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Visual evidence of just how fucked in the head I am. The sight did nothing to help my current state of mind.
“Don't start with me, Mandy.” Frustrated, and furious that I was frustrated instead of relaxed like I was a minute ago, I ran a hand through my messy dark hair, then zipped my fly. “You know how this works. I'm not yours. You're not mine. Were not exclusive in any way.” I gestured back and forth between us as I searched for the rest of my things.
“Yeah, I know.”
Her morose tone caught my attention and I froze.
When did Mandy get so fucking whiny and clingy?
When you stopped acting like a human being and started treating her like a hole to stick your dick in, idiot.
I really was a bastard, and though I wouldn’t excuse my shitty behavior, Mandy knew the deal. We'd been non-exclusive fuck buddies going on two years, and agreed from the get-go that it would never be anything more.
Always on the lookout for new…outlets for my fits of anger, when Amanda Brooker came to work for the Comets as a corporate sales manager, all polished and professional and sexy as hell, she caught my eye. The second I spotted her I recognized the darkness we had in common, hidden by her smoking hot exterior and a brilliant mind. Instinctively, I knew I found a partner. One with similar demons. Someone damaged. Ruined. Fucked up in the head, like me. I asked her if she wanted to get a drink and the rest was history.
Until recently.
The changes began subtly. Amanda began to mention she had to get up super early and I might as well stay the night so we could squeeze in one more fuck in the morning. Me arriving for a quick screw only to find dinner laid out on the dining room table. Her acting like she wanted yet another round even when I, a professional athlete in peak physical condition, was so tapped out I could barely walk. “Please? Just lay down with me a little while and we can go again,” she'd say.
Merde. It was bullshit.
Everything she said was bullshit to manipulate me.
More recently, she'd dropped all pretenses and would flat out get angry when, like every single other time without fail, I got dressed before the jizz cooled. Nothing changed for me, but clearly something had changed for Amanda.
I started to speak, then hesitated. What if it really was me who changed, and not Amanda?
When we first started screwing, I responded to Amanda’s infrequent, but flirty texts. I chatted her up when I walked through the front door instead of immediately silencing her by crushing my mouth on top of hers in order to get straight to the sex. I remember I used to talk to her like she was a person, not an inanimate object or fuck toy. I'd also noticed—while pretending I hadn’t—that over the last few months, I wasn’t getting the same amount of satisfaction from fucking Amanda.
Not like I used to.
Maybe all of those reasons were why, over time, I'd withdrawn. Pushed her away and started to call some of the other women I had lined up, just so I wouldn't have to deal with her shit. Apparently the writing had been on the wall for a while, and as humiliating as it sounded, I was too chickenshit to cut Amanda loose. Plus, if I did, I'd still see her from time to time at the arena. We’d never have a clean break and I knew it.
So I wouldn't have to deal with the stress of an ex at work, I maintained just enough contact to keep Amanda invested, yet whittled our relationship down to the most basic of activities. No frills. No extras. Insert cock in hole, bust a nut, get dressed, leave. And obviously she had had enough.
I didn't blame her.
“I’m sorry.” I stared at my feet. Apologizing for doing nothing wrong made me angry. We had an arrangement. I kept my head down because if I had to look at Amanda's face while apologizing, when she was the one who broke her end of the deal, it would set me off. What infuriated me the most was that I just finished fucking the mountain of issues out of my system, and here she was riling me all up again. It was imperative I remained calm.
“Fuck off,
Seb. Just go.”
“Mandy —”
“Go!”
Her voice cracked and, though I knew it made me the king of all pricks, I found my jacket, snatched my phone and keys off the nightstand, and left, not once meeting Amanda’s eyes or sparing a glance back. I tried to persuade myself not to worry. She was just an outlet, a piece of pussy.
Yeah, I failed spectacularly.
Seated in my truck I began the five mile, traffic riddled, road rage inducing drive across Atlanta to the W.
Fury, fighting, and fucking.
Those were the only three things I took pleasure in, and after dealing with Amanda, I had to admit even those were beginning to lose their shine. Naïve as I had been at the time, I honestly believed the day my father was gone, permanently, would be the day my life became normal. I barked out a humorless laugh. Right. The bastard might be gone but the scars he inflicted remained, and they went bone-fucking deep.
There would never be more to life for me than a hollow empty feeling. One that swung the pendulum between rage and nothing. I was damaged goods.
