Dorian (Book 1)

by Carlos Dash

  Dorian

  Part 1

  By

  Carlos Dash

  Copyright © Carlos Dash

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission

  Cover design by Cormar Covers

  Warning: This book contains strong sexual content and language

  The events and characters described in the pages within are all works of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Note to the reader

  Before we begin, let me explain the writing style of the story you’re about to read.

  This particular genre has many fans, and most of you have probably grown accustomed to reading these kinds of tales from the female point of view, as written by a female author.

  This is going to be a slightly different experience.

  I’m a male author, and this story will be told entirely from the point of view of the male protagonist. As such, you will notice that the prose I use is slightly different from what you’re used to.

  Nevertheless, I hope you take to the change in style without much difficulty and enjoy reading the pages ahead.

  Carlos Dash

  Intro

  Every once in a while, you’ll see two people who are meant to fall in love. Everything flows perfectly for them. Imaginary birds are flying around their heads and singing love songs to them. Other couples are walking by and becoming jealous at how in love the two people are. It’s all constantly wonderful and gooey.

  Then there are people who aren’t supposed to end up together but do so anyway. They fight fate and destiny, if those two things actually exist. They fall in love with each other even though that isn’t part of life’s plan.

  I’m not sure which category Emily and I belong to.

  Sometimes I think it’s the former. Sometimes I think it’s the latter. It all depends on what mood I’m in.

  But at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the fact that we have love on our side.

  As for whether that love was preordained or something that we brought about through sheer force of will, I’ll let you decide that for yourself.

  My name is Dorian Alexander, and this is a story about a girl who would change my life forever.

  Chapter 1

  A guy walks into a bar.

  That’s the start of every bad joke that your friends have ever told you, but for me it’s a reality.

  I don’t want to go in there. I really don’t. But I don’t have much of a choice.

  Don’t worry, it’s not as if someone has a gun to my head. Nothing like that.

  The problem is that I’m just human, and as a human I have the same weaknesses that we all do: the need to eat, drink, etc.

  Another such weakness is the overwhelming desire to discharge copious amounts of sexual energy.

  A less sophisticated way to say that would be to admit that I’m really horny.

  Even for someone with an active sex life, that sort of thing can happen from time to time. You can get so focused on your job that you don’t even realize it’s been weeks since you last had sex. The tension will build up inside of you until you’ll start having difficulty focusing on your work. You might not even be able to do normal everyday things.

  Once that happens, you know what has to be done.

  That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m at this bar. The situation I just described is the one I’m in. I need to get laid. Pronto.

  My plan is to go into the bar, meet some pretty girl, convince her to come back to my place with me, and then… well, you can figure out the rest, can’t you?

  It’s a simple enough plan, and since I’ve successfully scored at this same place many times before, I’m not too worried. Failure is not an option. I can’t leave empty-handed, and I’m sure I won’t. I’m certain that my night will end with me having my cock buried in some woman whose name I won’t remember the next day.

  Now I just have to go inside the place. I’ve been hesitating to do so for about five or ten minutes. It isn’t because I’m nervous. I’m not. People like me don’t get nervous. I just don’t like crowded places. All the people screaming and laughing at the top of their voices… Call me an anti-social workaholic if you want, but being surrounded by so many drunken strangers isn’t my idea of a good time.

  But I can’t linger in the parking lot forever. Sooner or later I’m going to have to go in.

  Might as well get it over with.

  There’s a pleasant chill in the air as I stand outside the door to the place—through which I can hear light music and plenty of loud chatter.

  I sigh, square my shoulders, and move forward.

  I’m in.

  It isn’t a very upscale place, but it’s far from being a dump. I chose it because I knew it would to appeal to the middleclass, and that’s the sort of joint you would expect to have the largest number of loose chicks.

  There are no bouncers or security guards around, so I stop for only the briefest of moments—observing the packed area in front of me—before walking towards the main counter of the bar. I plant myself on an empty barstool, my fingers brushing against the wooden surface of the counter.

  Hardly a few seconds pass by before one of the bartenders notices my presence and approaches me. He has his oily hair tied back in a short ponytail, and his black t-shirt looks like it was stolen from the back of a ten year old.

  I mean that. The thing is so tight that it’s a miracle he hasn’t burst free of yet like The Incredible Hulk.

  Ladies, no man in the history of civilization has ever “accidently” bought a shirt that was too small for him. If you see a male who’s dressed like that, he’s doing it because he wants to make his muscles look bigger.

  This guy needs to stop shopping in the kid’s section.

  Chapter 2

  “What will you have?” the bartender asks me, looking mildly interested at best.

  I don’t need to think about my answer. “I’ll have half a glass of scotch,” I say to the guy, who scrunches up his face like he was just asked the square root of a large number.

  “What do you mean half a glass?”

  I shrug my shoulders. How could I have been any clearer?

  “Half a glass. Like you stop pouring once the liquid reaches the middle of the glass.”

  “I know that,” he says like I’m the stupid one. “I just don’t understand if that’s all you want or if you want me to mix the drink with something else.”

  “Nope. Just the scotch.” The bartender still looks like he’s been clubbed over the head with a bat, so I sigh and try to explain further. “I came here alone. I’m my own designated driver, so I can’t drink more than half a glass.”

  “Oh, okay. I get it now.”

  Praise the lord!

  The bartender turns away and walks to other side of the counter. He locates a large bottle full of an amber-colored liquid and brings it back towards me. He places the bottle on the counter and bends down to grab a glass. As he does this, I can’t help but notice the strain being put on his Baby Gap t-shirt. I expect it to tear a little, but the thing prevails, probably very close to life support.

  The bartender places the glass next to the bottle of scotch, and then follows my instructions. He slides the glass towards me and tells me how much I owe him. I pay up and begin to sip down my drink at a leisurely pace.

  Yes, I know “sip” isn’t a word a man should ever use (At least not a straight man), but that’s the only word I can think of to describe what I’m doing. I’m sipping. Sipping while I pivot a little on the barstool and examine wha
t’s going on inside of the bar.

  There are a lot of women in here. I just need to find the right one.

  And by right one, I mean someone who looks really easy.

  Yes, I know that’s not the sort of behavior Prince Charming would be proud of, but I never said I was an angel. No one’s perfect.

  There’s a pretty blonde in one corner of the bar talking to a man she seems really into. Perhaps I can dislodge her from him, but is it really worth the effort? Probably not.

  The blonde has a black-haired friend who’s casually drifting near the conversation. I can tell from her expression that she feels like a third wheel.

  Perfect. She’ll do just fine.

  Whoa. Hold on.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something that instantly catches my interest. There are a bunch of guys gathered around someone. They seem really excited about the situation. Unless they’re having an impromptu circle-jerk, they’re doing this because there’s an exceptionally pretty girl in the middle of the pack.

  Whoever she is, she’s hidden from my view at the moment.

  Come on, you idiots. Move!

  Ah, there we go. That’s more like it.

  One of the guys around her shifts out of the way, allowing me to see her features properly.

  My heartbeat increases at the sight of her beauty. I can feel the blood rushing to my penis.

  A gorgeous redhead. I’ve never slept with a redhead before. I wonder if the carpet matches the drapes.

  Her short hair reaches her shoulders and ends in different lengths—either she tried to give herself a haircut and really screwed the pooch, or she had it done professionally and this is some hip, edgy new style.

  Target acquired.

  I drain the rest of my drink in one quick gulp and get to my feet. It takes me about thirty steps to reach the scene. Most of the men there don’t even notice me until I’m pushing past a few of them. It was either this, or stand outside the circle and jump up and down, waving my hands to get the brunette’s attention—and do you really think I would consider that? I would rather start flirting with a barstool than make an ass of myself.

  The men who were trying to hit on the redhead seem very ruffled by my presence. Can’t blame them for that. I’m a threat to the goal that each of them has. They all want to go home with the redhead, and so do I.

  Unless she’s into some freaky stuff, only one of us isn’t going to be disappointed.

  I ignore their angry glares and look the redhead right in her green eyes. “Sorry to bother you,” I say, keeping my tone flat and emotionless. “I just came over here to tell you that I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. That’s all. Have a good night.”

  And then I turn around and get out of there.

  I don’t look back even once.

  Smooth.

  Chapter 3

  I can feel it. I can feel the hatred from those men being directed at my back. But I don’t care about those jackasses.

  As if they wouldn’t have done the same thing if they knew it would work.

  And yes, I do know my strategy will work.

  I know that within the next three minutes that redhead will be walking towards me, her curiosity getting the better of her. She won’t be able to help herself. Her mind will already have my face and my words imprinted into its deepest corners. No one will have ever talked to her like that, and she isn’t going to want the first guy to do so to leave her sight.

  Of course I’m lying about that most-beautiful-girl-I’ve-ever-seen nonsense, but don’t judge me too harshly. I did what I had to do. I said what I had to say. And she is quite attractive, so it’s not like I’m trying to pass off a molehill as a mountain. It’s just a little white lie. It won’t hurt anyone… other than those guys who probably want to punch a wall because I stole away the redhead right from under their noses.

  I return to the barstool and face the counter like I just want to be left alone. I’m sure the redhead is watching me.

  Give it a moment. She’ll be here. I won’t even be keeping an eye out for her. She’ll come to me. She’ll realize that those other men simply can’t compare to the handsome stranger who just gave her the best compliment of her life.

  “Hey.”

  It’s a female voice speaking from very close by.

  I turn and look up. Right on schedule, it’s the redhead.

  Hey,” I reply.

  Not the most articulate start to a conversation, but that doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a riveting discussion. I’m looking to get laid.

  “Is this seat taken?” the redhead lightly jerks her head in the direction of the barstool closest to me, which is completely vacant.

  Unless she has really terrible vision, she already knows the answer to that question. She just wants to break the ice.

  “Nope. All yours.”

  She smiles at me and then turns on her high heels and walks the very short distance to the barstool, moving her behind as much as possible.

  And what a behind it is. Flawless.

  No one walks that way accidently. She wanted me to see that. She wanted my eyes fixed onto her rear-end.

  Damn. That was fast. I just got here and things are already looking promising.

  “What happened to your friends?”

  “Who, those guys I was talking to? Oh, they weren’t my friends. Just some bozos who were hitting on me.”

  Ha. I bet she didn’t mind that those “bozos” were practically drooling over her.

  But now they’re old news. She wants to forget about the sheep and focus on the lion in the room.

  “How come I’ve never seen you in here before?” the redhead asks me, sitting down on the barstool and then adjusting her position so that she’s looking directly at me.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. And I know that I would definitely remember you.”

  “Seriously, are you new to town?”

  “Somewhat new. I moved here about eight months ago.”

  “Really? To do what?” She puts an elbow on the counter of the bar and props her head onto her palm. “People don’t just move to the middle of Virginia for the fun of it. Why are you here? Not that I’m complaining, of course. It’s nice to see a new face around here, for once.”

  This is going to be even easier than I thought. The prospect of sex is being handed to me on a silver platter. All I have to do is not screw it up.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m here because of my work,” I inform the redhead. “I was hired by the PR firm of Reed and Gideon, so I had to relocate.”

  The woman’s eyes widen. It doesn’t surprise me at all that she’s heard of the company. It’s the most well-known Public Relations outfit on the east coast, so she would have had to been in a coma for the last ten years to be unfamiliar with the name. We specialize in politicians and people who can call themselves the right hands of politicians. Senators. Congressmen. Those types of bluebloods. If they have a shit-storm on their hands, more often than not, we’re the ones they turn to for help.

  Hmm. Let me guess what’s on your mind now: you just reread the part where I said I work for a PR firm, so you’re assuming I look like something that crawled out from underneath your kitchen sink—terrible acne, an outdated haircut, glasses that look like they were stolen from the set of Revenge of the Nerds. After all, isn’t that what PR reps are famous for—being smooth talkers who aren’t very pleasant to look at themselves, but are the mouthpieces for people who are actually good-looking.

  Here’s the reality of the situation: My skin is soft and smooth. My straight hair is cut in a way that perfectly suits the bone structure of my face. And I’ve never worn glasses in my life.

  In my own personal opinion—and I’m not trying to toot my own horn or come across as a braggart—I’m a good-looking guy. I never had much trouble getting women to come home with me, so it seems members of the opposite sex agree with that.

  Anyway, back to the redhead.
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  “Reed and Gideon, huh? Fancy,” she says in appreciation. “What do you do there?”

  What do I do there? It’s a PR firm. What does she think I do there, flip burgers?

  Okay, so she isn’t very bright. That isn’t an issue. It’s not like I’m going to be quizzing her about eighteenth century literature while we have sex.

  “Oh, a little of this. A little of that. But I’m one of the top people there despite my age.”

  “Get out of here,” she says, grinning.

  I’d like to. With you.

  “I’m serious. I don’t even think it would be a big stretch for me to say that I’m one of the best in my field in all of America.”

  The redhead purses her lips. That’s always a good sign from a woman. It means she’s thinking about what it would be like to kiss you.

  I have her eating out of the palm of my hand. I’ve been let in through the gate. Now I just need to gain access to the house.

  “If that’s true, you must be a very hard worker.” I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I could have sworn the redhead’s voice became huskier as she said that. “You don’t look like you’re more than thirty,” she continues.

  “Close. I’m twenty-eight. But give it some time and I’m sure someone younger and more talented than me will pop up.”

  “Modest and handsome. Interesting combination. Most of the good-looking guys around here are complete jerks.”

  I nod at her. “Good to know.”

  A woman complaining to you about other men is also a good sign.

  The redhead leans forward a little, getting closer to me. “I get the feeling that you don’t have an ounce of jerk in you. Am I wrong?”

  Now that’s a question I’ve never been asked before.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think every guy has a little bit of jerk in him. It’s just in our nature.”