly tripped when she suggested they repeat it at his place around the corner. Door shut behind them, zippers slid, hands resumed their favorite sport—yet she had a secret of her own, and this time it would bite him hard.