I'm Only Here for the Beard

By: Lani Lynn Vale

Then he got out and walked inside, leaving me in the seat of the medic trying not to lose my composure.

The man, with his killer grin and dark soul, had the potential to bring me to my knees…and that wasn’t a good thing.

I couldn’t do another heartbreak.

Not now. Not ten years from now. Not ever.

And I needed to remember that.

Chapter 3

Someone asked me if I believed in soulmates, and I told them I couldn’t even find my keys. What makes them think I could find my soulmate?

-Sean’s secret thoughts


It’d been three whole weeks since I’d been partnered with Naomi, and three whole weeks had gone by where I went to bed at night thinking about her rather than Ellen.

There were good things about this and bad.

The good: I didn’t wake up with my heart hurting anymore. I didn’t go to bed wondering whether Ellen was sleeping with her arms around some other man. I didn’t see Ellen and think that I was wronged. I could go into my clubhouse and look at Jessie James and not want to punch him in the face.

The bad: I was replacing Ellen with Naomi. I had a permanent hard on for a woman who made it clear she wanted nothing more than friendship. I was going into work with more eagerness to see her than the actual job I was about to perform. Oh, and let’s not forget the best one yet. I was falling hard.

Love didn’t agree with me. I always, and I do mean always, got burned.

If it was possible for a six foot four-and-a-half-inch ex-marine to suffer, I suffered.

“Do you need anything from inside?” Naomi asked as she hopped out of the medic and turned to look at me.

I looked down at her, clenched my teeth, and then nodded my head. “My usual.”

She snickered, backed up, and closed the door.

I watched her walk away.

My eyes were on her ass.

The way it swayed with each step she took.

“Hey,” I said to myself. “This is not a good idea. One of these days she’s going to do the same damn thing as the rest of them do.”

Which was leave me or break my heart.

And if I was being honest with myself, I was getting damn tired of it.

The phone in my pocket rang, and I answered it while watching Naomi walk into the bathroom and shut the door.

She did that a lot. Went to the bathroom. She was supremely self-conscious about it, too. She didn’t like going at the station. Only did it where it was public and nobody would be able to single her out.

Though, I suppose that was a fairly normal thing.

Women were self-conscious. My sister was very ill at ease about what she let the men in her life know. Such as the act of using the restroom. She freaked out when we mentioned it in front of her, and God forbid you ever mention the fact that anything she did in there, stunk.

Though, as I liked to point out to her, everyone had to shit. Everyone.

But whatever. If Naomi wanted to act like she didn’t poop, then whatever. She could be hiding worse things, like cancer or the fact that she was a drug dealer.

I settled into a chair and prepared to wait.



“Hey!” I called through the bathroom door. “Are you going to be much longer?”


“Sean!” I knocked again. “You’ve literally been in there for thirty minutes. I have to pee.”


I rolled my eyes up to the roof and stared at it for a few long seconds before I walked away.

The man had a bathroom problem.

A serious one that kept him in there for over forty-five minutes a damn day, and most of the time it happened to be right when I had to pee like a motherfucker.

And with there being only one bathroom in the station, I was shit out of luck until he was done with his toilet time.

“Son of a biscuit eater,” I grumbled as I walked to the living room and stared out the window with worried eyes.

I had to change my bag. I normally would do it while we were out in case someone happened to see it in the trash, but I didn’t have much of a choice at this point. It was either change it or walk around with my shit slapping against my stomach.

Something I still wasn’t used to even after months of having to deal with the shit. Literally.

And oh, my God. The stoma squeaks were the worst!

I’d managed to keep them secret, or quiet, by placing my crossed arms lightly over the stoma (the hole that led to my colon from the outside) but they were getting more frequent and louder by the day.

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