Brutally Beautiful(37)

The whites of her eyes became bigger, but I didn’t feel remorse. I felt completely nothing. All right, I lied. I felt like throwing her body out of the window, because she wasn’t moving fast enough.

The woman dressed quickly, trying to do so seductively, but I was too busy pretending to look at my phone and the empty inbox of messages I had, to watch her. I’d already had my fun with her, well just one certain part of her, and that’s all I needed. She was the one that propositioned me, at the grocery store, no less. I was just a willing dick. The only reason I said yes was because of her dark black hair that allowed me to pretend she was someone else. Sick, yes? Yeah, and that was why I was holding said bottle of whiskey to my lips. Open. Insert liquor. Forget. Repeat until you could look in the mirror again.

“Will you call me? Maybe we could go out some time,” she smiled, walking to my front door.

“Love, I don’t even remember your name, and I don’t plan on asking you for it again.”

“You’re an *, you know that?”

“Yes, and you’re the whore who let me stick my dick in you and spank your ass,” I said, closing the door on her surprised expression. I would say I cared, but I hated lying.

Anything other than sex is off limits. Out of bounds. Most women (read as every f*cking last one of them) have wanted something from me that I couldn’t give them. It was not the typical excuse of me wanting to f*ck without strings either. I would give an organ away for one f*cking normal day, where I could pretend to be right in the f*cking head and whole enough to be in a healthy relationship with someone. I would love to find one person I could be comfortable to be myself with, but I was lost and I couldn’t. I didn’t cherish taking someone along with me through my hell, skipping along, clueless to my madness. Even Lainey, which was why I wanted her to hate me; she would anyway if she ever got the chance to know me. I was one sick f*ck.

I took another swig of the whiskey and found myself in front of my writing desk staring at my two newest manuscripts, one titled Behind Green Doors and its sequel, Accepting Darkness. I had emailed them both to my editor a few days before. Eight hundred, twenty-three pages altogether. Two hundred, eighty-two thousand, six hundred fifty-nine words. Two weeks, three days, nine hours and change. That was all the same amount of pages, words, and time since I last saw Lainey dance around with a mop, cleaning her kitchen and knocked at the door to my soul almost punching my heart right out of my chest. I didn’t want to let her in. I wanted nothing to do with her, but the words that poured from my fingers across my keyboard stated otherwise. So I locked myself in my office and wrote straight through until the entire story was told. My way of trying to purge myself of the obsessive thoughts of Lainey that ran loops in my brain.

Personally, I hated the story. It flowed from the first page to the very last and shocked the hell out of you with a terrorizing mindf*ck that I’d never seen written before. I loved it. I hated it. It was everything I was. My entire being was in those words. Everything I had ever felt was there for the entire world to read. Pure insanity, horror at its finest. Just plain me.

And, let’s up the insanity here for a minute…if I believed in it, if there was a possibility of it being actually able to happen, I would have said I might have fallen in love with my character. She consumed every thought I had. I felt the need to protect her from everything and everyone. I could feel her silken skin under my fingertips when I wrote about touching her, and I could smell the spiced apples of her soap when I wrote that she was near. And, the f*cking way she tasted? It wasn’t waitress flavored, but completely Lainey, and my God, did I taste her in my book. Over and over again, like a goddamn addict I slid my tongue against the unique sweetness of her body, outside and in. It wasn’t just these physical things that I obsessed with, either. This character’s mind possessed me. Her words tore through my heart like bullets. I had written the perfect woman for me; the perfect lover, the perfect friend and companion, based on a f*cking waitress that I couldn’t stop thinking about.