Page 2 of The Addict

Ah, high maintenance. Just how I liked them to be, before I tore them down.

“Umm, you left a wad of cash on the t-table,” she said so quietly that I almost didn’t catch it. I continued to watch her shuffle nervously and took a long drag from my blunt.

“Uh...” she thrusted the money towards me when I didn’t say anything. “Here.”

Though a small amount of fog covered my brain from the drugs, I took a few steps toward the timid young woman. I knew in a few more minutes, my joint would have me soaring above the clouds, King over the underlings in this God forsaken city. I reached out as if to take the money from her, but only let my fingers brush the top of her hand.

“But I left this for you,” I finally answered. “It’s a tip.”

Her face grew a unique shade of crimson from the contact. “N-No sir, this is way too much money for a t-t-tip...” Her voice trailed off.

I shrugged and winked at her. “This is a fabulous place. I only tipped the amount I felt was worthy.”

Yeah, right. “Shorty’s” was the definition of dumpster trash, composed of the types of people I affiliated with: drug addicts, sex fiends, and brawlers. What those idiots didn’t realize was that I blended right in with them, even though my outer appearance and upbringing didn’t fit the usual description. I desired the same as they did. To fuck, to drink, and to feel amazing while doing it.

The blonde continued to stare at me and I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t in the mood to play fake prince charming.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking for a woman to screw. What better way to spend my money than on a poor, working girl who would fuck me afterwards? Life got boring as a wealthy member of what society considered an “upper-class” family. I was a Hansen, after all, and in my family, there wasn’t room for fun or error. All these fucking rules and expectations of me were tiresome. The money, however, was abundant. I couldn’t give a shit about how my mother and father preached “the value of a dollar” all my childhood. My family was prominent because of their contributions to crime fighting in the city, and this reputation allowed them to build and sustain wealth. So, how could I be blamed for wanting to spend the only thing in my life that was constant?

The girl kicked some dust with her shoes, still persisting to hand me the money. “Umm, please take it.”

Now, I was annoyed. “Why do you keep insisting on giving this back to me?” I quipped. Her voice caught in her throat at my tone. I stared at her for a moment before taking a finger and pushing the wad closer to her. “I don’t want it.” I stated firmly.

And then she snapped.

“I will not be giving you anything special for this money, sir!” she shouted, her form trembling.

The comment took me off guard. I hadn’t expected her to have such a fearful reaction to me. That was indeed unusual. I scrutinized her. What a boring girl. She looked as though she was going to run from me any moment.

I scowled inwardly. I would never force a woman into sex. I didn’t need to be aggressive, I had other ways of getting what I wanted. And I got what I wanted.

Always.

Usually the women in these establishments recognized me and saw the large tips as kind gestures. Then, they fell into my lap with ease. This one, I ventured, was either terrified or playing a game of hard to get that I was not interested in.

I sighed and reached out to gently touch the girl’s shoulder. “Hey, listen,” I spoke softly so as not to scare her. “I only wanted to spend a little extra tonight. I don’t expect any services from you, okay?”

She was quiet, but nodded slowly.

A few moments passed.

Was she still standing there?

I blinked at the woman. She still looked very uncomfortable, and yet, was not making any move to return back inside the bar. “Listen,” I tried again, “if you think the money is too much, then I will take it back. Will that make you feel better?” I extended my hand out to her, palm up, waiting for my return.

Slowly, she fingered the cash between her pretty hands, studying it and my outstretched gesture. After a moment she finally replied, “Well, if you’re sure it wasn’t for something else–”

“It’s not,” I cut her off, lowering my arm.

It could have been, but you’re a boring bitch.

“Then...I suppose I’ll keep it.” She let out a sigh of relief and in that same breath I made up my mind that I was definitely not returning inside the bar to deal with her for another hour.

“Fine with me,” I muttered, taking another drag. My heart began to pound, and ever so surely, I found myself feeling much lighter, less interested in anything other than that pretty, blinking sign above me.

I waited for her to leave, but just like sugar attracted colonies of ants, here she stayed, staring at me, still glued to my fucking side like I knew her.

What does she want?