I was in a bad mood all the way home. I'd deliberately walked the longest route back to my car in order to avoid growly ferals who had a knack for getting in my business, usually acting under the false pretense that they cared. Well, fuck him. He couldn't just waltz in and out of my life whenever he felt like it anymore.
The teen who'd idolized him died the second he'd turned his back on me and left me drowning. Metaphorically. Although the sheer amount of tears my weaker alter-ego had shed after he'd left were vast. It took far longer than necessary for me to realize that I didn't need him anymore. His advice was never actually helpful nor obvious. A lot of waffle that I prized only because he'd given it.
Once home, I ran myself a stupidly hot shower and let the burning water flay the skin from my bones. Not literally, of course, because I reckon even the water wouldn't be a match for my deadly skin. But I could pray. When I was red raw and purged, I stepped out and allowed myself to air dry in the comfort of my apartment with the glass balcony doors left shamelessly uncovered. It felt strangely liberating to be naked in the city, knowing I what I was doing wasn't lonely or private.
Then I would order dinner, usually Chinese food or pizza, and eat while I got ready for my evening out. This was my weekend routine, Friday and Saturday night. Around eight pm, I'd start to feel restless and head out, making my way to the speakeasy-style dives which were my go-to. I liked the clientele, but also, I didn't run the risk of bumping into any of my 'clean-cut' friends.
The bouncers all knew me anyway, usually letting me in without queuing. I'd screwed a few of them. They didn't take it personally, and if they did, too bad. There were no repeat performances.
As much as I wanted to keep my private life away from my peers, there was a part of me that didn't give a flying fuck if they did know. Or what they thought of me now. My behavior would have shocked the old me, but strangely now, I didn't care. I would have said that was the absorbed feral personalities in me, but it was far from true. My own experiences had made me this way. Jaded. Damaged.
It wasn't even just about the sex, although, granted, a large part of it was. I preferred to keep things disattached because it was easier that way. Uncomplicated. No emotions involved. No obligations or expectations or regrets. A simple exchange of needs, then a swift goodbye.
The bar was dark and smoky and just the way I liked it. Lit from only behind, the polished mahogany countertop shone under the decade's worth of scuff marks from drinks being slid over its surface. It was still early-ish and the patrons increased in small trickles, older than the type a club would have attracted. People out for a catch-up drink with friends after a tough day flogging pharmaceuticals with phony, pitchy tactics, or divorce lawyers meeting with their rivals to bitch about their rich, snobby clients.
It would be harder to find what I was looking for, but the challenge was what made it all the more interesting.
The tempo of the music beat in steady rhythm with the thrumming under my skin. The amber liquid in my glass was peated and smooth on the tongue, giving way to a rich wholeness as it slid down my throat and infiltrated my belly like wildfire. It was glorious. Heavenly. Familiar. Taking with it the unwanted urgency to think. To do. To just be.
I'd just settled onto a stool in the corner and ordered my second drink when a hulking figure caught my attention.
I rolled my eyes closed for the longest second, wondering why the fuck he just happened to be in my bar when I was here, and in desperate need of forgetting said fucking person was back in my stomping ground uninvited.
When I peeped back out from under heavy lashes, it turned out he wasn't an apparition of a weary mind, no matter how much I longed for him to be so. However, if it was just my imagination playing tricks, then it was pretty unfair that my fictitious Logan was being an ass as well.
Speaking of ass, I had a rear view, and was dismayed by what a beautiful view it was. Jeans molded to his butt, with a long leg kicked out to the side. Sinewy muscled forearms, deeply tanned, disappearing into flannel rolled up to the elbows. The ends of his hair curled at just the top of his collar. A few more inches since last time. Those details were far too intricate for my inebriated brain to conjure up.
He leaned over and tapped the ash off the end of his cigar into the waiting ashtray, brought it back to his mouth. His other hand was resting on the waist of a petite blond. Her enviable curves showcased in tight denim. Beautiful, honey-hued skin, soft and delicate. Sandy blond hair, still streaked with natural summer highlights.
Not my type but most definitely his. Small framed, sweet, seemingly innocent. Eager to please. He'd like that; room to corrupt. Just like he'd enjoy the differences in their physicalities.
Facing me, I could see the light of adoration flickering in her pale blue eyes, and understood by his tight body language that the man would snuff that out quickly. He wasn't playing that type of game tonight. He wasn't in the mood to appease or be swayed. Steadfast in his intent.
The Wolverine was back in town. Hunting.
The young woman settled into his lap, smiling at the attention he showed her. Interested without being crude. She thinks he's a gentleman, bless her heart. He picks up his drink, amber and glowing in the half-light of the bar, and swallows it in one.
I hear the endearment in my head as he leans in to growl in her ear. She'll like that she can feel the weight of his words like they were viscous, full of arrogant promise.
Sweetie. Honey. Baby. Darlin' The last drawled out over a whiskey-silkened tongue, warm and smoky.
She knows how it will go down. What he wants from her. It doesn't matter if she wants the same, because she'll get what she yearns for in satisfying his needs. He knows this too. Part of what makes sex with him so good. The desire to please and be pleased. What he offers them can't have a price put on it.
Pretty little fool. She's too young to understand that this can only go one way. That he'll never go over the same territory twice. There were no exceptions to the rules. I kind of felt sorry for her… almost.
She'd know the deal soon enough, be thankful for it eventaully. One round with the Wolverine before innumerable other men tried to compare in her memory of the wildest night of her life. She'd feel dirty, used, but also gratified. Wanting. Always searching for another who would compare to him.
I tried to imagine her life. Coed. Not popular but part of the artistic crowd, judging by the homemade beaded choker at her throat. Down to earth. Parents the hippy type, but well off enough to not pressure their only child into nailing down a career path, as their parents had done to them. I pictured them summering in the Hamptons, tennis clubs, beach clubs.
I had no idea if I was close to the mark. He was kissing her now, slowly. Like he'd all the time in the world to seduce her. Make her believe in all the things that kiss was silently promising. Like he had the capacity for 'more.'
Her hands slid lazily under his shirt, stroking at the rock-hard abdomen beneath. Skin on skin. A shudder went through me.
When the kiss ended and she pulled back, stars in her eyes, I could almost see the way he'd be looking back at her, now she'd been lured in close enough to taste. She enjoyed his body, looking at it, touching it. Who didn't, my mind unhelpfully added. But what made him infinitely more compelling was that enigmatic hazel gaze that would be locked on her own. Shifting. Unable to be pegged. A mind more destructive than his powerfully built frame. One that craved submission from not only his bed partners, but his enemies too.
Their faces were glued together again, her hips now settled over his own. Crudely grinding herself down. Not subtle or appropriate by any means but I couldn't blame her for lack of restraint.
The stool swiveled then, maybe by accident, maybe from the kick of a long leg, and I felt the weight of his stare pin me, as absolute as any touch.
The bastard knew. He knew all along. That I was there. Watching.
My cheeks burned with color as a sardonic grin twisted his features. He knew I was enjoying the show. Could probably smell what he was doing, not just to the woman still astride his lap, but the brunette across the room that he once could have counted as a friend. If he'd ever let me in close enough.
He quirked an eyebrow. Taunting.
I saw the blond's lips move, "Do you know her?"
I'd been caught out.
I finished whatever drink I had left, slapped more than what I owed on the counter, and hurried away, the coward I was.
I wouldn't be going back there. Not while he was around. Maybe not even when he was gone.
The shame quickly turned to anger in the sharp relief of the frosty, well-lit parking lot. How dare he! How dare he ruin my perfect evening plans! How dare he show up again and butt into my life, like he had any right to! And how dare he stir up all those old feelings!
It wasn't fair. On my emotions. On my sanity. I had moved on. From that. From hope and love and the ultimate despair that it brought.
All that was left for me in that moment were thoughts of what he'd be doing to her, and my own cold, empty bed.