Who should it be...? Who should it be? Who looks like he deserves what she had to give him? That asshole who started her down this path wasn't wrong: she was pretty enough that she had no trouble finding someone willing to have sex with her. Especially when she went looking in dives like this wearing a little something slinky. But she didn't want just anyone; it had to be the right someone.

There.

Good looking guy with a devil may care gleam in his eye; handsome and clearly a man who liked his company for the night. His accent made it obvious he wasn't from around here. She couldn't quite place where it was from, but that just made it more likely that he traveled a lot. That was good. The further he moved along down the road after, the better. Icing on the cake? When his beat up jacket rose up an inch or two while bending over the pool table, a gun sat in his belt at the small of his back visible for only a second. A man who could take care of himself. Or at least, a man who stood a fighting chance.

She wished she was better at this.

Actually, she wished a lot of things.

Hips rolling in what she hoped was a sexy stroll, Jay ambled up to her pick. "Buy a girl a drink?" she asked in as sultry a voice as she could manage.

His pool opponent (and sore loser) leered at her; well, more accurately at her breasts. He didn't seem to have much interest in her face, that was for sure. "Hey there, pretty lady. I got some cash still. More than enough to buy a sweet little thing like you."

Buy her. Not buy her a drink. Did she really come off like a prostitute? Jay couldn't cover the flinch at the barfly's words.

"Back off, Ernie," her pick drawled, stepping in between her and the sore loser.

Ernie seemed to know he was better off letting things go. She wasn't the only one to catch a glimpse of the polished nickel against his back that night.

A small shot of whiskey and a seat at a small table in the corner did much to settle her nerves.

"So." The fellow began, studying her intently. "On the rebound or trying to piss off the ex?"

Jay wished she had another shot. Maybe a bigger one this time. He slid his glass in front of her, as though he could read her mind. Gratefully, she threw it back too. The liquor burned all the way down and made her nose water.

"Sweetheart, don't get me wrong. I am always up for sexy times. And I don't mind being the hot mysterious stranger," he continued, still watching her for reaction. "But this ain't your usual scene. Are you sure you want to be doing this?"

"What? People have casual sex all the time." Her voice sounded small and uncomfortable in her own ears.

"Some people, sure." The guy leaned back in his seat, giving her some space. Instantly, she relaxed a notch. "Not you," he added. "So, I ask again. Rebound or pissing him off?"

Paul's face flashed in front of her eyes. Sweet, loving Paul. Dead Paul, because of her. Water welled in her eyes as she choked out the word, "Rebound." After a moment of struggle with the tears, warm calloused fingers slid under her hand, putting a bandanna in it. Looking up, she found green eyes warm with sympathy.

"How long ago did he die?"

Die. Because this was so much more than being dumped or cheated on that even the half-drunk barfly could see right through her. God. "Not long," she admitted. The bandanna soaked up some of the moisture, but more would come. Good thing it was so much sturdier than a tissue.

"Then why are you here?"

God. Why did he have to be so nice? At this point she almost preferred the creepy sore loser. "I- I just- I want to forget. I want this whole nightmare to be over. I want him back alive. I want to make love to someone and pretend I never lost him." Tears escaped from their source, only to be dabbed away by the old bandanna.

A third shot slid across the table to her. Liquor hit her empty stomach and went straight to her head. A lightweight like her? She was drunk at the second shot.

Across from her, her pick for the night sat tapping on his smartphone. When he put the electronic away, his hand came back out with a pen. "I ordered a taxi to take you home. You're in no shape to be driving," he told her. Pen moved over a bar napkin, then bar napkin slid across the table to her hand. Scrawled on the napkin was a name, Dean, and a phone number. "Go home. Think about what you really want. What he would really want for you. If you still want someone to come over and make you forget for one night, call me. But... Sweetheart, if you hang around a place like this in the shape you're in, someone and their roofies will take the decision away from you."

Jay shuddered, remembering all too well the asshole and his rag of chloroform.

Dean and his damn perceptive green eyes probably noticed that, too.

Time passed until the taxi arrived, filled with bar bowl pretzels munching, jokes and stories. He did all the talking. She let the sound wash over her; pretended her life was some semblance of normal. Taxi arrived to take her home and her pick of the night loaded her into it.

Home.

What a joke. She wasn't safe here, not for long. Not with It following her. Always following.

She gave it an hour. An hour should be enough to show him that she thought about it, that she knew what she was doing. Did she know what she was doing? Yes, she was doing what she had to. It was the only way. Right?

Across town, a cellphone rang.

"Dean? Its Jay, rebound girl...?"