Not a demon. A biker who liked to drink and fight and roam the roads. Not the sort of person I usually associated with, the sort of person I felt superior to in an almost unconscious way, the way I had felt superior to Cactus and Eddie. Though I had grown up in surroundings not unlike this area, I had long ago left them behind. My Papa was the only reminder I had of my origins. “I always reserve the right to change my mind.” Deadman laughed. “Come on inside. You earned it.” He turned and headed up the steps, opening the front door and beckoning me. I hung back for a moment. “Why did you call me ‘my woman’ when she attacked me?” “What, did that spook ya?” He seemed particularly amused by my expression of offended dignity. “That little slut doesn’t like any competition.” “You mean she’s your–” “Hell, no!” It was his turn to look offended. “Stephanie McMahon? She tried it on me a couple times, but I told her she could keep it. I ain’t interested in waking up some day with my balls cut. James went on living in the hell that he had created for himself, and Linda went on picking up girls. She couldn't help herself. And James couldn't help himself either. He knew that what he should do was leave, but he didn't seem to be able. He wanted to stay with Linda, and she wanted to stay with him, but neither could deal with the situation. It might have been possible if she had had any sexual desire for him, but when she started sleeping with girls, all her desire for men seemed to have dried up. James was a wreck, haggard from sleeping on the couch and obsessing over his newly lesbian wife when she came to him with her idea. "Listen, honey," she said. "I have a friend who might be able to help us." "What, a psychologist?" James asked. "Not exactly. I just want you to go along with me and listen to her. I won't make you do anything you don't agree to." James nodded a weary assent, and they drove to meet Linda's friend. The nondescript, warehouse-like building in the city that.
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