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I take my glass of tepid water, drinking it down to dilute the single glass of Muscat I had earlier before realizing that wine makes me think too fucking much, blurs my senses, turning them into a staticky mess that I don’t feel in control of, not something I need right now as they’re already consumed by someone who I haven’t seen for two months and whom I have no idea if I ever will again, especially as Gideon and Fran are now just friends, upon my insistence to Gideon, after their vacation fling. After they slept together on the island, he lost all interest in her romantically.
God wasn’t that kind to me apparently, which is particularly ironic as I've always gloated about my friends being slaves to the women they fall for, and how immune I am to the hell of another person owning part of you.
And she doesn’t.
She can’t…
It’s some stupid infatuation, created by the trauma we shared because of that man with the knife. Me ending things as resolutely and abruptly as I did didn’t exactly offer us closure.
I’m starting to believe that that’s all we need.
Another few nights of very hard fucking and a proper goodbye, and I’ll be free of this muddled mess macerating my mind. It’s become apparent that that’s the only way I’ll get myself out of this maelstrom. If she wants that, of course. The whole fucking plan rests on the idea that she needs closure as much as I do.
Even though I've made sure that we don’t talk about anything but the bare logistical bones of the criminal cases, I can’t shake the feeling that she needs it as much as I do. Or at least, that’s what Gideon has gleaned from Fran who is increasingly tight-lipped about her friend to him.
If it’s true, I can give her the closure she needs.
As the blonde’s thigh presses against mine firmly, my eyes warm as I watch Kennedy who is giving an animated account of getting the bends during a scuba-diving trip gone wrong. My body rigidifies at the intrusion of the blonde’s hand onto the top of my leg under the table.
I sit back in my chair, taking another sip of water as Gideon’s date breaks into laughter as Kennedy imitates the state he was in when they pulled him out of the water while the woman who has apparently been brought along as my “date” by Gideon, no doubt in an attempt to snap me out of this state I’m in, edges her lacquered fingertips further until they are grazing my inner thigh, roaming slowly in the direction of my cock.
I flinch as they touch me, her hand moving until her palm rounds and her fingers coil around my thick erection. I don’t look at her, nor do I particularly want to right now, the same as I barely looked at the faces of the two women I distractedly fucked since getting back from the island, in the vague hopes that doing so would free me the goddamn affliction of relentless thoughts of someone else, a woman almost impossible to control in any satisfactory way, no less.
The woman leans into me and I tune out my friend for a moment as I listen out for her hoarse voice, inhaling the unpalatably sharp scent of spicy perfume applied way too liberally.
Her free hand winds around my bicep as the tips of her curly hair caress my upper arm. “I’d love you to drive me back to my place tonight,” she whispers as I stare straight ahead.
As her hand squeezes tightly and my dick throbs, I contemplate another night of fucking a body that could be exchanged with anyone else’s, followed by the hollow gnaw that comes in its wake as I arrange to leave their place or to have them taken home as quickly as possible.
Rude? Discourteous? Something an asshole would do?
Yes.
But then, I hope I make it clear from the start that they shouldn’t expect anything less from me. While Gideon can smile good-naturedly in all the right places and Kennedy would bend over backwards to give a girl a good time and make her happy until the end of his days whether she was married to someone else or not, I don’t possess their amiability. I’m the moody prick of a friend who won’t smile because I feel forced to, nor pander to you when you need it.
And that includes in bed…
As her acrylic-tipped fingers find the swollen head of my cock and squeeze and stroke it gently, I contemplate fucking her as per her wishes, preparing myself for the contamination and irritability I feel afterwards when all I want to do is run away.
The bottomless hollow I experience after sex isn’t new. I've had it for years, but it’s made worse by the events of this summer.
By the existence of…her.
I’m too ashamed of my own trite and predictable stupidity to even really talk to my friends about the fact that a tiny and impertinent pink-haired brat still infiltrates my thoughts on a daily basis. Fuck, more like an hourly basis. Minute by torturous minute some days.
We must have bonded over the trauma we experienced or something, but whatever the fucking reason, I can’t seem to attend one social gathering without seeking her out across the room, distracted by every flash of pink that crosses my field of vision; by the minty smell of her hair, by the memory of how her lips sought out my skin, the longing in her unconstrained and unsolicited movements so acute, her breaths so fast, her body so warm, so eager for me.
And then, her tears and the way she gripped onto me as if I were some life vest.
This little imp of a woman did something to me; fucked with my head in a way I’m not used to.
And every day, I assume the cruel thoughts, memories and flashbacks will end, only for my mind to wonder why the fuck I’m not driving over to her place now, pinning her against the wall and fucking her little brains out until she loses all strength, able to do nothing but submit and whisper my name in that sweet voice of hers.
Over and over again.
The way we made love—God, that asinine fucking term—clearly triggered something inside me, something I don’t want. Something I've worked very hard to avoid my whole adult life.
I need to work her out of my system.
