by Liza James
I'm not ignorant to her pain. I simply don't care enough to fix it.
In fact, I enjoy it. Her discomfort, her lack of validation and false confidence. In every hateful glimpse she surrenders to me, I take exactly what I want from it. Her pain.
Instantly, Trevor runs up behind Lyp with a guitar in his hand. I don't know where the fuck he found it, but he did and now he's passing it over to the owner of the bar just before he lifts her on to the stage. She stumbles back, and a few people in the crowd both laugh or gasp before she catches herself.
She bows with a sweet giggle from her lips as if she's owning the falter. But I can see the droplets of sweat building on her skin as she takes the guitar from the man. I’m already noticing the slight tremor in her hands while she fumbles to pull the guitar in front of her frame.
I can sense her fear in being the center of attention. Which is ironic, really. Because she's a fucking stripper. She literally takes her clothes off for the entertainment of others. She holds a power so many others fail to grasp on to. She's confident when she dances, when she's naked and teasing the audience over and over and over again.
But this? This is different, and I can feel the tension building whether I want to or not. She's like a black hole. This ever present abyss I'm being pulled into. I feel her when she's around, whether she realizes it or not. I sense it the second she steps into a room, or her voice rings out above everyone else's.
I feel her. Everywhere. In my head. In my blood. In my past and future.
I can't get away from her.
"This is fucking embarrassing," I say, loudly enough for Lyp to hear me. The bitter bite to my words rings through her ears. I know, because the second I say it, Lyp's eyes fly to my own and widen just a bit. I watch the wash of red work a few inches higher on her cheeks and for a split second, I think I see the glare of tears brimming in her eyes.
But she glances down just as quickly, and instantly it's as if she's found every ounce of confidence she was searching for. Because suddenly, her shoulders press back and her spine stands a bit taller. Her shaky hands steady and she closes her eyes while her fingers feel along the strings up the neck of her guitar.
There she is.
The words bounce through my mind far quicker than I can fight them and I visibly shake my head before taking a sip of my drink to distract myself from them.
She strums the guitar, and the very second the sound vibrates through the air, I feel the energy change around me.
Everything shifts. It's magnified, amplified in waves of tension and enticement.
I force my eyes to stay locked on my hands in front of me, deliberately tracing the edges of my tattoos with my gaze. Each one stretching across my fingers, or climbing over my forearm until it continues up my bicep.
She strums again, a new chord. A new sound. A new and entirely addictive vibration rings through me. It plays along my blood in melodic beats and my foot taps against the floor intentionally off of her music because I can't help but try and fucking fight this.
"I had this friend when I was young," she speaks quietly, her tone a gentle wave complimenting her ghostly music. It's enchanting, and it scrapes against my skin in uncomfortable stabs that I wish I could escape. "We were close. Incredibly close." A giggle, one that falls short and twists into something painful. I can't fucking help it; I turn my head toward her and realize she's staring directly at me.
I'm surprised truthfully. She's always been the complacent one, the girl who doesn't want conflict or arguments. She goes with the flow and adjusts to everyone else's needs before prioritizing herself.
"She took something from me," she continues, in an almost vacant voice, and an icy wave of goosebumps breaks out across my skin. The air turns cold, and my fidgeting hands immediately still at what I think she's alluding to. "It's funny because I would have given it to her. But she couldn't wait."
She falls silent but continues playing. The melody turns a bit darker and haunted, but I'm stuck now. I'm completely enraptured in the sound of the strings and the way her fingers move along the frets. I'm already drawn to her energy, but this is even more than that. It's her wild hair and outrageous outfits, it's the glitter on her skin, or the iridescent cast to her clothing. It's the way she opposes me in every single aspect, and yet has the fucking balls to stare me in the face while she accuses me of this.
"She's a fucking cunt." Her words slice through the air and incinerate my blood, her gaze remains locked on my own and I'm shocked at her fucking audacity. Is she fucking kidding right now? She leads into a song she's clearly written, instrumental, but just as powerful as if it had words.
So, I do what I always do. I react in the same ways I know infect her mind just as she does to me.
I slam down the rest of my drink just as the waitress comes back to our table. She's short, bright red hair cut to her shoulders and not at all my usual type. But she doesn't need to be, she just needs to stand there and look pretty while I make my point.
Her eyes fall to mine and just as she opens her mouth to ask about my empty glass, I lean forward and wrap my hand around her throat. I quickly drag her toward me and claim her mouth with my own before she has a chance to object. But she doesn't even try to, her lips move against mine a second later, her frame melting against my own when I slide my other hand to the back of her neck while we kiss.
That's when I hear it; when I know Lyp clearly sees what's happening. It's the missed string when she plays, the barely noticeable falter in her rhythm. I open my eyes when I pull back and am not surprised when they collide directly with Lyp's. She's watching, and instead of that simmering red that had tainted her skin, she's now ghostly white and her brows have pinched together in what looks to be frustration. Her mouth has flattened into a tight line and I can only bet that all those fucking shots she's been taking are working their way up her throat right now.
I fucking hope so.
I release the waitress with a small shove away from me and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. "Yeah, I'll take another drink."
She stands there for a moment, clearly surprised and confused by what happened. I can't blame her, but that doesn't stop the minor swell of annoyance rising in my chest at the fact that she's still standing here staring at me. "Go," I bite out, and turn my head back to Ruby as the waitress hurries away. Lyp is still playing the guitar, but something is falling flat now.
The fall out of our mutual anger. The disintegration of the build-up. It's tainted with bitter regret and angry retaliation.
How the fuck could she accuse me of that? I know exactly what she's referring to. The last day we spent together after hurrying home from school together. We went to the same fucking place, every day because we couldn't hide out at my house and we definitely couldn't run away to hers. Our families were opposites, hers the wealthy, upstanding citizens in our city while mine were struggling to make their mortgage payments. We were behind on everything, and after my mom died, my father–Bruce–and my brother dove deeper into illegal activities in order to keep us under one roof.
I wish it hadn't worked. I wish I had been taken from that fucking home when I was younger.
But it felt right. I swear to fuck it did. She wanted it just as badly as I did.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ruby's harsh voice breaks out and pulls my attention. My eyes swing up to hers and I find her leaning closer to me across the table. "Seriously? What is your problem with Caly?"
"I don't have a problem with her. She's fucking irrelevant. She's nothing," I reply, taking another sip of my new drink as soon as it's placed in front of me. I don't spare the waitress a second glance and pity her instead for standing there a beat too long as if I'll pay attention to her.
"She's nothing," Ruby repeats, but her voice is lined with disbelief. "Yeah, fucking right, she's nothing. I've never seen you this heated over one of the club girls."
I narrow my eyes and cross my arms in front of me on the table. "I don't give a fuck about
her, or any of the girls at Pandora's. You know me, I don't care about anyone."
"How long have you fed yourself that bullshit, K?" she asks, and my eyes fall away from her sharp gaze while everyone breaks out in applause around us. Lyp jumps down from the stage and passes the guitar to the owner of the bar. She smiles sweetly and turns back to the crowd, stepping through everyone while she makes her way back toward Trevor.
I can't help it; my eyes stay glued to her swiftly moving frame. To the way her light hair bounces across her shoulders and her hips sway with each step. She moves past Trevor though and points to the restrooms at the back of the bar before continuing away from everyone.
Before I even realize what I'm doing, I stand. I kick my chair back and take a step away from the table as I respond to Ruby's question. "Long enough to fucking believe it."
God, I want to throw up. I feel sick. I feel disgusting. All those familiar feelings came rushing back while I played and watched K kiss someone else.
Why was that any different than what I've seen before? Hell, earlier tonight she was literally fucking two other girls when I walked in on them. So why this? Why is a fucking kiss hurting me like it is?
It has to be the alcohol, the drugs, the rush of playing the guitar again. That part felt good, so fucking good. That was what I needed, a reminder of what lights me on fire when nothing else can reach inside of me. It's the beat of the music, the feel of the strings as they vibrate with each strum. It's the way my fingers move across the fret, the neck of the guitar resting peacefully in my hold.
That's what I want to keep doing. I want to be on the stage for a different fucking reason.
But stripping is as close as I can get. The rush of the audience is different than what I felt tonight... but it's something. And in this moment, something is all I have.
Nausea rolls through my stomach as I rest my hands against the dingy counter in the bathroom. Dim lighting flickers above and casts shadows on the dark walls around me. Random images and pages from countless magazines are plastered across the walls as decoration.
I grind my teeth together, squeezing my eyes tightly shut while I try to force down the next wave of nausea before it hits. I'm too fucking drunk, and too fucking high. And too fucked in the head to keep my shit together. I twist the handle and let cold water spill in front of me. Diving my hands under the faucet, I lift them and splash my face with the icy shock.
"Come on, come on," I mumble to myself. "Get it together, Lyp." I mentally slap myself for even using that nick name and then groan out in frustration at how she's gotten this far under my fucking skin.
Suddenly, the door swings open and the atmosphere chills. I don't even bother turning around, instead I glance up and find K's reflection staring back at me in the mirror. I can't help it, a smile spreads across my lips while a resentful laugh slips from my mouth. We fall silent for a moment, our gazes locked on each other while my heartbeat begins pounding in my chest.
The nausea swells, and I mentally force it down because there's no way I'm puking in front of K like this. I'm already the vulnerable one in her eyes, the weak one. Funny, she doesn't fucking know me anymore.
"What the fuck do you want?" I ask, breaking the tension with the most obvious question. She says nothing though and simply stares at me a beat longer. My eyes fall to her outfit, typical K. So much fucking darkness. She was always like that, complimenting her ominous thoughts, her sinister soul in the color suited best.
Black. Black jeans. Black boots. Black, ripped up graphic tees.
And then her hair. Long wisps of blonde. A filthy shade, honestly; one I was always jealous of when we were young.
My eyes travel up across her slender figure and over her chest to her slim neck, her face—her fucking lips.
I'm not into girls. Not anymore.
But those goddamn lips. My eyes settle there, not because I want them to, but because I can't fucking help it. Time escapes me and everything slows. Her tongue slips out of her mouth and slides along her full, lower lip. Fuck me.
Flashes of our past flood my head. Words and moments that spiral through my memory like whips and lashes.
Energy. Connection. Collision. Destruction.
How can something this wrong, this fucking toxic, feel like it does? Even now, even between all this anger and hatred—I feel it.
This draw of unity. The aching desire to touch her. I look at her and want to claim her pain as my own, and in the same breath, want to feel her body against mine.
She steps forward and I straighten my spine. My eyes meet hers again, but I'm so drunk and high that it takes every ounce to force my balance. She keeps moving toward me, until her chest is pressed against my back and she's hovering over my shoulder. She's a few inches taller than me, and her energy has always been heavy against my own. So, in an instant, I'm already feeling suffocated.
"Come to take it again, K? The same thing you took years ago?" I whisper, my eyes locked on hers through the reflection of the mirror.
My heart races and my skin aches with both discomfort and that vile draw I have toward her. I want distance between us, I can't have her this fucking close.
I don't trust her.
Her hand slides up and over my shoulder, slowly, meticulously. The second her skin touches mine, I feel it. It's electric, and the power behind it knows no years of isolation like my mind does. I suck in a breath and force my eyes to stay on hers, but she shifts her gaze as it falls to the tip of her finger. She trails it over my collar bone, her nail lightly scratching my skin as she presses a little harder.
"I always take what I want," she whispers, her voice a low and raspy sound as her lips brush against the back of my ear. She grazes her touch up the front of my throat and her other hand weaves into my hair before I can stop her. Quickly, she yanks my head to the side so my neck is extended in front of her. "Because it's always belonged to me."
"K—" I start, as I lift my hand to push her away from me. But she's quicker, and in that movement, her own hand has dropped to my wrist as she pins it against my leg.
Her lips fall to the side of my neck, at the lower curve that meets my shoulder and I want nothing but to kill her for even touching me like this again. "Fuck you," I bite out, but my body doesn't respond in the ways I want it to. "I fucking hate you." I use my words because my shoulder falls lower and my head tilts even farther. This isn't supposed to be happening, and I'm never the one out of control like this, at least not anymore.
I should have never gotten this drunk, or this high. I'm not strong enough to fight this away at the moment.
Suddenly, her tongue slides out and against my heated skin. Her hand slips out of my hair and to the front of my throat while she holds me in place. Her fingers tighten around my jaw, and my eyes watch our bodies move in the mirror in front of us. Her tattooed fingers against my creamy skin. Her darker blonde mixing with my lighter shade.
Our energies, our anger, our hatred all melding together in one mixed masterpiece of regret.
She slowly slides her tongue up and over my neck, savoring every inch of my skin while I suck in a breath. I bite my lower lip to stop the smallest moan from slipping free. No fucking way. Not like this, she doesn't get to have this again.
But she steps back and releases her hold on me before I get to tell her to fuck off, and the tiniest stab of disappointment lingers in my blood. So, I stay silent, while she stalks backwards and keeps her eyes on me.
She lifts her thumb and slowly brushes it along her rosy, lower lip. "You still taste the same." She pauses, turning and stepping toward the door as she pulls it open. At the last second, she glances back over her shoulder and takes one last stab before she leaves.
"Like unnecessary problems and a waste of time."
"What the hell happened, Caly?" Trevor's deep, rough voice reverberates through the space of my bedroom but I'm hardly paying attention to what he's saying. I don't fucking care. I just want to feel something. I want a release.
I want to get off.
"Shut the fuck up and lay back, Trev." My hands fall to his shoulders as I push him down on my bed. My head is heavy, swimming with toxic thoughts and self-hatred. I should have never let her fucking touch me. I should have known she would try and get that close.
But god, everything is on fire. My blood, my mind, my soul. It's burning inside of me like an uncontrollable blaze of addictive desire.
My hands reach for his jeans, immediately releasing the button and unzipping before quickly pulling them down his legs. His eyes are wide, surprise and uncertainty lingering on his face. But there's desire present as well, and I already know he's hard in his tight briefs. I can see him, his long and thick cock already eager to fill me.
I'm fucking ready too, and as he opens his mouth to probably ask what happened for the millionth time, I move to straddle his lap and hope to distract him. I sit back, while he leans up on his elbows and watches me.
This part is easy, the temptation. The entertainment. The show.
This is what I'm good at. And he did give me that ride home, I'm just taking a bit farther than the blow job I anticipated.
I drop my hands to the hem of my T-shirt and slowly lift it up and over my head. It falls to the floor beside us, and I sit on top of him in my white scrappy bra from earlier. My hands graze along the waistband of my sweats, teasing them a little lower while I rock my hips across his stiff cock.
"Are you sure you want—" he starts. Again. And I try to hide the irritation blatant in my face when I cover his mouth with my hand.
"Stop talking and fuck me, Trevor."
Thankfully, that's the last bit of direction he needs and suddenly his hands are on my hips and he's moving my body against his own. We fuck each other through our clothes, and I fall forward when he leans back so I'm hovering over the top of him.
His hands slide up the front of my chest, his thumbs brushing along my nipples while he groans beneath me. That sound, I don't know what it is, but I don't love it and it throws me off my need to feel him inside of me for a moment.
