Nothing but Darkness Page 2

  Spot Z is a popular bar just a ways down from my house. It seems to be on the corner of everything and everything-else in our town. Anyone who wants to drink seems to end up there at some point in the week. It’s kind of a dive, a little dodgy, but that doesn’t stop most. The lights are dim, the music’s loud, they have typical bar games to play and a sizable dance floor, and the drinks are cheap. Even on a modest budget it’s possible to get yourself plus a date drunk. Add to all of this well-endowed women and bartenders sporting tanned and toned muscles. Hence the popularity. There’s something there for everyone.

  The allure works on me too. I end up there two or three times a week. It helps I can walk there.

  I can tell Jason misses trolling for ladies at Z by the wistful tone in his voice. As much as he loves his wife now, he used to love taking women home after a night at the bars. When we were in college, when he was thinner, he got plenty of ass. Now he has to be satisfied with the fact that the closest he’ll get to another woman is playing wingman for me. Case in point why I’m not married.

  “Maybe I’ll get lucky,” I add with a jab of my elbow to his chubby ribs.

  “I hope so, if for no other reason than I’ll get a retelling tomorrow.” Knew it.

  “You’re a pig.” I guess I’ll have to try scoring just for him. How selfless and giving of a friend I can be.

  “Hey, are you coming over for the game tomorrow night? Amelia said she’s making food. I’ll have beer.” His hopefulness sounds on the brink of desperation.

  “Count me in,” I shout as I sink into my driver’s seat, closing my door to the cold outside. I give him a thumbs up in return to his smile as we back out of our parking spots toward our respective homes.

  ****

  “Fucking cocksucker!” I scream, honking my horn as a moron in a hybrid cuts too close in front of me. That’s the shit that pisses me off. People need to learn to drive or get off the road. This isn’t practice. It’s real life. And this asshole needs to go back to driving school.

  I need to teach this guy a lesson. It’s a quick thought I don’t analyze. So I speed up until I’m mere feet from his bumper. I lay my fist on the horn, leaving it there. I feel my blood pressure rise as my anger continues skyrocketing.

  “Who the fuck does he think he is?” I barely notice I’m speaking to an empty passenger seat. “WHO the FUCK does this guy think HE IS?” One hand stays on the wheel, the other gesturing wildly.

  With the sound still blaring, I move even closer as he tries to evade me. I’m inches from the back end of his car, and there’s no fucking way he’s going to get away from me. When he swerves right, I follow. Same when he attempts left.

  As he moves back into the lane, speeding up, I follow suit, continuing my tirade. Eventually he raises his eyes to the rearview, meeting mine. When I realize I can see the color of his irises, dark brown, the part of my brain that’s seeing red, the part that’s lost control, fades away.

  Holy shit.

  “Holy shit.”

  I felt like I could’ve killed that guy. Is that even possible? Do I have such dark violence inside me? Even as I ask myself the question I already know the answer. I know if I hadn’t snapped out of it, it was possible.

  What the fuck?

  This is how road rage gets on the news, why it’s been studied. Such psychotic behavior from being cut off isn’t a typical reaction. Some outliers can be dangerous.

  ****

  “Home sweet home,” I mutter as I cross over the threshold into my entryway. I’ve calmed down from my outburst, sure it’s a one-time problem. I drop my work things underneath the end table by the door that holds my key tray. My briefcase never makes it past this point. Ever. I never work from home. There’s no other way to keep a work–life balance. At work I work. At home I don’t. Simple as that. I’ve never understood how others have trouble separating the two. It isn’t difficult.

  Just don’t fucking work at home.

  Looking around, I feel proud. Though the size is a luxury, I’ve also filled the space well. Every line is clean, sharp. The counters are granite, while the floors are dark hardwood. Grays, blacks, browns, reds, and whites might give a cold feel to everything, but it’s a fresh, clean cold. The furniture, walls, and accents all bask in these simple colors, while the appliances shine in chrome. Despite the bachelor pad status, I have a painting in every room. No neon shit either. Only visually stimulating, and expensive, pieces.

  My place may lack a woman’s touch, but that’s sort of the point. Most women don’t complain when they come over anyhow. Plus they rarely stay long enough to admire my décor. And while they’re here, their mind is occupied elsewhere. Most have no objection to the coolness of my decorating while in my bed, which happens to be king-sized and covered in a thick duvet to warm them up from said cold furnishings.

  I can’t help grinning at the possibility of some sizzling activity that could lie ahead for my night, so I head to the kitchen to fix dinner before heading to Spot Z.

  Just as expected, at Z the lights are low, the music high. I can feel the thump, thump, thump in my chest as I walk toward the bar. It beats, vibrating against my ribs.

  “Jack and coke please.” My drink never changes. Once I found what I liked, I stuck with it. I don’t think in all blacks and whites, there are definitely plenty of grays out there, but there’s no point in branching out when you’re already found your favorite. I doubt it’ll change. What can I say, I’m loyal to Jack.

  I’ve come to recognize most of the bartenders since I’m here often. A few recognize me enough to know my order as well.

  “Sure thing.” I forget this particular one’s name, but he nods and has my drink ready faster than I can get the cash out of my wallet.

  “Keep the change.” I try to tip well—I’ve learned a little extra generosity goes farther than you can imagine, even if it’s not genuine. If you don’t feel it, fake it. Just make sure to fake it well. You never know when you may need a boost or a favor. For that exact reason I play nice as much as I can, on the outside at least. I’ve learned to play the game. Well.

  “Thanks, Aidan.” I should learn his name soon since he appears to remember mine. Though it’s probably a rule instituted by the wait staff, to know the frequent flyers. I’m sure it works as well as my tactics. Be nice, get nice in return.

  “Any fresh meat tonight?”

  “A few ladies I haven’t seen before, some young beauties on the dance floor. I think you’ll do just fine.” Exactly what I like to hear.

  “Wonderful. Will you send Sheila over with another Jack in a few?”

  “Of course. Have fun.” He lifts his brows with an air of simple masculine camaraderie, acknowledging my attempt at conquest, and moves to help the other paying customers scattered along the lengthy bar.

  I’m not much of a dancer. I’m not terrible, but I’m not far either. I generally avoid the dance floor until I’ve had a few drinks, and the skirt I’m chasing has as well. For this reason I make my way to a high-top about halfway between the loud, sweaty dance floor and the overcrowded bar. I enjoy sitting at these specific tables because they give me an excellent vantage point—in the middle of the traffic venturing between both destinations.

  The more often I see a girl go by me, to or from the bar, the better chance I have of her coming home with me for a night.

  I down several more stiff drinks, one after another. As I look around I spot a potential. Her hair is short, about to her chin, while her eyes are a tad glazed over. I let my gaze wander down to her skirt. It’s as short as her hair.

  Bingo.

  Sheila comes over with simply phenomenal timing as Miss Nearly Skirtless walks by me on her way to the bar. Sheila sets my Jack on the table with a brilliant smile as I point to Skirtless. Both see my gesture, but I have to almost yell over the music.

  “Another of whatever she has been having too, please. On my tab.” Did my speech slur together? The words pass, and I’m not sure. At least they were lo
ud enough.

  Sheila’s amazing at her job. I often wonder why she hasn’t moved onto better things. She only nods, bouncing her ample cleavage, turning on her heel back to the bar.

  “Well, well, well. What a gentleman. Thank you. I’ve been buying all my own drinks tonight. That’s just not right.” As she sits down in the other chair at my table I can smell the sugary liquor on her breath. Her big, blue eyes are clearly having a hard time staying focused. I’m interested in more than her eyes.

  Her lips are incredibly full, pouty, and her blouse plunges to her navel before connecting with her impossibly short black skirt. Sheila drops off the second drink, winking.

  This should be easier than I’d hoped.

  “That’s a damn shame. We’ll change that right now.”

  Easy and fucking hot. She can’t be more than 110 pounds soaking wet. And I want her soaking wet.

  “What’s-your name? Mr. Ten I bet.” The slight slur in her pronunciation adds fuel to the fire that’s starting to burn below the belt.

  “Aidan, actually. Yours?” Her glazed eyes never stray from mine. Hook.

  “I’m Melody, though I can’t sing for beans. Isn’t that just unfair?” As her hair falls into her sight line I take the split-second opportunity to distract her.

  Leaning in to whisper in her ear, I simultaneously slide my hand up her smooth creamy leg to the hem of her skirt. “I bet I could make you hit the right notes.” My smile’s anything but gentlemanly. Line.

  “I dare you.” Sinker.

  “Be careful what you wish for. I’ve never turned down a dare.” I let my fingers slide past the hem, up her inner thigh. I can feel the alcohol seeping into my system. It’s pushing me to be more brazen. But I couldn’t care less about the consequences that’ll follow these actions. All I can think about is the warmth my fingers are being drawn toward.

  “Then I double dog dare you,” she says, just as bold. And I’ll never turn away from encouragement. Her legs part a fraction of an inch, giving me just enough space to meet my intended destination.

  With the go-ahead I have zero inhibitions left. If I ever had any, I’m not entirely sure.

  “Do you want me to fuck you right here in plain view of everyone? Or would you rather I fuck your brains out at my place instead?” Her gasp is loud as I lay out her options.

  “How ’bout you show me what you can do with those fingers. Make me wanna go home with you.”

  “Can do.” My two-word agreement is nearly all gravel in her ear. I slide my unoccupied hand into her hair, turning her mouth to mine.

  There’s no tenderness in the way my tongue enters her hot mouth. Pure lust courses between us. That’s the way I enjoy it. She edges closer to my hand below the table, leaving her round ass on the edge of her stool.

  Teasing is fun, so I refuse to give into her needs just yet. Instead I trail my fingernails along her inner thigh. I make little circular patterns up and down her leg each time, inching closer to where she’s begging me to stroke, but I make her wait. My tongue is on a mission of its own as I drive her near insane with my movements along her leg.

  “Please.” Her begging is almost enough for me to bend her over the table right here, right now. On the other hand, I’d prefer not getting arrested.

  “My place. Now.” This isn’t a request, question, or inquiry. It’s a command, and Melody takes no issue with being told what to do. All she does is nod, hopping off the stool, following behind me.

  Once we’re to my front door I hand Melody my keys to let us in. Standing behind her, both of my hands trace the lines I was driving her insane with before. Her thighs are so smooth and warm. Her ass is firm, and it’s at the perfect height to grind into me. This is my kind of heaven. Dirty.

  Finally, I end her torture, finding the crease of her lips with both hands.

  “Fuck. Crotchless panties? You dirty girl.” My words are scarcely more than air. I see the goose bumps form on the back of her neck.

  “I’m a naughty girl. Punish me.” She hasn’t even attempted to unlock the door as she’s clearly enjoying my touch. She’s soaking my fingers and her inner thighs.

  “I’ll teach you a lesson.” Without warning I rip her skirt up over her cheeks, exposing it to the crisp air. In the same motion, without pausing, I swing my open palm back for momentum, slapping her porcelain skin with a loud crack.

  “Shit.” Her curse is a moan, followed by a loud exhale as she struggles to insert the key.

  Fumbling, tripping over each other, we somehow make our way into the living room. Without hesitation I bend her over the back of the couch, tearing her panties in two pieces.

  “Oops.” My apology sounds more like a self-congratulatory boast, but she isn’t complaining about it or the damaged clothing while I unzip.

  “I can’t wait any longer. Fuck me. Fuck me hard,” she yells.

  I debate making her beg, for about half a second, before responding instead with, “Abso-fucking-lutely,” as I thrust inside her. Hard, quick. Her hips come back to meet mine with every assault as I continue pounding into her. Before long her legs begin to lose tension while her moans strengthen.

  My hands circle around her neck, squeezing tightly as I build toward my own release. Behind my closed eyes I see black, then stars. My breath is rapid as Melody seems to be protesting something. Her struggle becomes more evident. With a little delay I understand her throat’s constricted by my fingers.

  She’d probably like to breathe.

  It’s all too much, and I finish. Sputtering as I release her, Melody’s turned a few shades darker than the last time I looked down. Expecting her to unleash on my unexpected behavior, I pull out of her warmth, taking two sudden steps backward after coming inside her.

  Her short locks are clinging to her sweaty pink face as she spins around as well.

  “That…may be…the best lay I’ve ever had.” Okay, definitely not what I expected.

  “I didn’t mean to choke you. Sorry I got a little overzealous.”

  “No, don’t be. You can fuck me like that any time you want.” She may have bruises tomorrow that she’ll not be as excited about. Especially after sobering up.

  At a loss for words, all I can think to do is smile, shrugging. With a swipe of her brow Melody leans down to pick up her torn lingerie.

  “Thanks for a fabulous time, Sweet Cheeks.” Her heels click on the hardwood floor as she makes her way to my front door. She only pauses for a second to put the remnants of her panties on the inside of my door handle and to blow me a kiss before slipping out of my house. In a matter of seconds she’s left me standing next to my sofa with a dumbfounded look plastered on my face, my softening dick hanging out of my zipper.

  “What the hell just happened?”

  ****

  Knives scratch down my body, leaving lines of blood on otherwise pristine skin. I’m surprised I don’t scream in protest. Instead bubbles of laughter burst from between my lips. In what world is this funny? I’m being tortured by a crazed stranger. That shouldn’t be funny.

  But for some reason it is. It’s fucking hilarious.

  “You think this hurts? I could do better than this.”

  What did I just say? I could hurt someone better than this? Whoa.

  Deep in my belly I can feel the statement rings true. I utter one last sentence before steeling myself to grin and bear whatever pain is in store for me: “Give me everything you’ve got.”

  The psychotic does. I can feel each slash to my flesh; each one sends a tingle up my spine in a way that excites me.

  ****

  With a jolt I wake from terrifying dreams. I can just tell I look horrible, because I feel about as bad. I need reassurance. I need grounding. It was only a dream. I reach a hand into the drawer of my nightstand. The cool metal of a sharp knife reminds me I’m safe. I’m protected.

  After fully waking and calming, I forget what was so terrifying. It’s buried back into my unconscious. My thoughts move to my cock and the enjoy
ment it had last night. I can’t stop thinking about my adventure with Melody. If every night could be like the last, each with different women, I’d find my heaven.

  Well, up in the pearly gates I bet there aren’t hangovers. As my head pounds I neglect to shower, deciding against coffee too. Just the thought of the aroma makes my stomach churn.

  I will not vomit at work today.

  As usual the drive is quick, painless. Though sunglasses are hardly necessary, I don a pair to block the harsh, gray, clouded light filtering through my windshield. In my building the clunking of the elevator threatens to pierce my head as well as my nerves, but I exit on my floor in time to keep my temper in check. I certainly don’t need any blowups today. Thankfully the ride was solitary, which is rarely the case.

  Goddamn hangover. I should’ve stopped at three drinks.

  I will not vomit at work today.

  Fuck, I know better. Any more than three drinks on a weeknight is asking for a problem. I asked and I received. But thinking back to her once more, Jesus, this nausea is well worth it for everything I got last night.

  Slumping into my desk chair, I wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to bend Melody over any of the other surfaces in my house. Any time soon would be preferable.

  With a start, I’m pulled from my momentary fantasy by none other than Miss Bitch knocking on my doorframe.

  “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you this morning?” There’ve been many times in my life I’ve been thankful no one can read my thoughts, and every time I’ve been around Eva since her theft of my promotion is on that list. I may stay civil, professional, in my actions and spoken words, but that bitch receives constant murderous commentary between every utterance. She’d shrink away if she could hear what I actually think about her.

  She’s just a pretty face attached to a soulless cunt.

  “Do you think you’ll be finished with the reports by lunch?” Of course, you dumb whore. I finished them yesterday. But since she doubts my abilities, and my memory, I think she can wait.