Sissy keeps trying to sneak into the party. She’s wearing her shortest damn skirt, hoping someone gets drunk enough to take the bait. We never do. Hero spots her, and they share some heated words.
She finally disappears.
I take up a seat watching as a bunny by the name of Sugar works one of the poles. The bitch can move and has a big ol’ ass. She twerks it in my face, giving me all the signals she’s down to fuck.
“Why don’t we take this upstairs, and I’ll give you a private dance?” She teases at the sides of her thong, yanking the strings down to give me a glimpse of her bare pussy.
Taking her to my bed and fucking her brains out is what I should be doing, but I can’t find the appetite. All I can think about is the fact that a week ago I had Daisy in my bed and in my arms, even if it was temporary.
“Pathetic, man,” Tyrant razzes me. “I mean, look at that ass.” He whistles and pats his leg. Sugar drops her ass in his lap,wrapping her arms around his neck. He buries his beard in her fake tits.
For some damn reason, I can’t stomach the sight. I shove up from my chair and hit the bar where Toxic and Puck are chasing shots. I join them even if my heart isn’t in it.
Wicked shows up with more girls. I recognize one of them from Legends. Leah or Layla. I can’t remember. She slides up to me, hooking an arm around my waist. We went out once or twice last year, but nothing much came of it. “You ghosted me.”
“I think that was you. Got back with your boyfriend or some shit.”
“I’m not with him anymore.” She bats her lashes and smiles all sweet at me. “You going to offer me a drink or what?”
I lick my lips and hand her a shot. I’m finally catching a buzz and feeling alive again.
“Layla,” one of her girls calls her name. “Bathroom.”
She saunters off with her friend. “Got damn.” Toxic slaps me across the chest as we watch the two of them saunter away. He’s not wrong. Layla is gorgeous. Long, dark, silky hair. Gorgeous gray eyes. Legs for days and a rack to match her sweet ass.
I down another shot of tequila before she comes back. She returns to my side, and I have to admit she looks damn good on my arm.
“If I give you my number, are you going to call me this time?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” She leans up, getting in my face, close enough I could taste her lip gloss.
“Who’s going to answer? You or that boyfriend of yours?”
“Ha. Ha. Funny. That’s real cute.” She swats at my chest, and I grab her wrist.
“That’s what they say. I’m real fuckin’ cute.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, pulling her up against me. She leans in for the kiss first, but I initiate it.
Daisy’s voice echoes in the back of my mind. “I have a rule about no kissing.” I shove it down and throw away the key to her memories. Tonight I just want to feel something. Someone other than my own damn hand.
Layla and I make out by the bar for a bit, but eventually I take her upstairs to my room. We’re a flurry of fingers and tongues, ripping at each other’s clothes.
We don’t bother with the light and I’m too drunk to care. She’s on top of me, hair spilling like a velvet curtain, bracing her hands on my chest. I let her grind against me and pretend I’m into it. Lie to myself. Her moans sound like the word “more” being whispered over and over again by a an old school phone sex operator or porn star. She’s as fake as hr damn titties.
The sex is technically good, but it’s too vanilla. Too easy. Layla’s skin is smooth, her hands practiced, but the friction I’d wanted. The wild, raw connection. It isn’t there. We move together, but she’s performing, and I guess so am I. I keep waiting for her to bare her teeth, to try to break free, to scratch or even punch. She just sighs and shifts under me, and at one point calls me “baby.” I finish mostly out of spite. I roll as far away as I can, gripping the mattress until my knuckles hurt, wishing she’d leave.
Layla traces a finger over my chest and asks, “Was I what you needed?”
I force a “Sure,” but even I don’t buy it. She hums a satisfied noise to herself a little and heads for my bathroom. Probably to call and talk shit about me to her friend on the phone.
Left alone, I bury my face in the pillow. For a minute I let myself imagine it’s Daisy’s scent clinging to my sheets. Not Layla’s cheap perfume that gives me a damn headache.
Layla doesn’t stick around after. We both know I won’t call her. She gathers her things and gives me a look that reads “thanks for the pity fuck” and disappears out the door. I stare at the ceiling and wait for Daisy’s face to float out from the cracks in the plaster. It doesn’t disappoint. She’s there, eyes half-lidded and dark with need. The way she looked at me in the shower. And then the way she bled out in the dirt, thin arms clutching my knife. I punch the wall behind my head, leaving a hole like the one in my heart.
