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"Hey yourself, sexy." He grins sloppily. He's a nondescript guy. Brown hair, decent tan, if somewhat uneven, average height, average build, and drips with self-confidence that he, in a just and equal world, shouldn’t possess. But the world isn’t just, and even basic idiots like him feel like they run shit.
"What's up?" I ask, not bothering to hide my boredom because I know he won't notice anyway.
"Your friend's not here." He waves a finger in my face, leering at me and shaking his head in mock disapproval. "She's not nice. But you are, aren't you? Where've you been hiding?" His slurred speech annoys me, and I decide to shut him up.
"You've found me now, right?" I signal to the bartender to bring me another drink. He nods and turns around to mix it for me.
"I sure have." He plops down on the seat next to me, elbows resting on the bar for support as he gives me what I'm sure h
e thinks is a flirtatious wink. It’s more of an awkward blink.
If I fucked him, he'd go in my journal as Mr. Mediocre. Right behind Mr. Just Fine and Mr. Adequate, Mr. Forgettable. I don't remember their names. I hardly remember their touches since none of them made me actually feel anything. Sex is a transaction, an exchange of fleeting release.
I don't really need them - I always make myself cum anyway. With one hand gripping the blanket to anchor me and the fingers of my other hand working my clit or my nipples. I didn't have a fantasy to recall or an image of a man I'd rather have on top of me. I focus on the feel of my hand taking control of my pleasure. Their cocks are only there as a reminder that I still have the power to choose who enters my body.
Nothing more.
Men like him are the only ones I can handle. And maybe all I really deserve. If I can’t give more than my body, then I shouldn’t have anything more in return. Besides, there’s no danger in being hurt, becoming attached. I can get back to my life when it’s over. Not like Harry. I know he’d want more. He’d demand things.
I look back at Mr. Mediocre and realize I'd almost forgotten he was even there. "So, you trying to get laid?" I ask, and his eyes widen and his mouth drops open in a shocked but pleased laugh. What an idiot.
"Hell yeah. I mean, I was gonna buy you a drink or something and then see if you were down, but fuck it. I like a girl who gets right down to business."
I can smell the tequila on his breath from here, and I have a feeling he won't even be able to get it up. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I throw back the rest of my drink. I don't fuck sober.
Mediocre leans in toward me, his eyes hooded, his hand coming up as if to grab the back of my neck.
"Uh, yeah. No kissing, bud."
He harrumphs, but retreats.
“Do you want to know my name?” he asks sullenly.
“No,” I say, knowing he won’t protest. He doesn’t. He just shrugs.
"Well, I want to know yours,” he says with a smile I’m sure he thinks is charming. It’s dumb.
"Mary." I wince a little at using my mother's name, but I doubt he'll remember long enough to call it out when he comes.
"Well, Mary, you want to go to my room?"
“Why not?” I shrug my indifference. I slide off my stool to head toward the lobby. I don't bother to look behind me to see if he's following me. They always follow. I'm a sure thing. Most men pretend they like a chase, but they’re lying. At least if it’s just sex they’re after.
I'm already planning what I'll do when he’s done and gone, and I remember the book that my sister's best friend, Cara, sent me. She's a rabid romance reader and is trying to convert the rest of us. I only like the novels where someone dies. It's the only time I can cry and have a reason that's not my own.
I chuckle to myself as I'm stepping into the cool, air-conditioned lobby when every single one of the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And it's not the cold that's done it. He's behind us. I don't stop walking, but I close my eyes to make sure they're full of indifference when I look over my shoulder.
"Hey, which floor is your room--" I start to say to Mr. Mediocre. Only, he's nowhere to be seen. And in his place stands Harry. His handsome face is a mask of rage, and the dimly lit lobby makes him seem diabolical.
"Your friend is gone," he says as I turn to fully to face him. I look around him, and indeed, Mr. M is gone.
I return his glare with a confidence I don't feel. I'm less angry than afraid and confused.
"I told you to stay away from me. Are you stalking me?" I hate how the quaver in my voice betrays my weakness.
"No, I'm not stalking you, Emma. And you can tell me whatever you want, I don't have to do it. It's a small resort. I was coming in from the beach, and I saw you and your companion," he puts an ugly emphasis on the word that makes me feel something I haven't felt in a long time - shame, "walking into the building. He looked like he was about to fall over, so I helped him to a seat and let him know he should not, under any circumstances, get up. He didn't protest much, and in fact, I'd be shocked if he wasn't already asleep. And since you didn't seem to notice that he wasn't behind you any longer, I doubt you mind too much either."
He shakes his head and looks at me with an undisguised disappointment he has no right to feel.
